In the great minster transept,

Where lights like glories fall,

And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings,
Along the emblazoned walls.

7. This was the truest warrior
That ever buckled sword;
This the most gifted poet
That ever breathed a word;
And never earth's philosopher
Traced with his golden pen,

On the deathless page, truths half so sage
As he wrote down for men.

8. And had he not high honor-
The hill-side for a pall,

To lie in state while angels wait
With stars for tapers tall,

And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes,

Over his bier to wave,

And God's own hand, in that lonely land,
To lay him in the grave?

9. In that strange grave without a name,
Whence his uncoffined clay

Shall break again, O wondrous thought!
Before the Judgment day,

And stand with glory wrapt around

On the hills he never trod,

And speak of the strife that won our life,
With the incarnate Son of God.

10. O lonely grave in Moab's land! O dark Beth-Peor's hill!

Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.
God hath his mysteries of grace,

Ways that we can not tell;

He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep

Of him He loved so well.

Mrs. C. F. Alexander.

THE

XXVI. THE SPELLING SCHOOL.

HE child-world, in this quarter, is in an active state of unrest. The school in the Quaker neighborhood has sent a challenge, in due form, to this district, to spell; so to-night the war of words is to be waged in the white school-house on the hill. There is a great overhauling of old "Elementaries," and turning over of clean collars, preparatory to the grand melée.

2. Spelling schools! Have you forgotten them? When, from all the region round about, they gathered into the old log school-house, with its huge fire-place, that yawned like the main entrance to Avernus. How the sleigh-bells-the old-fashioned bells, big in the middle of the string, and growing "small by degrees and beautifully less" toward the broad brass buckle-chimed in every direction long before night, the gathering of the clans.

3. There came one school, the Master-give him a capital M, for he is entitled to it-Master and all, bundled into one huge, red, double sleigh, strewn with an abundance of straw, and tucked up like a Christmas pie, with a half score of buffalo robes; then half a dozen cutters, each with its young man

and maiden, they two and no more; and then, again, a pair of jumpers, mounting a great, outlandishlooking bin, heaped up, pressed down, and running over, with small collections of humanity, picked up en route from a great many homes, and all as merry as kittens in a basket of wool.

4. And the bright eyes, and ripe, red lips, that one caught a glimpse of beneath those pink-lined, quilted hoods, and the silvery laughs that escaped from the woolen mufflers and fur tippets they wore then-who does not remember?-who can ever forget them?

5. The school-house destined to be the arena for the conflict has been swept and garnished; boughs of evergreen adorn the smoke-stained and battered walls. The little pellets of chewed paper have all been swept down from the ceiling, and two pails of water have been brought from the spring, and set on the bench in the entry, with the immemorial tin cup a wise provision, indeed, for warm work is that spelling.

6. The big boys have fanned and replenished the fire, till the old chimney fairly jars with the roaring flames, and the sparks fly out of the top like a furnace-the oriflamme of the battle. The two Masters are there; the two schools are there; and such a hum, and such a moving to and fro!

7. The oaken ferule comes down upon the desk with emphasis. What the roll of the drum is to armies, the ruler is to this whispering, laughing young troop. The challenged are ranged on one side of the house; the challengers on the other. Back seats, middle seats, low front seats, all filled. Some of the fathers and grandfathers, who could, no

doubt, upon occasion, "shoulder the crutch, and show how fields were won," occupy the bench of honor near the desk.

8. Now for the preliminaries: the reputed best speller on each side chooses. "Susan Brown!" Out comes a round-eyed little creature, blushing like a peony. Who'd have thought it. Such a little thing, and chosen first.

9. "Moses Jones!" Out comes Moses, an awkward fellow, with a shock of red hair surmounting his broad brow. The girls laugh at him; but what he does n't know in the "Elementary" is n't worth knowing.

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10. "Jane Murray!" Out trips Jane, fluttered as a bride, and takes her place next to the caller. She's a pretty girl, but a sorry speller. Don't you hear the whispers round the house? Why, that's John's sweetheart." John is the leader, and a battle lost with Jane by his side, would be sweeter than a victory won without her.

11. And so they go on, "calling names," until five or six champions stand forth ready to do battle, and the contest is fairly begun. Down goes one after another, as words of three syllables are followed by those of four, and these again by words of similar pronunciation and divers significations, until only Moses and Susan remain.

12. The spelling-book has been exhausted, yet there they stand. Dictionaries are turned over; memories are ransacked for "words of learned length and thundering sound," until, by and by, Moses comes down like a tree, and Susan-flutters there still, like a little leaf aloft, that the frost and the fall have forgotten.

13. Polysyllable follows polysyllable, and by and by Susan hesitates just a breath or two, and twenty tongues are working their way through the labyrinth of letters in a twinkling. Little Susan sinks into the chink left for her on the crowded seat, and there is a lull in the battle.

14. Then they all stand in solid phalanx by schools, and the struggle is to spell each other down; and down they go like leaves in winter weather, and the victory is declared for our district, and the school is dismissed.

15. Then comes the hurrying and bundling, the whispering and glancing, the pairing off and the tumbling in. There are hearts that flutter and hearts that ache; "mittens" that are not worn, secret hopes that are not realized, and fond looks that are not returned. There is a jingling of bells at the door; one after another the sleighs dash up, receive their nestling freight, and are gone.

16. Our Master covers the fire, and snuffs out the candles-don't you remember how daintily he used to pinch the smoking wicks with forefinger and thumb, and then thrust each hapless luminary head first into the tin socket?-and we wait for him. The bells ring faintly in the woods, over the hill, in the valley. They are gone. The school-house is dark and tenantless, and we are alone with the night.

17. Merry, care-free company! Some of them are sorrowing, some are dead, and all, I fear, are changed. Spell! Ah! the "spell" that has come over that crowd of young dreamers-over you, over me-will it ever, ever be dissolved? In the white radiance of Eternity!

Benj. F. Taylor.