The circle gradually narrows round the fire. At last, they are all gone but you. Even Lucy has let out her 'intended,' as the neighbors call him, at the front door, and comes into the kitchen with very red cheeks, and shy as a bird. She glances at the clock, bounds away with a laugh, and now you hear her light, merry step, as she trips up stairs to the music of her own sweet thoughts.

You open the hall door; a great gust puffs out the light, but by the flashes of the fire, you see two long, narrow drifts of fine snow, that have sifted through the crevices round the outer door.

The wind has sighed itself to sleep, like a tired child, and soft, sweet tones of music seem to rise and fall in the snowy air. Now receding, now approaching; now dying, now swelling like a great Æolian. And it is an Æolian: that mighty harp with a single string, the Telegraph. And the fingers of the wind, in gentler mood, are twanging a lullaby to the storm.

Oh! mighty Harper is the Wind, and here is an instrument worthy of its handling: an orbit wherein the dumb thunder-bolt is hurled from mart to mart; a bolt that, like the thunder of Sinai, has grown

articulate. It is the pulse of the world; the fibre of universal thought.

There, now, a wanderer from the land of gold has

returned to New-York.

It is morning. The clock is

on the stroke of eight. Day has risen from the wave, and in his chariot of fire, has gone on towards the west, making his rounds of the globe. He has been gone a half hour. The glad word conveying the

intelligence of that wanderer's arrival, has been committed to the telegraph. On it glides westward, westward still. Roll on, thou glorious chariot of day! The courier of love shall o'ertake thee yet. Nearer, nearer; the day and those words are side by side. The sun is distanced-is left behind—and the quivering lightning flutters in at the windows on Main Street, like some sweet bird

'Let loose in eastern skies.'

And it is not yet eight of the clock in La Porte ! So a few humble, loving syllables, that are nothing to you or to me, lead the great sun in his journey round the world.

THE Child-world, in this quarter, is in 'an active state of unrest.' The school in 'the Quaker neighborhood' have 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 a wonderful furbishing up of frontispieces, and turning over of clean collars, preparatory to the grand mêlee.

SPELLING SCHOOLS! Have you forgotten them? When, from all the region round about, they gathered into the old log school-house, with its huge fireplace, 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' towards the broad, brass buckle-chimed, in every direction, long before night— the gathering of the clans. 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, strown with an abundance of straw, and tucked up like a Christmas pie, with a half score of buffalo robes. There half a dozen cutters,' each with its young man and maiden, they two and no And there, again, a pair of jumpers, mounting a great, outlandish-looking bin, heaped up, pressed down and running over, Scripture measure, with small collections of humanity, picked up en

more.

route, from a great many homes, and all as merry as

And the bright eyes, caught a glimpse of,

kittens in a basket of wool. and ripe, red lips, that one 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?

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 been all 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-cupa wise provision indeed, for warm work is that spelling!

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! Will they swarm?

The oaken ferule comes down upon the desk with emphasis. What the roll of the drum is to armies,

that, the 'ruler' is to this whispering, laughing,

young troop.

The challenged are ranged on one house; the challengers on the other.

side of the

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.

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.

'Moses Jones! Out comes Moses, an awkward fellow, with a shock of red hair, shockingly harvested, surmounting his broad brow. The girls laugh at him, but what he doesn't know in the Elementary,' isn't worth knowing.

'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