roof had been carried off for fuel, and the snowflakes were falling in, as if they would soon fill the inside of the ruin. The snow in front was all trampled, as if by sheep; and carrying in his burden, Ronald saw 5 the place was filled with a flock that, all huddled together, looked on him as on a shepherd come to see how they were faring in the storm.

And a young shepherd he was, with a lamb apparently dying in his arms. All color, all motion, all 10 breath seemed to be gone; and yet something convinced his heart that she was yet alive. The ruined hut was roofless, but across an angle of the walls some pine branches had been flung, as a sort of shelter for the sheep or cattle that might repair thither in stormy 15 weather.

Into that corner the snowdrift had not yet forced its way, and he sat down there with Flora. The chill air was somewhat softened by the breath of the huddled flock, and the edge of the cutting wind blunted 20 by the stones.

Bright was the peat fire in the hut of Flora's parents in Glencoe, and they were among the happiest of the humble happy, blessing this the birthday of their blameless child. They thought of her singing her 25 sweet songs by the fireside of the hut in Glencreran, and tender thoughts of her cousin Ronald were with them in their prayers.

So was it now with the dwellers in the hut at the head of Glencreran. Their Ronald had left them in

the morning; night had come, and he and Flora were not there; but they never doubted that the happy creatures had changed their minds, and that Ronald had returned with Flora to Glencoe.

But the inland storm had been seen brewing among 5 the mountains, and down through the long cliff-pass went a band of shepherds, trampling their way across a hundred frozen streams. Away over the drift-bridged chasms toiled that gathering, with their sheep-dogs scouring the loose snows in the van, Fingal, the Red 10 Beaver, with his head aloft on the lookout for deer. Following the dogs, who know their duties, the band are now close to the ruined hut.

Why bark the sheep-dogs so? and why howls Fingal, as if some spirit passed athwart the night? He 15 scents the body of the boy who so often had shouted him on in the forest when the antlers went by. Not dead nor dead she who is on his bosom. Yet will the red blood in their veins ever again be thawed?

Almost pitch dark is the roofless ruin; and the 20 frightened sheep know not what is that terrible shape that is howling there. But a man enters and lifts up one of the bodies, giving it into the arms of those at the doorway, and then lifts the other; and by the flash of a rifle they see it is Ronald Cameron and Flora 25 Macdonald, seemingly both frozen to death. But the noble dog knows that death is not there, and licks the face of Ronald, as if he would restore life to his eyes. The storm was with them all the way down the

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glen; nor could they have heard each other's voices; but mutely they shifted the burden from strong hand to hand, thinking of the hut at Glencoe, and of what would be felt there on their arrival.

Instinct, reason, and faith conducted the saving band along; and now they are at Glencoe, and at the door of the hut.

To life were brought the dead; and there, at midnight, sat they up like ghosts. Then, as if in holy 10 fear, they gazed in each other's faces, thinking that they had awakened in heaven. "Flora!" said Ronald; and that word, the first he had been able to speak, reminded him of all that had passed, and he knew that the God in whom they had put their trust had sent 15 them deliverance.

LEARNING BY HEART.

VERNON LUSHINGTON.

TILL he has fairly tried it, I suspect a reader does not know how much he would gain from committing to memory passages of real excellence; precisely because he does not know how much he overlooks in merely 20 reading. Learn one true poem by heart, and see if you do not find it so. Beauty after beauty will reveal itself, in chosen phrase, or happy music, or noble suggestion otherwise undreamed of. It is like looking at one of nature's wonders through a microscope.

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Again, how much in such a poem that you really did feel admirable and lovely on a first reading passes away you do not give it a further and much better reading! passes away utterly, like a sweet sound, or an image on the lake, which the first breath of wind dispels. If 5 you could only fix that image, as the photographers do theirs, so beautifully, so perfectly! And you can do so! Learn it by heart, and it is yours forever!

Poems and noble extracts, whether of verse or prose, once so reduced into possession and rendered truly our 10 own, may be to us a daily pleasure- better far than a whole library unused. They may come to us in our dull moments, to refresh us as with spring flowers; in our selfish musings, to win us by pure delight from the tyranny of foolish castle-building, self-congratula- 15 tions, and mean anxieties. They may be with us in the workshop, in the crowded streets, by the fireside; sometimes, perhaps, on pleasant hillsides, or by sounding shores-noble friends and companions, our own! never intrusive, ever at hand, coming at our call!

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Shakespeare, Milton, Wordsworth, Tennyson — the words of such men do not stale upon us; they do not grow old or cold. Further, though you are young now, some day you will be old. Some day you may reach that time when a man lives in greater part for 25 memory and by memory. I can imagine a chance renewal, chance visitation of the words long remembered, long garnered in the heart, and I think I see a gleam of rare joy in the eyes of the old man.

For those, in particular, whose leisure time is short, and precious as scant rations to beleaguered men, I believe there could not be a better expenditure of time than deliberately giving an occasional hour-it re5 quires no more--to committing to memory chosen passages from great authors. If the mind were thus daily nourished with a few choice words of the best English poets and writers; if the habit of learning by heart were to become so general that, as a matter of course, 10 any person presuming to be educated amongst us might be expected to be equipped with a few good pieces,— I believe it would lead, far more than the mere sound of it suggests, to the diffusion of the best kind of literature and the right appreciation of it, and men would 15 not long rest satisfied with having a few stock pieces.

The only objection I can conceive to what I have been saying is, that it may be said that a relish for higher literature belongs only to the few; that it is the result of cultivation; and that there is no use in try20 ing to create what must be in general only a fictitious

interest. But I do not admit that literature, even the higher literature, must belong to the few. Poetry is, in the main, addressed to all men; and though some poetry requires particular knowledge and superior 25 culture, much, and that the noblest, needs only natural feeling and the light of common experience.

To abandon all recitation is to give up a custom which has given delight and instruction to all the races of articulately speaking men. If our faces are set against vain