ight shot into his dying eyes. The old high
mettle leaped to vivid life, and then, as though the flag had dropped,
the starting drum had tapped, Van's fleeting spirit whirled into his
dying race. Lying on his side, his hoofs flew through the air, his
powerful limbs worked back and forth swifter than ever in their swiftest
gallop, his eyes were aflame, his nostrils wide distended, his chest
heaving, and his magnificent machinery running like lightning. Only for
a minute, though,--only for one short, painful minute. It was only a
half-mile dash,--poor old fellow!--only a hopeless struggle against a
rival that never knew defeat. Suddenly all ceased as suddenly as all
began. One stiffening quiver, one long sigh, and my pet and pride was
gone. Old friends were near him even then. "I was with him when he won
his first race at Tucson," said old Sergeant Donnelly, who had ridden to
our aid, "and I knowed then he would die racing."

CHARLES KING, U.S.A.

SONG.

Pale Grief with tender Joy is at strife,
And Joy is wounded and nigh to death.
Their quarrel is old,--as old as life,--
"And Grief is right," the sad world saith.
But, hark! from yonder wood
The blackbird singeth gay,
"Joy is in the right of it,
And Grief is in the wrong of it,
Whatever the world may say."

Dull Age with radiant Youth is at strife,
And Youth draws harder and harder breath.
Their quarrel is old,--as old as life,--
"And Age is right," the gray world saith.
But, hark! from yonder wood
The throstle singeth gay,
"Youth is in the right of it,
And Age is in the wrong of it,
Whatever the world may say."

Ah, dearest, Doubt and Love are at strife,
And Love breathes hard and is nigh to death.
Their quarrel is old: shall it spoil our life?
Or shall we heed what the cold world saith?
Come forth into the wood,
And let us sing and say.
"Love is in the right of it,
And Doubt is in the wrong of it,
And the world may go its way."

ROBERTSON TROWBRIDGE.

OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

Dothegirls Hall.

Such was our name for it. But such was only our American name for an
establishment which in reality bore a much more imposing title. St.
John's Priory was the name we were known by in the guide-books and to
all the country round about. A noble Priory we were at our front, with
heavy stone walls veiled in centu