ky enough
to receive the appointment will be provided for munificently. He will
forthwith have a maintenance, and in course of time his salary will be
L70 per annum.

During the last fortnight the barber has been in great and constant
excitement--hoping that his little boy will obtain this valuable piece
of preferment; persuading himself that the lad's thickness of voice,
concerning which the choir-master speaks with aggravating persistence,
is a matter of no real importance; fearing that the friends of another
contemporary boy, who is said by the choir-master to have an exceedingly
mellifluous voice, may defeat his paternal aspirations. The momentous
question agitates many humble homes in Canterbury; and whilst Mr.
Abbott, the barber, is encouraged to hope the best for his son, the
relatives and supporters of the contemporary boy are urging him not to
despair. Party spirit prevails on either side--Mr. Abbott's family
associates maintaining that the contemporary boy's higher notes resemble
those of a penny whistle; whilst the contemporary boy's father, with
much satire and some justice, murmurs that "old Abbott, who is the
gossip-monger of the parsons, wants to push his son into a place for
which there is a better candidate."

To-day is the eventful day when the election will be made. Even now,
whilst Abbott, the barber, is trimming a wig at his shop window, and
listening to the hopeful talk of an intimate neighbor, his son Charley
is chanting the Old Hundredth before the whole chapter. When Charley has
been put through his vocal paces, the contemporary boy is requested to
sing. Whereupon that clear-throated competitor, sustained by justifiable
self-confidence and a new-laid egg which he had sucked scarcely a minute
before he made his bow to their reverences, sings out with such richness
and compass that all the auditors recognize his great superiority.

Ere ten more minutes have passed Charley Abbot knows that he has lost
the election; and he hastens from the cathedral with quick steps.
Running into the shop he gives his father a look that tells the whole
story of--failure, and then the little fellow, unable to command his
grief, sits down upon the floor and sobs convulsively.

Failure is often the first step to eminence.

Had the boy gained the chorister's place, he would have a cathedral
servant all his days.

Having failed to get it, he returned to the King's School, went a poor
scholar to Oxford, and fought