“You may read your composition, Absalom.”

Absalom was one of “the big boys,” but though he was sixteen years old and large for his age, his slowness in learning classed him with the children of twelve or thirteen.  However, as learning was considered in New Canaan a superfluous and wholly unnecessary adjunct to the means of living, Absalom’s want of agility in imbibing erudition never troubled him, nor did it in the least call forth the pity or contempt of his schoolmates.

Three times during the morning session he had raised his hand to announce stolidly to his long-suffering teacher, “I can’t think of no subjeck”; and at last Miss Margaret had relaxed her Spartan resolution to make him do his own thinking and had helped him out.

“Write of something that is interesting you just at present.  Isn’t there some one thing you care more about than other things?” she had asked.

Absalom had stared at her blankly without replying.

“Now, Absalom,” she had said desperately, “I think I know one thing you have been interested in lately—­write me a composition on Girls.”

Of course the school had greeted the advice with a laugh, and Miss Margaret had smiled with them, though she had not meant to be facetious.

Absalom, however, had taken her suggestion seriously.

“Is your composition written, Absalom?” she was asking as Tillie turned from the window, her contemplation of her own composition arrested by the sound of the voice which to her was the sweetest music in the world.

“No’m,” sullenly answered Absalom.  “I didn’t get it through till it was time a’ready.”

“But, Absalom, you’ve been at it this whole blessed day!  You’ve not done another thing!”

“I wrote off some of it.”

“Well,” sighed Miss Margaret, “let us hear what you have done.”

Absalom unfolded a sheet of paper and laboriously read: 

“Girls

“The only thing I took particular notice to, about Girls, is that they are always picking lint off each other, still.”

He stopped and slowly folded his paper.

“But go on,” said Miss Margaret.  “Read it all.’

“That’s all the fu’ther I got.”

Miss Margaret looked at him for an instant, then suddenly lifted the lid of her desk, evidently to search for something.  When she closed it her face was quite grave.

“We’ll have the reading-lesson now,” she announced.

Tillie tried to withdraw her attention from the teacher and fix it on her own work, but the gay, glad tone in which Lizzie Harnish was reading the lines,

     “When thoughts
  Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
  Over thy spirit—­”

hopelessly checked the flow of her ideas.

This class was large, and by the time Absalom’s turn to read was reached, “Thanatopsis” had been finished, and so the first stanza of “The Bells” fell to him.  It had transpired in the reading of “Thanatopsis” that a grave and solemn tone best suited that poem, and the value of this intelligence was made manifest when, in a voice of preternatural solemnity, he read: