to his worship. Does not this strange, secret act in a child's life parallel and explain some of the earliest experiences of the most primitive races? A beautiful and prophetic story is told of William Henry Channing by his latest biographer. He was a singularly noble. boy; graceful in figure, charming in manner, expressive in countenance, sensitive, responsive, and imaginative. One night after he had fallen asleep he was suddenly awakened by a noise, and, looking out of the window, he saw a splendid star shining full upon him. "It fascinated my gaze," he writes, “till it became like an angel's eye. It seemed to burn in and penetrate to my inmost being. My little heart beat fast and faster, till I could bear the intolerable blaze no more. And, hearing the steps of some servant in the passage, I sprang from my crib, ran swiftly to the door, and, in my long nightgown, with bare, noiseless feet, followed down the stairway to the lower hall. . . . The footman flung open the drawing-room door, and a flood of light, with a a peal of laughter, burst forth, and in the midst 17 some voice cried out, What is that in white behind you?' The servant had, affrighted, turned and drawn aside. Instantly from the brilliant circle stepped forth my mother, and, folding me in her bosom, said soothingly, What troubles my boy? All I could do was to fling my arms about her neck and whisper: 'Oh, mamma! The star! the star! I could not bear the star!' It There is a famous description of a kindred experience in one of those poems. of Wordsworth's which have become part of the memory of all lovers of nature. was the first poem I ever heard Emerson read, and the strange, penetrating sweetness of that voice, so spiritual in its tone, so full of interpretation in its accent, is for me part of the verse itself: "There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs |