Some fifty words were rapidly pronounced; No ripple in the spelling could be made; The spellers with determination pounced Upon the words that at their door were laid. A sore fatigue showed in the speaker’s tongue, As doggedly still forth the words he flung. At length he paused, as if he plainly saw, There’d be no end; they would hold out till dawn. He asked: “Shall we now call this bout a draw?” A hundred voices roared, “go on!” “go on!” So, turning many pages farther then, The spelling contest forward moved again. How these words stung! “Medallion”; “juvenile”; “Apparent”; “bivouac”; and “laboratory”; “Indelible”; “rescission”; “whip-poor-will”; And “negligible.” Such terms carried glory Alike to those who spelled as well as to those Who misspelled; for, to both an honor rose. O, how oblivious were those old time boys! One could have heard a pin drop anywhere. No doubt some hearts anticipated joys; While some the pangs of sad regret did share. And some were musing rather fervently ’Twixt hopes and fears of drear uncertainty. Mysterious mind! Oh why this painful hush? The long hoped battle’s on--in high white heat; Each has won one; now they hope yet to crush; A minute small may tell the tale--who beat? And with that honor lustering some school, Some one stands idolized and beautiful. “Icicle” then was spelled by Peter Kerschen; With “judgment” Charley Travelute got thru; Next Emma Kister won the word “emersion”; And Sally Tarvin likewise “kangaroo.” Ah! Kerschen dropped “s” from “isosceles.” Yet Travelute repaired the flaw with ease. This finished the west side. But on they went-- “Domestic”; “criticism”; “cavalier”; “Harang”; “vicinity”; “ingredient”; Alas! Miss Kister lost on “Belvedere.” Miss Tarvin quickly spelled the word aright; So only two were standing in the fight. So anxious was the crowd to see who won, They thought it half revealed when she sat down; And from the concourse rose a subdued moan In expectation of that lucky one. Yet ’twas in vain; none knew; and none could tell; These two were trained and tried; they both could spell. Breathless the crowd looked for the coming dawn-- The coming dawn of victory and defeat. Their faces some concealed; and some looked wan; Some even rose unconscious to their feet. And in the rear the packed-in throng did strain; Stood on tip-toe to better view the game. Outside ’twas winter, and the snow lay deep; The frost with icy style was tracing scenes Upon the window panes in spite of heat That rolled beyond the huge stove’s screens. But still no cold was felt; forgot the clime; Perhaps some mused that it was summertime.