"Twas all about some heathen,
Thousands of miles afar,
Who live in a land of darkness,
Called Borrioboola Gha.

So well their wants he pictured,
That when the box was passed,
Each listener felt his pocket,
And goodly sums were cast;
For all must lend a shoulder
To push the rolling car
That carries light and comfort
To Borrioboola Gha.

That night their wants and sorrows Lay heavy on my soul,

And deep in meditation,

I took my morning stroll,

When something caught my mantle
With eager grasp and wild,

And, looking down in wonder,
I saw a little child:

A pale and puny creature,
In rags and dirt forlorn;

"What do you want?" I asked her, Impatient to be gone;

With trembling voice she answered,

"We live just down the street,

And mamma, she's a-dying,

And we've nothing left to eat."

Down in a dark, damp cellar,
With mould o'er all the walls,
Through whose half-buried windows
God's sunlight never falls;
Where cold and want and hunger
Crouched near her as she lay,
I found that poor child's mother,
Gasping her life away.

A chair, a broken table,

A bed of mouldy straw,
A hearth all dark and fireless,-
But these I scarcely saw,
For the mournful sight before me,
So sad and sickening,-oh,
I had never, never pictured
A scene so full of woe!

The famished and the naked,
The babe that pined for bread,
The squalid group that huddled
Around that dying bed;

All this distress and sorrow
Should be in lands afar;
Was I suddenly transported
To Borrioboola Gha?

Ah, no! the poor and wretched
Were close beside my door,
And I had passed them heedless
A thousand times before.
Alas, for the cold and hungry
That met me every day,
While all my tears were given
To the suffering far away!

There's work enough for Christians
In distant lands, we know,
Our Lord commands his servants
Through all the world to go,
Not only to the heathen;

This was his command to them,
"Go, preach the Word, beginning
Here, at Jerusalem."

O Christian! God has promised,
Whoe'er to such has given

A cup of pure, cold water,

Shall find reward in heaven.
Would you secure this blessing?
You need not seek it far;-
Go find in yonder hovel
A Borrioboola Gha!

31

THROUGH TRIALS.-ROSEGARTEN.

Through night to light. And though to mortal eyes Creation's face a pall of horror wear,

Good cheer, good cheer! The gloom of midnight flies, Then shall a sunrise follow, mild and fair.

Through storm to calm. And though his thunder car
The rumbling tempest drive through earth and sky,
Good cheer, good cheer! The elemental war
Tells that a blessed healing hour is nigh.

Through frost to spring. And though the biting blast
Of Eurus stiffen nature's juicy veins,

Good cheer, good cheer! When winter's wrath is past,
Soft murmuring spring breathes sweetly o'er the plains,

Through strife to peace. And though with bristling front, A thousand frightful deaths encompass thee,

Good cheer, good cheer! Brave thou the battle's brunt, For the peace march and song of victory.

Through cross to crown

And though thy spirit's life

Trials untold assail with giant strength,
Good cheer, good cheer!
And thou shalt reign in

Soon ends the bitter strife,
peace with Christ at length.

Through death to life. And through this vale of tears,
And through this thistle-field of life, ascend
To the great supper in that world, whose years
Of bliss unfading, cloudless, know no end.

WILLIAM TELL.

"Place there the boy," the tyrant said;
"Fix me the apple on his head.

Ha! rebel, now!

There's a fair mark for your shaft:
To yonder shining apple waft

An arrow." And the tyrant laughed.
With quivering brow

Bold Tell looked there; his cheek turned pale,
His proud lips throbbed as if would fail
Their quivering breath.

"Ha! doth he blanch?" fierce Gesler cried,
"I've conquered, slave, thy soul of pride."
No voice to that stern taunt replied-

All mute as death.

"And what the meed?" at length Tell asked.
"Bold fool, when slaves like thee are tasked.

It is my will.

But that thine eye may keener be,
And nerved to such nice archery,
If thou cleav'st yon, thou goest free.
What! pause you still?

Give him a bow and arrow there-
One shaft-but one." Gleams of despair
Rush for a moment o'er the Switzer's face;
Then passed away each stormy trace,
And high resolve came in their place.
Unmoved, yet flushed,

"I take thy terms," he muttered low,
Grasped eagerly the proffered bow,
The quiver searched,

Sought out an arrow keen and long,
Fit for a sinewy arm, and strong,
And placed it on the sounding thong
The tough yew arched.

He drew the bow, whilst all around
That thronging crowd there was no sound,
No step, no word, no breath.

All gazed with an unerring eye,
To see the fearful arrow fly;

The light wind died into a sigh,
And scarcely stirred.

Afar the boy stood, firm and mute;
He saw the strong bow curved to shoot,
But never moved.

He knew the daring coolness of that hand,
He knew it was a father scanned

The boy he loved.

The Switzer gazed-the arrow hung,

My only boy!" sobbed on his tongue;
He could not shoot.

"Ha!" cried the tyrant, "doth he quail?
Mark how his haughty brow grows pale!"
But a deep voice rung on the gale-
"Shoot, in God's name!"
Again the drooping shaft he took,
And turned to heaven one burning look,
Of all doubts reft.

"Be firm, my boy," was all he said.
The apple's left the stripling's head;
Ha! ha! 'tis cleft!

And so it was, and Tell was free.
Quick the brave boy was at his knee,
With rosy cheek.

His loving arms his boy embrace;
But again that tyrant cried in haste,
"An arrow in thy belt is placed;

What means it?" Speak!"

33

The Switzer raised his clenched hand high,
Whilst lightning flashed across his eye
Incessantly,

"To smite thee, tyrant, to the heart,
Had heaven willed it that my dart
Had touched my boy."

"Rebellion! treason! chain the slave!"
A hundred swords around him wave,
Whilst hate to Gesler's features gave
Infuriate joy.

But that one arrow found its goal,
Hid with revenge in Gesler's soul;
And Lucerne's lake

Heard his dastard soul outmoan
When Freedom's call abroad was blown,
And Switzerland, a giant grown,
Her fetters brake.

From hill to hil! the mandate flew,
From lake to lake the tempest grew,
With wakening swell,

Till proud oppression crouched for shame,
And Austria's haughtiness grew tame;
And Freedom's watchword was the name
Of William Tell.

A STRUGGLE WITH A STOVE-PIPE.-JAMES M. BAILEY,

It is the

Putting up a stove is not so difficult in itself. pipe that raises four-fifths of the mischief and all the dust. You may take down a stove with all the care in the world, and yet that pipe won't come together again as it was before. You find this out when you are standing on a chair with your arms full of pipe and your mouth full of soot. Your wife is standing on the floor in a position that enables her to see you, the pipe, and the chair, and here she gives utterance to those remarks that are calculated to hasten a man into the extremes of insanity. Her dress is pinned over her waist, and her hands rest on her hips. She has got one of your hats on her head, and your linen coat on her back, and a pair of rubbers on her feet. There is about five cents' worth of pot black on her nose, and a lot of flour on her