Through storm to calm. And though his thunder car Through frost to spring. And though the biting blast Good cheer, good cheer! When winter's wrath is past, 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, Soon ends the bitter strife, Through death to life. And through this vale of tears, To the great supper in that world, whose years WILLIAM TELL. "Place there the boy," the tyrant said; Ha! rebel, now! There's a fair mark for your shaft: An arrow." And the tyrant laughed. Bold Tell looked there; his cheek turned pale, "Ha! doth he blanch?" fierce Gesler cried, All mute as death. "And what the meed?" at length Tell asked. It is my will. But that thine eye may keener be, Give him a bow and arrow there- "I take thy terms," he muttered low, Sought out an arrow keen and long, All gazed with an unerring eye, Afar the boy stood, firm and mute; He knew the daring coolness of that hand, The boy he loved. The Switzer gazed-the arrow hung, "Ha!" cried the tyrant, "doth he quail? Again the drooping shaft he took, "Be firm, my boy," was all he said. Ha! ha! 'tis cleft! The Switzer raised his clenched hand high, "To smite thee, tyrant, to the heart, "Rebellion! treason! chain the slave!" But that one arrow found its goal, Heard his dastard soul outmoan From hill to hill the mandate flew, Till proud oppression crouched for shame, A STRUGGLE WITH A STOVE-PIPE.-JAMES M. BAILEY. Putting up a stove is not so difficult in itself. It is the 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 hin, and altogether she is a spectacle that would inspire a dead man with distrust. And while you are up there trying to circumvent the awful contrariness of the pipe, and telling her that you know some fool has been mixing it, she stands safely on the floor and bombards you with such domestic mottoes as "What's the use of swearing so?" "You know no one has touched that pipe." "You ain't got any more patience than a child." "Do be careful of that chair." And then she goes off and reappears with an armful more of pipe, and before you are aware of it she has got that pipe so horribly mixed up that it does seem no two pieces are alike. You join the ends and work them to and fro, and to and fro again, and then you take them apart and look at them. Then you spread one out and jam the other together, and mount them once more. But it is no go. You begin to think the pieces are inspired with life, and ache to kick them through the window. But she doesn't lose her patience. She goes around with that awful exasperating rig ging on, with a length of pipe under each arm and a longhandled broom in her hand, and says she don't see how it is some people never have any trouble putting up a stove. Then you miss the hammer. You don't see it anywhere. You stare into the pipe along the mantel, and down the stove, and off to the floor. Your wife watches you, and is finally thoughtful enough to inquire what you are looking after; and on learning, pulls the article from her pocket. Then you feel as if you could go out doors and swear a hole twelve feet square through a block of brick buildings, but she merely observes, "Why on earth don't you speak when you want anything, and not stare around like a dummy.” When that part of the pipe which goes through the wall is up, she keeps it up with the broom, while you are making the connection, and stares at it with an intensity that is entirely uncalled for. All the while your position is becoming more and more interesting. The pipe don't go together, of course. The sout shakes down into your eyes and mouth, the sweat rolls down your face and tickles your chin as it drops off, and it seems as if your arms were slowly but surely drawing out of their sockets. Here your wife comes to the rescue by inquiring if you are going to be all day doing nothing, and if you think her arms are made of cast iron; and then the broom slips off the pipe, and in her endeavor to recover her hold she jabs you under the chin with the handle, and the pipe comes down on your head with its load of fried soot, and then the chair tilts forward enough to discharge your feet, and you come down on the wrong end of that chair with a force that would bankrupt a pile driver. You don't touch that stove again. You leave your wife examining the chair and bemoaning its injuries, and go into the kitchen and wash your skinned and bleeding hands with yellow soap. Then you go down street after a man to do the business, and your wife goes over to the neighbor's with her chair, and tells them about its injuries, and drains the neighborhood dry with its sympathy long before you get home. From "Life in Danbury." THE FACTORY GIRL'S LAST DAY. Robert Dale Owen, in one of the chapters of his autobiography, published in the Atlantic Monthly, reproduces the following poem, written many years ago to illustrate an incident of English factory life. "Twas on a winter morning, The darksome room he paced, "Dear father, I'm so sorry! I scarce can reach the door; |