H

shay,

That was built in such a logical way

It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then of a sudden, it-ah, but stay,

I'll tell you what happened, without delay—
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits-
Have you ever heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five,
Georgius Secundus was then alive-
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible earthquake day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always, somewhere, a weakest spot-
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel or crossbar, or floor or sill,

In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace-lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will-
Above or below, or within or without-
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.
But the Deacon swore-(as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum" or an "I tell yeou”)—
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';

It should be so built that it couldn't break down: "Fur," said the Deacon, 'tis mighty plain That the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain 'N' the way t' fix in uz I maintain,

Is only jest

To make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn't be split, nor bent, nor broke-
That was for spokes, and floor, and sills;
He sent for lancewood, to make the thills;
The crossbas were ash, from the straightest trees;
The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;

The hubs from logs from the "Settler's ellum"--
Last of its timber-they couldn't sell 'em--
Never an ax had seen their chips,

And the wedges flew from between their lips;
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace, bison skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide,
Found in the pit where the tanner died,
That was the way he "put her through."
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"

Do! I tell you, I rather guess

She was a wonder, and nothing less! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away.

Children and grandchildren-where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon earthquake day!

Eighteen hundred-it came, and found
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred, increased by ten-
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came
Running as usual-much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive;

And then came fifty-and fifty-five.

Little of all we value here

Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large:
Take it. You're welcome-no extra charge.)

First of November - the earthquake day-
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay.
A general flavor of mild decay-
But nothing local as one may say.
There couldn't be-for the Deacon's art

Had made it so like in every part

That there wasn't a chance for one to start.

For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor;
And the whiffletree neither less nor more,

And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring, and axle, and hub encore.
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!

First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson. Off went they.

The parson was working his Sunday text-
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the-Moses-was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meetin' house on the hill.
First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill—
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meetin' house clock—
Just the hour of the earthquake shock!
What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once-
All at once, and nothing first-
Just as the bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.

-Oliver Wendell Holmes.

OF

F all the notable things on earth The queerest one is pride of birth Among our fierce democracy!" A bridge across a hundred years Without a prop to save it from sneers Not even a couple of rotten peers, A thing for laughter, slurs and jeers, Is American aristocracy! English, Irish, French and Spanish, Germans, Italians, Dutch and Danish, Crossing their veins until they vanish In one conglomeration!

Too subtle a tangle of blood, indeed!
No heraldry blarney will ever succeed
In finding circulation.

Depend upon it, my snobbish friend,
Your family thread you can't ascend
Without good reason to apprehend
You may find it waxed, at the farther end,
By some plebeian vocation!

Or, worse than that, your boasted line
May end in a loop of stronger twine,
That plagued some worthy relation !

-John Godfrey Saxe.