OR, THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE.
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
HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, Found in the pit when the tanner died.
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?
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 could n' break daown;
Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest.'
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That could n't be split nor bent nor broke,
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees;
The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"
Last of its timber, they could n't sell 'em,
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flev from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
That was the way he "put her through."
There!" said the Deacon, naow she 'll dew!"
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.)
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-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 meet'n'-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 bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
RUDOLPH THE HEADSMAN. RUDOLPH, professor of the headsman's trade, Alike was famous for his arm and blade. One day a prisoner Justice had to kill Knelt at the block to test the artist's skill. Bare-armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, and shaggy.
Rudolph the headsman rose above the crowd.
His falchion lightened with a sudden gleam,
As the pike's armor flashes in the stream.
He sheathed his blade; he turned as if to go;
The victim knelt, still waiting for the blow.
"Why strikest not? Perform thy murderous
The prisoner said. (His voice was slightly That boy with the grave mathematical look cracked.)
Made believe he had written a wonderful book,
"Friend, I have struck," the artist straight re- And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was true!
HAS there any old fellow got mixed with the But he shouted a song for the brave and the
If there has, take him out, without making a Just read on his medal, "My country,” “of thee!"
My listening angel heard the prayer,
And, calmly smiling, said,
"If I but touch thy silvered hair,
Thy hasty wish hath sped.
"But is there nothing in thy track To bid thee fondly stay,
While the swift seasons hurry back To find the wished-for day?"
Ah! truest soul of womankind!
Without thee what were life?
One bliss I cannot leave behind:
I'll take my precious wife!
THE Yankee boy, before he 's sent to school,
Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool,
The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eye
Turns, while he hears his mother's lullaby;
His hoarded cents he gladly gives to get it,
Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it;
And in the education of the lad
No little part that implement hath had.
His pocket-knife to the young whittler brings
A growing knowledge of material things.
Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art,
His chestnut whistle and his shingle dart,
His elder popgun with its hickory rod,
Its sharp explosion and rebounding wad,
His cornstalk fiddle, and the deeper tone
That murmurs from his pumpkin-stalk trombone,
Conspire to teach the boy. To these succeed
His bow, his arrow of a feathered seed,
His windmill, raised the passing breeze to win,
His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin ;
Or, if his father lives upon the shore,
You'll see his ship, "bean ends upon the floor,"
Full rigged with raking masts, and timbers
stanch,
And waiting near the wash-tub for a launch.
Thus by his genius and his jack-knife driven,
Erelong he'll solve you any problem given ;
Make any gimcrack musical or mute,
A plough, a couch, an organ or a flute;
Make you a locomotive or a clock,
Cut a canal, or build a floating-dock,
Or lead forth Beauty from a marble block;
Make anything in short, for sea or shore,
From a child's rattle to a seventy-four ;-
Make it, said I?- Ay, when he undertakes it,
He'll make the thing and the machine that
And when the thing is made, whether it be
To move on earth, in air, or on the sea;
Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide,
Or upon land to roll, revolve, or slide;
Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring,
Whether it be a piston or a spring,
Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass,
The thing designed shall surely come to pass;
For, when his hand 's upon it, you may know
That there's go in it, and he'll make it go.
Gentleman in black,
In a fit of blues; Gentleman in claret,
Sober as a vicar; Gentleman in tweed, Dreadfully in liquor!
Stranger on the right
Looking very sunny,
Obviously reading
Something rather funny. Now the smiles are thicker, Wonder what they mean! Faith, he's got the KnickerBocker Magazine!
Stranger on the left
Closing up his peepers; Now he snores amain,
Like the Seven Sleepers; At his feet a volume
Gives the explanation, How the man grew stupid From "Association" !
Ancient maiden lady
Anxiously remarks,
That there must be peril
'Mong so many sparks;
Roguish-looking fellow,
Turning to the stranger,
Says it's his opinion
She is out of danger!
Woman with her baby,
Sitting vis-à-vis ;
Baby keeps a-squalling,
Woman looks at me;
Asks about the distance,
Says it's tiresome talking,
Noises of the cars
Are so very shocking!
Market-woman, careful
Of the precious casket,
Knowing eggs are eggs,
Tightly holds her basket;
Feeling that a smash,
If it came, would surely
Send her eggs to pot,
Rather prematurely.
Singing through the forests, Rattling over ridges ; Shooting under arches, Rumbling over bridges;
|