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But the Deacon swore, (as deacons do,
With an "Idew vum," or an " I tell yeou,")
He would build one shay to beat the taown

V the heounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';

It should be so built that it couldn' break daman; "Fur" said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plain That the weakes' place mus' start' the strain;

V the way t' fix it, uz, I maintain,

Is only jest
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 white-wood, 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 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 when the tanner died. That was the way he "put her through.""There!" said the Deacon, "naow she 'II dew I"

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-Aoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!

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

8 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-Aoss shay,
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There could n't be, for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there was n't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thill3,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less nor more,
And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,
And the spring and axle and hub encore.

And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!

10 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 I" said the parson. — Off went they.

11 The parson was working his Sunday's 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 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 I
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.

12 End of the wonderful one-hoss shay
Logic is logic.—That's all I say.

XXIV. —THE PRAIRIES.

ANONYMOUS.

The attraction of the prairie consists in its extent, its carpet of verdure and flowers, its undulating surface, its groves, and the fringe of timber by which it is surrounded. Of all these, the last is the most expressive feature; it 5 is that which gives character to the landscape, which imparts the shape and marks the boundary of the plain. If the prairie be small, its greatest beauty consists in the vicinity of the surrounding margin of woodland, which resembles the shore of a lake, indented with deep vistas,

10 like bays and inlets, and throwing out long points, like capes and headlands; while occasionally these points approach so closely on either hand, that the traveller passes through a narrow avenue or strait, where the shadows of the woodland fall upon his path, and then

15 emerges again into another prairie.

Where the plain is large, the forest outline is seen in the far perspective, like the dim shore, when beheld at a distance from the ocean. The eye sometimes roams over the green meadow, without discovering a tree, a shrub, or any

20 object in the immense expanse, but the wilderness of grass and flowers; while at another time, the prospect is enlivened by the groves, which are seen interspersed like islands, or the solitary tree which stands alone in the blooming desert.

25 If it be in the spring of the year, and the young grass has just covered the ground with a carpet of delicate green, and especially if the sun is rising from behind a distant swell of the plain, and glittering upon the dewdrops, no scene can be more lovely to the eye. The deer

80 is seen grazing quietly upon the plain; the bee is on the wing; the wolf, with his tail dropped, is sneaking away to his covert, with the felon tread of one who is conscious that he has disturbed the peace of nature ; and the grouse, feeding in flocks, or in pairs, like the domestic fowl, cover the whole surface — the males strutting and erecting their plumage like the peacock, and uttering a long, loud, mournful note, something like the cooing of the dove, but 5 resembling still more the sound produced by passing a rough finger boldly over the surface of a tambourine.

When the eye roves off from the green plain to the groves or points of timber, these are also found to be at this season robed in the most attractive hues. The rich

10 undergrowth is in full bloom. The red-bud, the dog. wood, the crab-apple, the wild plum, the cherry, the wild rose, are abundant in all the rich lands; and the grapevine, although its blossom is unseen, fills the air with fragrance. The variety of the wild fruit and flowering shrubs

15 is so great, and such the profusion of the blossoms with which they are bowed down, that the eye is regaled almost to satiety.

The gayety of the prairie, its embellishments, and the absence of the gloom and savage wildness of the forest,

20 all contribute to dispel the feeling of lonesomeness, which usually creeps over the mind of the solitary traveller in the wilderness. Though one may see neither a house nor a human being, and is conscious that he is far from the habitations of man, he can scarcely divest himself of the

25 idea that he is travelling through scenes embellished by the hand of art. The flowers — so fragile, so delicate, and so ornamental—seem to have been tastefully disposed to adorn the scene. The groves and clumps of trees seem to have been scattered over the lawn to beautify the land

30 scape, and it is not easy to avoid the illusion of the fancy which persuades the beholder that such scenery has been created to gratify the refined taste of civilized man. Europeans are often reminded of the resemblance of this scenery to that of the extensive parks of noblemen, which

35 they have been accustomed to admire in the old world. The lawn, the avenue, the grove, the copse, which are

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