THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE;

OR, THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY"

_A Logical Story_

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss 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 the people out of their wits-- Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, _Georgius Secundus_ was then alive-- Stuffy 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 his one-hoss shay.

Now in building of chaises, I'll tell you what, There is always _somewhere_ a weakest spot-- In hub, tire, or felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thorough brace--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 vam" 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 _couldna'_ break daown; --"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plain That the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain; 'n' 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 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 cross-bars 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 couldn'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 linch-pin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thorough-broke 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'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.

(That 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 flavour 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 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 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'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!

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._

THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN

It was a tall young oysterman lived by the river-side; His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on the tide.

The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight and slim, Lived over on the other bank, right opposite to him.

It was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely maid, Upon a moonlight evening, a-sitting in the shade; He saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if to say, "I'm wide awake, young oysterman, and all the folks away."

Then up arose the oysterman, and to himself said he, "I guess I'll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should see; I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear, Leander swam the h.e.l.lespont--and I will swim this here."

And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream, And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam; O there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain-- But they have heard her father's step, and in he leaps again!

Out spoke the ancient fisherman--"O what was that, my daughter?"

"'Twas nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water."

"And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so fast?"

"It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that's been a-swimming past."

Out spoke the ancient fisherman--"Now bring me my harpoon!

I'll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow soon."

Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-white lamb; Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like sea-weed on a clam.

Alas for those two loving ones! she waked not from her swound, And he was taken with the cramp, and in, the waves was drowned; But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their wo, And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down below.

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE

A well there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the west country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, And behind doth an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne, Joyfully he drew nigh, For from c.o.c.k-crow he had been travelling, And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he; And he sat down upon the bank Under the willow-tree.