ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING. WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALER. COME! fill a fresh bumper, for why should we go logwood While the neeter still reddens our cups as they flow? decoction Pour out the rich juices still bright with the sun, dye-stuff Till o'er the brimmed crystal the rubies shall run. half-ripened apples The purple globed clusters their life-dews have bled; taste sugar of lead How sweet is the breath of the fragrance they shed! rank poisons wines!!! For summer's last roses lie hid in the wines stable-boys smoking long-nines. That were garnered by maidens who laughed thro'the vines. scowl howl scoff sneer Then a smile, and a glass, and a toast, and a cheer, strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer For all the good wine, and we're some of it here! In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall, Down, down with the tyrant that masters us all! Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all! 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 people out of their wits, Have you ever heard of that, I say? Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible Earthquake-day Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, lurking still, And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise breaks down, but does n'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' 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, Is only jest T' make that place uz strong uz the rest." So the Deacon inquired of the village folk That could n't be split nor bent nor broke, - He sent for lancewood to make the thills ; 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; 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 EIGHTEEN HUNDRED ; — it came and found "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. Running as usual; much the same. And then come 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, (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 could n't be, for the Deacon's art |