That could n't be split nor bent nor broke, — 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, The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum," Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, 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 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 come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE. Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year 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 Had made it so like in every part That there was n't a chance for one to start. First of November, 'Fifty-five! This morning the parson takes a drive. Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Off went they. The parson was working his Sunday's text,- - First a shiver, and then a thrill, And the parson was sitting upon a rock, What do you think the parson found, End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. ESTIVATION. AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, BY MY LATE LATIN TUTOR. IN candent ire the solar splendor flames; The foles, languescent, pend from arid rames; . His humid front the cive, anheling, wipes, And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes. How dulce to vive occult to mortal eyes, To me, alas! no verdurous visions come, Me wretched! Let me curr to quercine shades! Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids! O, might I vole to some umbrageous clump, Depart, be off, excede, evade, erump! |