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, 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; That was the way he "put her through.”. - "There!" said the Deacon, "naow she 'll dew!" 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 and twenty came; And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE. Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year (This is a moral that runs at large; Take it. - You 're welcome. - No extra charge.) FIRST OF NOVEMBER, the Earthquake-day. - 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! 66 Huddup!" said the parson. Off went they. The parson was working his Sunday's text, Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed 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! think the parson found, What do you When he got up and stared around? All at once, and nothing first, End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. ESTIVATION. AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, BY MY LATE LATIN TUTOR. IN candent ire the solar splendor flames; How dulce to vive occult to mortal eyes, To me, alas! no verdurous visions come, Me wretched! Let me curr to quercine shades! |