Poems From The Breakfast Table | Page 6

or below, or within or without,--?And that 's the reason, beyond a doubt,?That 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?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 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 '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 come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.?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,
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-hoss shay,?A general flavor 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 was n'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 whipple-tree 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!
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.
PARSON TURELL'S LEGACY
OR, THE PRESIDENT'S OLD ARM-CHAIR
A MATHEMATICAL STORY
FACTS respecting an old arm-chair.?At Cambridge. Is kept in the College there.?Seems but little the worse for wear.?That 's remarkable when I say?It was old in President Holyoke's day.?(One of his boys, perhaps you know,?Died, at one hundred, years ago.)?He took lodgings for rain or shine?Under green bed-clothes in '69.
Know old Cambridge? Hope you do.--?Born there? Don't say so! I was, too.?(Born in a house with a gambrel-roof,--?Standing still, if you must have proof.--?"Gambrel?--Gambrel?"--Let me beg?You'll look at a horse's hinder leg,--?First great angle above the hoof,--?That 's the gambrel; hence gambrel-roof.)?Nicest place that ever was seen,--?Colleges red and Common green,?Sidewalks brownish with trees between.?Sweetest spot beneath the skies?When the canker-worms don't rise,--?When the dust, that sometimes flies?Into your mouth and ears and eyes,?In a quiet slumber lies,?Not in the shape of umbaked pies?Such as barefoot children prize.
A kind of harbor it seems to be,?Facing the flow of a boundless sea.?Rows of gray old Tutors stand?Ranged like rocks above the sand;?Rolling beneath them, soft and green,?Breaks the tide of bright sixteen,--?One wave, two waves, three waves, four,--?Sliding up the sparkling floor
Then it ebbs to flow