Poems From The Breakfast Table | Page 6

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,

Searing the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits,--

Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
/Georgius Secundus/ was then
alive,--
Snuffy 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 the one-hoss shay.
Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always
somewhere a weakest spot,--
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In
panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt,
thoroughbrace,--lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,--

Above 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