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He would build one shay to beat the town '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 couldn'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.

The Deacon's Masterpiece

1873

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
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 wasn'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!

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,
Drawn by a rat-railed, 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.

Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894]

BALLADE OF A FRIAR **

AFTER CLÉMENT MAROT

SOME ten or twenty times a day,
To bustle to the town with speed,
To dabble in what dirt he may,-
Le Frère Lubin's the man you need!
But any sober life to lead
Upon an exemplary plan,
Requires a Christian indeed,-
Le Frère Lubin is not the man!

Another's wealth on his to lay,
With all the craft of guile and greed,
To leave you bare of pence or pay,-
Le Frère Lubin's the man you need!
But watch him with the closest heed,
And dun him with what force you can,—
He'll not refund, howe'er you plead,-
Le Frère Lubin is not the man-

*For the original of this poem see page 3838.

The Chameleon

An honest girl to lead astray,
With subtle saw and promised meed,
Requires no cunning crone and gray,-
Le Frère Lubin's the man you need!
He preaches an ascetic creed,

But, try him with the water can-
A dog will drink, whate'er his breed,-
Le Frère Lubin is not the man!

1875

ENVOY

In good to fail, in ill succeed,
Le Frère Lubin's the man you need!
In honest works to lead the van,

Le Frère Lubin is not the man!

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]

THE CHAMELEON

OFT has it been my lot to mark
A proud, conceited, talking spark,
With eyes, that hardly served at most
To guard their master 'gainst a post,
Yet round the world the blade has been
To see whatever could be seen,
Returning from his finished tour,
Grown ten times perter than before;
Whatever word you chance to drop,
The traveled fool your mouth will stop;
"Sir, if my judgment you'll allow,
I've seen--and sure I ought to know,"
So begs you'd pay a due submission,
And acquiesce in his decision.

Two travelers of such a cast,
As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed,
And on their way in friendly chat,
Now talked of this, and then of that,
Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter,
Of the chameleon's form and nature.

"A stranger animal," cries one,
"Sure never lived beneath the sun.
A lizard's body, lean and long,
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue,
Its foot with triple claw disjoined;
And what a length of tail behind!
How slow its pace; and then its hue-
Who ever saw so fine a blue?"

"Hold, there," the other quick replies,
" "Tis green, I saw it with these eyes,
As late with open mouth it lay,
And warmed it in the sunny ray:

Stretched at its ease, the beast I viewed
And saw it eat the air for food."
"I've seen it, sir, as well as you,
And must again affirm it blue;
At leisure I the beast surveyed,
Extended in the cooling shade."

""Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye!"
"Green!" cries the other in a fury-
"Why, sir!-d'ye think I've lost my eyes?”
" "Twere no great loss," the friend replies,
"For, if they always serve you thus,
You'll find them of but little use."

So high at last the contest rose,
From words they almost came to blows:
When luckily came by a third-
To him the question they referred,
And begged he'd tell 'em, if he knew,
Whether the thing was green or blue.
"Sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your pother!
The creature's neither one or t'other.
I caught the animal last night.
And viewed it o'er by candlelight:
I marked it well-'t was black as jet-
You stare-but, sirs, I've got it yet,
And can produce it." "Pray, sir, do
I'll lay my life the thing is blue."

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