THE WONDERFUL “ONE-HOSS-SHAY”

CONTENTS

THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE:

ON LENDING A PUNCHBOWL.

THE LAST LEAF.

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.

Scaring 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,

A chaise breaks down, but doesn'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 keuntry 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

To 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-earth-quake-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 came 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 whippletree 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-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.

This ancient silver bowl of mine—it tells of good old times.

Of joyous days and jolly nights, and merry Christmas chimes;

They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave and true,

That dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new.

A Spanish galleon brought the bar—so runs the ancient tale—

Twas hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail;

And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail,

He wiped his brow, and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale.

'Twas purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame,

Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same;

And oft, as on the ancient stock another twig was found,

'Twas filled with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round.

But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine.

Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine,

But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, perhaps,

He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnaps.

And then, of course, you know what's next,—it left the Dutchman's shore

With those that in the Mayflower came,—a hundred souls and more,—

Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes,—

To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads.

'Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing dim,

When old Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim;

The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword,

And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board.

He poured the fiery Hollands in,—the man that never feared.—

He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard;

And one by one the musketeers,—the men that fought and prayed,—

All drank as 'twere their mother's milk, and not a man afraid.

That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew,

He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo;

And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin,

“Run from the white man when you find he smells of Hollands gin!”

A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows,

A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose;

When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy.

'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy.

Drink, John, she said, 'twill do you good—poor child, you'll never bear

This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air,

And if—God bless me—you were hurt, 'twould keep away the chill;

So John did drink—and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill!

I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer;

I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here;

'Tis but the fool that loves excess—hast thou a drunken soul,

Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl!

I love the memory of the past—its pressed yet fragrant flowers—

The moss that clothes its broken walls—the ivy on its towers—

Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed—my eyes grow moist and dim,

To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim.

Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me;

The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be;

And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin,

That dooms one to those dreadful words—“My dear, where have you been?

I saw him once before,

As he passed by the door,

And again

The pavement stones resound

As he totters o'er the ground

With his cane.

They say that in his prime

Ere the pruning-knife of Time

Cut him down,

Not a better man was found

By the Crier on his round

Through the town.

But now he walks the streets,

And he looks at all he meets

Sad and wan,

And he shakes his feeble head,

That it seems as if he said,

“They are gone.”

The mossy marbles rest

On the lips that he has prest

In their bloom,

And the names he loved to hear

Have been carved for many a year

On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said,

Poor old lady, she is dead

Long ago,—

That he had a Roman nose,

And his cheek was like a rose

In the snow.

But now his nose is thin,

And it rests upon his chin

Like a staff,

And a crook is in his back,

And a melancholy crack

In his laugh.

I know it is a sin

For me to sit and grin

At him here;

But the old three-cornered hat,

And the breeches, and all that,

Are so queer!

And if I should live to be

The last leaf upon the tree

In the spring,—

Let them smile, as I do now,

At the old forsaken bough

Where I cling

The sun stepped down from his golden throne,

And lay in the silent sea,

And the Lily had folded her satin leaves,

For a sleepy thing was she;

What is the Lily dreaming of?

Why crisp the waters blue?

See, see, she is lifting her varnished lid!

Her white leaves are glistening through!

The Rose is cooling his burning cheek

In the lap of the breathless tide;—

The Lily hath sisters fresh and fair,

That would lie by the Rose's side;

He would love her better than all the rest,

And he would be fond and true;—

But the Lily unfolded her weary lids,

And looked at the sky so blue.

Remember, remember, thou silly one,

How fast will thy Summer glide,

And wilt thou wither a virgin pale,

Or flourish a blooming bride?

“O the Rose is old, and thorny, and cold,

And he lives on earth,” said she;

“But the Star is fair and he lives in the air.

And he shall my bridegroom be.”

But what if the stormy cloud should come,

And ruffle the silver sea?

Would he turn his eye from the distant sky,

To smile on a thing like thee?

O no, fair Lily, he will not send

One ray from his far-off throne;

The winds shall blow and the waves shall flow,

And thou wilt be left alone.

There is not a leaf on the mountain top,

Nor a drop of evening dew,

Nor a golden sand on the sparkling shore,

Nor a pearl in the waters blue,

That he has not cheered with his fickle smile,

And warmed with his faithless beam,—

And will he be true to a pallid flower,

That floats on the quiet stream?

Alas for the Lily! she would not heed,

But turned to the skies afar.

And bared her breast to the trembling ray

That shot from the rising star;

The cloud came over the darkened sky,

And over the waters wide:

She looked in vain through the beating rain,

And sank in the stormy tide.