70

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 kentry raoun'; It should be so built that it couldn't break daown:

"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plain That 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 from logs from the "Settler's ellum"

Last of its timber-they couldn't sell 'em-
Never an ax 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 where 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.

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-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson.-Off went they.

The parson was working his Sunday text-
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the Moses-was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,