Part 5

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 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 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 arrived, 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-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.

* * * * *

A certain learned professor in New York has a wife and family, but, professor-like, his thoughts are always with his books.

One evening his wife, who had been out for some hours, returned to find the house remarkably quiet. She had left the children playing about, but now they were nowhere to be seen.

She demanded to be told what had become of them, and the professor explained that, as they had made a good deal of noise, he had put them to bed without waiting for her or calling a maid.

"I hope they gave you no trouble," she said.

"No," replied the professor, "with the exception of the one in the cot here. He objected a good deal to my undressing him and putting him to bed."

The wife went to inspect the cot.

"Why," she exclaimed, "that's little Johnny Green, from next door."

FIVE LIVES

Five mites of monads dwelt in a round drop That twinkled on a leaf by a pool in the sun. To the naked eye they lived invisible; Specks, for a world of whom the empty shell Of a mustard-seed had been a hollow sky.

One was a meditative monad, called a sage; And, shrinking all his mind within, he thought: "Tradition, handed down for hours and hours, Tells that our globe, this quivering crystal world, Is slowly dying. What if, seconds hence When I am very old, yon shimmering doom Comes drawing down and down, till all things end?" Then with a wizen smirk he proudly felt No other mote of God had ever gained Such giant grasp of universal truth.

One was a transcendental monad; thin And long and slim of mind; and thus he mused: "Oh, vast, unfathomable monad-souls! Made in the image"--a hoarse frog croaks from the pool, "Hark! 'twas some god, voicing his glorious thought In thunder music. Yea, we hear their voice, And we may guess their minds from ours, their work. Some taste they have like ours, some tendency To wriggle about, and munch a trace of scum." He floated up on a pin-point bubble of gas That burst, pricked by the air, and he was gone.

One was a barren-minded monad, called A positivist; and he knew positively; "There was no world beyond this certain drop. Prove me another! Let the dreamers dream Of their faint gleams, and noises from without, And higher and lower; life is life enough." Then swaggering half a hair's breadth hungrily, He seized upon an atom of bug, and fed.

One was a tattered monad, called a poet; And with a shrill voice ecstatic thus he sang: "Oh, little female monad's lips! Oh, little female monad's eyes! Ah, the little, little, female, female monad!" The last was a strong-minded monadess, Who dashed amid the infusoria, Danced high and low, and wildly spun and dove, Till the dizzy others held their breath to see.

But while they led their wondrous little lives AEonian moments had gone wheeling by, The burning drop had shrunk with fearful speed: A glistening film--'twas gone; the leaf was dry. The little ghost of an inaudible squeak Was lost to the frog that goggled from his stone; Who, at the huge, slow tread of a thoughtful ox Coming to drink, stirred sideways fatly, plunged, Launched backward twice, and all the pool was still.

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.

JAMES T. FIELDS

THE OWL-CRITIC

A Lesson to Fault-finders

"Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop: The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop; The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading The _Daily_, the _Herald_, the _Post_, little heeding The young man who blurted out such a blunt question; Not one raised a head or even made a suggestion; And the barber kept on shaving.

"Don't you see, Mister Brown," Cried the youth, with a frown, "How wrong the whole thing is, How preposterous each wing is, How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is-- In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis! I make no apology; I've learned owl-eology. I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections, And cannot be blinded to any deflections Arising from unskilful fingers that fail To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail. Mister Brown! Mister Brown! Do take that bird down, Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!" And the barber kept on shaving.

"I've _studied_ owls, And other night fowls, And I tell you What I know to be true: An owl cannot roost With his limbs so unloosed; No owl in this world Ever had his claws curled, Ever had his legs slanted, Ever had his bill canted, Ever had his neck screwed Into that attitude. He can't _do_ it, because 'Tis against all bird-laws Anatomy teaches, Ornithology preaches An owl has a toe That _can't_ turn out so! I've made the white owl my study for years, And to see such a job almost moves me to tears! Mister Brown, I'm amazed You should be so gone crazed As to put up a bird In that posture absurd! To _look_ at that owl really brings on a dizziness; The man who stuffed _him_ don't half know his business!" And the barber kept on shaving.

"Examine those eyes. I'm filled with surprise Taxidermists should pass Off on you such poor glass; So unnatural they seem They'd make Audubon scream, And John Burroughs laugh To encounter such chaff. Do take that bird down; Have him stuffed again, Brown!" And the barber kept on shaving.

"With some sawdust and bark I would stuff in the dark An owl better than that; I could make an old hat Look more like an owl Than that horrid fowl, Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather. In fact, about _him_ there's not one natural feather."

Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch, The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch, Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic (Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic, And then fairly hooted, as if he should say: "Your learning's at fault _this_ time, anyway; Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray. I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good-day!" And the barber kept on shaving.

A CAUSE FOR THANKS

A country parson, in encountering a storm the past season in the voyage across the Atlantic, was reminded of the following: A clergyman was so unfortunate as to be caught in a severe gale in the voyage out. The water was exceedingly rough, and the ship persistently buried her nose in the sea. The rolling was constant, and at last the good man got thoroughly frightened. He believed they were destined for a watery grave. He asked the captain if he could not have prayers. The captain took him by the arm and led him down to the forecastle, where the tars were singing and swearing. "There," said he, "when you hear them swearing, you may know there is no danger." He went back feeling better, but the storm increased his alarm. Disconsolate and unassisted, he managed to stagger to the forecastle again. The ancient mariners were swearing as ever. "Mary," he said to his sympathetic wife, as he crawled into his berth after tacking across a wet deck, "Mary, thank God they're swearing yet."

JOHN HAY

LITTLE BREECHES

I don't go much on religion, I never ain't had no show; But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir, On the handful o' things I know. I don't pan out on the prophets And free-will and that sort of thing---- But I b'lieve in God and the angels, Ever sence one night last spring.

I come into town with some turnips, And my little Gabe come along---- No four-year-old in the county Could beat him for pretty and strong, Peart and chipper and sassy, Always ready to swear and fight---- And I'd larnt him to chaw terbacker Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket As I passed by Taggart's store; I went in for a jug of molasses And left the team at the door. They scared at something and started---- I heard one little squall, And hell-to-split over the prairie Went team, Little Breeches and all.

Hell-to-split over the prairie! I was almost froze with skeer; But we rousted up some torches, And sarched for 'em far and near. At last we struck horses and wagon, Snowed under a soft white mound, Upsot, dead beat--but of little Gabe Nor hide nor hair was found.

And here all hope soured on me, Of my fellow-critter's aid---- I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones, Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed.

By this, the torches was played out, And me and Isrul Parr Went off for some wood to a sheepfold That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed Where they shut up the lambs at night. We looked in and seen them huddled thar, So warm and sleepy and white; And THAR sot Little Breeches, and chirped, As peart as ever you see: "I want a chaw of terbacker, And that's what's the matter of me."

How did he git thar? Angels. He could never have walked in that storm; They jest scooped down and toted him To whar it was safe and warm.

And I think that saving a little child, And bringing him to his own, Is a derned sight better business Than loafing around The Throne.

* * * * *

Artemus Ward, when in London, gave a children's party. One of John Bright's sons was invited, and returned home radiant. "Oh, papa," he explained, on being asked whether he had enjoyed himself, "indeed I did. And Mr. Browne gave me such a nice name for you, papa."

"What was that?"

"Why, he asked me how that gay and festive cuss, the governor, was!" replied the boy.

* * * * *

It was on a train going through Indiana. Among the passengers were a newly married couple, who made themselves known to such an extent that the occupants of the car commenced passing sarcastic remarks about them. The bride and groom stood the remarks for some time, but finally the latter, who was a man of tremendous size, broke out in the following language at his tormenters: "Yes, we're married--just married. We are going 160 miles farther, and I am going to 'spoon' all the way. If you don't like it, you can get out and walk. She's my violet and I'm her sheltering oak."

During the remainder of the journey they were left in peace.

HENRY W. SHAW ("Josh Billings")

NATRAL AND UNNATRAL ARISTOKRATS

Natur furnishes all the nobleman we hav.

She holds the pattent.

Pedigree haz no more to do in making a man aktually grater than he iz, than a pekok's feather in his hat haz in making him aktually taller.

This iz a hard phakt for some tew learn.

This mundane earth iz thik with male and femail ones who think they are grate bekause their ansesstor waz luckey in the sope or tobacco trade; and altho the sope haz run out sumtime since, they try tew phool themselves and other folks with the suds.

Sope-suds iz a prekarious bubble.

Thare ain't nothing so thin on the ribs az a sope-suds aristokrat.

When the world stands in need ov an aristokrat, natur pitches one into it, and furnishes him papers without enny flaw in them.

Aristokrasy kant be transmitted--natur sez so--in the papers.

Titles are a plan got up bi humans tew assist natur in promulgating aristokrasy.

Titles ain't ov enny more real use or necessity than dog collars are.

I hav seen dog collars that kost 3 dollars on dogs that wan't worth, in enny market, over 87-1/2 cents.

This iz a grate waste of collar; and a grate damage tew the dog.

Natur don't put but one ingredient into her kind ov aristokrasy, and that iz virtew.

She wets up the virtew, sumtimes, with a little pepper sass, just tew make it lively.

She sez that all other kinds are false; and i beleave natur.

I wish every man and woman on earth waz a bloated aristokrat--bloated with virtew.

Earthly manufaktured aristokrats are made principally out ov munny.

Forty years ago it took about 85 thousand dollars tew make a good-sized aristokrat, and innokulate his family with the same disseaze, but it takes now about 600 thousand tew throw the partys into fits.

Aristokrasy, like of the other bred stuffs, haz riz.

It don't take enny more virtew tew make an aristokrat now, nor clothes, than it did in the daze ov Abraham.

Virtew don't vary.

Virtew is the standard ov values.

Clothes ain't.

Titles ain't.

A man kan go barefoot and be virtewous, and be an aristokrat.

Diogoneze waz an aristokrat.

His brown-stun front waz a tub, and it want on end, at that.

Moneyed aristokrasy iz very good to liv on in the present hi kondishun ov kodphis and wearing apparel, provided yu see the munny, but if the munny kind of tires out and don't reach yu, and you don't git ennything but the aristokrasy, you hay got to diet, that's all.

I kno ov thousands who are now dieting on aristokrasy.

They say it tastes good.

I presume they lie without knowing it.

Not enny ov this sort ov aristokrasy for Joshua Billings.

I never should think ov mixing munny and aristokrasy together; i will take mine seperate, if yu pleze.

I don't never expekt tew be an aristokrat, nor an angel; i don't kno az i want tew be one.

I certainly should make a miserable angel.

I certainly never shall hav munny enuff tew make an aristokrat.

Raizing aristokrats iz a dredful poor bizzness; yu don't never git your seed back.

One democrat iz worth more tew the world than 60 thousand manufaktured aristokrats.

An Amerikan aristokrat iz the most ridikilus thing in market. They are generally ashamed ov their ansesstors; and, if they hav enny, and live long enuff, they generally hav cauze tew be ashamed ov their posterity.

I kno ov sevral familys in Amerika who are trieing tew liv on their aristokrasy. The money and branes giv out sumtime ago.

It iz hard skratching for them.

Yu kan warm up kold potatoze and liv on them, but yu kant warm up aristokratik pride and git even a smell.

Yu might az well undertake tew raze a krop ov korn in a deserted brikyard by manuring the ground heavy with tanbark.

Yung man, set down, and keep still--yu will hay plenty ov chances yet to make a phool ov yureself before yu die.

* * * * *

It is told of an old Baptist parson, famous in Virginia, that he once visited a plantation where the colored servant who met him at the gate asked which barn he would have his horse put in.

"Have you two barns?" asked the minister.

"Yes, sah," replied the servant; "dar's de old barn, and Mas'r Wales has jest built a new one."

"Where do you usually put the horses of clergymen who come to see your master?"

"Well, sah, if dey's Methodist or Baptist we gen'ally puts 'em in de ole barn, but if dey's 'Piscopals we puts 'em in the new one."

"Well, Bob, you can put my horse in the new barn; I'm a Baptist, but my horse is an Episcopalian."

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

THE YANKEE RECRUIT

Mister Buckinum, the follerin Billet was writ hum by a Yung feller of our town that wuz cussed fool enuff to goe a-trottin inter Miss Chiff arter a Drum and fife. It ain't Nater for a feller to let on that he's sick o' any bizness that he went intu off his own free will and a Cord, but I rather cal'late he's middlin tired o' voluntearin By this time. I bleeve yu may put dependunts on his statemence. For I never heered nothin bad on him let Alone his havin what Parson Wilbur cals a _pongshong_ for cocktales, and ses it wuz a soshiashun of idees sot him agoin arter the Crootin Sargient cos he wore a cocktale onto his hat.

His Folks gin the letter to me and I shew it to parson Wilbur and he ses it oughter Bee printed, send It to mister Buckinum, ses he, i don't ollers agree with him, ses he, but by Time, ses he, I _du_ like a feller that ain't a Feared.

I have intusspussed a Few refleckshuns hear and thair. We're kind o' prest with Hayin. Ewers respecfly,

HOSEA BIGLOW.