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216 THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY."

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 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,
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.

DRIFTING.

DRIFTING.-T. BUCHANAN READ.

Y soul to-day is far away,

MY

Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;

My winged boat, a bird afloat,

Swims round the purple peaks remote :

Round purple peaks it sails, and seeks

Blue inlets and their crystal creeks,

Where high rocks throw, through deeps below,
A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague, and dim, the mountains swim;
While on Vesuvius' misty brim,

With outstretched hands, the gray smoke stands,
O'erlooking the volcanic lands.

Here Ischia smiles o'er liquid miles;

And yonder, bluest of the isles,

Calm Capri waits, her sapphire gates
Beguiling to her bright estates.

I heed not, if my rippling skiff
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff;
With dreamful eyes my spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise.

Under the walls where swells and falls

The bay's deep breast at intervals,

At peace I lie, blown softly by,

A cloud upon this liquid sky.

The day, so mild, is Heaven's own child,
With earth and ocean reconciled;

The airs I feel around me steal

Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.

Over the rail my hand I trail,
Within the shadow of the sail-
A joy intense, the cooling sense
Glides down my drowsy indolence.

217

218

THE CITY SLAVE.

With dreamful eyes my spirit lies

Where summer sings and never dies,—
O'erveiled with vines, she glows and shines
Among her future oils and wines.

Her children, hid the cliffs amid,
Are gambolling with the gambolling kid:
Or down the walls, with tipsy calls,
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.

The fisher's child, with tresses wild,
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,
With glowing lips sings as she skips,
Or gazes at the far-off ships.

Yon deep bark goes where traffic blows,
From lands of sun to lands of snows;
This happier one, its course is run
From lands of snow to lands of sun.

O happy ship, to rise and dip,
With the blue crystal at your lip!
O happy crew, my heart with you
Sails, and sails, and sings anew!

No more, no more the worldly shore
Upbraids me with its loud uproar !
With dreamful eyes my spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise!

THE CITY SLAVE.

THOUSAND stitches by night or day.

ATHOUSAND

A thousand stitches for bread;

A thousand stitches-a penny the pay,
And out of it find the thread.

I tell of the poor white slave—

For Freedom's a mocking strain
To the worker from birth to grave
In poverty, hunger, and pain:

THE CITY SLAVE.

Of the weary eyes and the fingers sore,
Of the wolf that lies at the pauper door,

Of the ceaseless sound of the needle's click,

Of the bright hopes crushed and the faint heart sick,
Where the sewers forever strain

Their thousand stitches by night and day:

A thousand stitches for bread;
A thousand stitches-a penny the pay,
And out of it find the thread.

No fiction this, but hard truth:
A drama played to this day,
By actors who never know youth,
But sew in a brief decay.

At home-some attic or cellar bare,
Fighting with needles the spoiler spare,
Or sickening fast in some reeking shop,
Where the death-dews hang on the panes and drop;
Woman, and girl, and boy, and man,
Crushed down all by poverty's ban,
The young in years, and the gray,

With their thousand stitches by night or day:
A thousand stitches for bread;

A thousand stitches-a penny the pay,.
And out of it find the thread.

Slopwork had by the piece:

Shoddy, and cloth, and cord;

Cord that makes in each brow a crease,
Cloth that the hand has scored ;

Fustian dyed with a ruddy stain,

The thin heart-blood from the toiler's vein;
Shoddy made up for the shoddy lord

Who fattens and feasts on his slave, abhorred,
Drinks of his sweat till the rest-days come,

And slave he quits him the City's hum;
This for a rest in the workhouse walls;
This in the clay for another calls;
One with bony and beck'ning hand,
Who gravely ever the workers scanned;

219

220.

THE FRENCHMAN AND THE RATS.

Around the tailor's board,

While others sew night and day

A thousand stitches for bread;
A thousand stitches-a penny the pay,
And out of it find the thread.

A

THE FRENCHMAN AND THE RATS.

FRENCHMAN once, who was a merry wight,
Passing to town from Dover in the night,
Near the roadside an alehouse chanced to spy,
And being rather tired as well as dry,
Resolved to enter; but first he took a peep,
In hopes a supper he might get, and cheap.
He enters; "Hallo! Garçon, if you please,
Bring me a leetel bit of bread and cheese.
And hallo! Garçon, a pot of porter, too!" he said.
"Vich I shall take, and den myself to bed."

His supper done, some scraps of cheese were left,
Which our poor Frenchman, thinking it no theft,
Into his pocket put; then slowly crept

To wished-for bed; but not a wink he slept-
For on the floor some sacks of flour were laid,
To which the rats a nightly visit paid.
Our hero now undressed, popped out the light,
Put on his cap and bade the world good-night;
But first his breeches, which contained the fare,
Under his pillow he had placed with care.

Sans ceremonie, soon the rats all ran,
And on the flour-sacks greedily began;

At which they gorged themselves; then smelling round,
Under the pillow soon the cheese they found;

And while at this they all regaling sat,

Their happy jaws disturbed the Frenchman's nap;

Who, half-awake, cries out, "Hallo! hallo!

Vat is dat nibble at my pillow so?

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