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40

THE WONDERFUL “ONE-HOSS SHAY."

The hubs from logs from the “Settler's ellum,"
Last of its timber—they couldn't sell 'em-
Never an axe had seen the 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,
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 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 flavour of mild decay-
But nothing local, as one may say.

THE WONDERFUL

ONE-HOSS SHAY."

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There could'nt 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 the 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.

Hiddup !" said the parson-off went they.

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The parson was working his Sunday text-
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what, in the world, 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.

O. W. Holnres.

D

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A MOTHER'S HAND.

A MOTHER'S HAND.

Why gaze ye on my hoary hairs,

Ye children young and gay ?
Your locks, beneath the blast of caros,

Will bleach as white as they.

I had a mother once, like you,

Who o'er my pillow hung,
Kissed from my cheek the briny dew,

And taught my faltering tongue.

She, when the nightly couch was spread,

Would bow my infant knee,
And place her hand upon my head,

And, kneeling, pray for me.

But, then, there came a fearful day :

I sought my mother's bed,
Till harsh hands tore me thence away,

And told me she was dead.

That eve, I knelt me down in woe,

And said a lonely prayer ;
Yet still my temples seemed to glow

As if that hand was there.

Years fled, and left me childhood's joy,

Gay sports and pastimes dear;
I rose, a wild and wayward boy,

Who scorned the curb of fear.

Fierce passions shook me like a reed,

In youth, yet, ere I slept,
That soft hand made my bosom bleed,

And down I fell and wept.

In foreign lands I travelled wide,

My pulse was bounding high ;
Vice spread her meshes at my side,

And pleasure lured my eye ;

SONG OF THE WATER DRINKER.

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Yet still that hand, so soft and cold,

Maintained its mystic sway,
As when, amid my curls of gold,

With gentle force it lay.
And with it breathed a voice of care,

As from the lowly sod-
My son-my only one-beware!

Nor sin against thy God!”
Ye think, perchance, that age hath stole

My kindly warmth away,
And dimmed the tablet of the soul;

Yet when, with lordly sway,
This brow the pluméd helm displayed,

That guides the warrior throng,
Or beauty's thrilling fingers strayed

These manly locks among,
That hallowed touch was ne'er forgot !

And now, though time hath set
His frosty seal upon my lot,

These temples feel it yet.
And if I e'er in heaven appear,

A mother's holy prayer,
A mother's hand, and gentle tear,
That pointed to a Saviour dear,
Have led the wanderer there.

Mrs. Sigourney

SONG OF THE WATER DRINKER.

Oh, water for me, bright water for me-
Give wine to the tremulous debauchee-
It cooleth the brow, it cooleth the brain,
It maketh the faint one strong again ;
It comes o'er the sense like a breeze from the sea,
All freshness, like infant purity.
So water for me, bright water for me-
Give wine, give wine to the debauchee !

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SONG OF THE WATER DRINKER.

Fill to the brim, fill to the brim,
Let the flowing crystal kiss the rim ;
For my hand is steady, my eye is true,
For I, like the flowers, drink nothing—but dew,
O water, bright water's a mine of wealth,
And the ores it yieldeth are vigour and health.
Then water, pure water, for me, for me,
And wine for the tremulous debauchee !

Fill again to the brim, again to the brim,
For water strengtheneth life and limb!
To the days of the aged it addeth length,
To the might of the strong it addeth strength
It freshens the heart, it brightens the sight,
'Tis like quaffing a goblet of morning light;
So water, I will drink nought but thee,
Thou parent of health and energy!

When o'er the hills in gladsome pride,
Morning walks forth in her beauty's pride,
Leading a band of laughing hours,
Brushing the dew from the nodding flowers,
Oh cheerily then my voice is heard,
Mingling with that of the soaring bird,
Who ilingeth abroad his matins loud,
As he freshens his wing in the cold grey cloud.

But when evening has quitted her sheltering yew,
Drowsily flying and weaving anew
Her dusky meshes o'er land and sea,
How gently, 0 sleep, fall thy poppies on me!
For I drink water, pure, cold, and bright,
And my dreams are of heaven the live-long night;
So hurrah ! for thee, water, hurrah ! hurrah !
Thou art silver and gold, thou art ribbon and star,
Hurrah for bright water, hurrah ! hurrah.

Johnson.

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