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<\/a><\/p>\nThe Deacon’s Masterpiece<\/h2>\n
HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss-shay, Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, Now in building of shaises, I tell you what, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,–lurking still, But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, So the Deacon inquired of the village folk That was for spokes and floor and sills; The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese, The hubs of logs from the “Settler’s ellum,” – Do! I tell you, I rather guess Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Eighteen Hundred: –it came and found Little of all we value here<\/span><\/p>\n Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year FIRST OF NOVEMBER,–the Earthquake-day.– First of November, ‘Fifty-five! The parson was working his Sunday’s text,–<\/span><\/p>\n Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed And the parson was sitting upon a rock, –What do you think the parson found, End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.<\/a><\/p>\n
\nThat was built in such a logical way
\nIt ran a hundred years to a day,
\nAnd then, of a sudden, it–ah, but stay
\nI ‘ll tell you what happened without delay,
\nScaring the parson into fits,
\nFrightening people out of their wits,–
\nHave you ever heard of that, I say?<\/p>\n
\nGeorgius Secundus was then alive,–
\nSnuffy old drone from the German hive.
\nThat was the year when Lisbon-town
\nSaw the earth open and gulp her down,
\nAnd Braddock’s army was done so brown,
\nLeft without a scalp to its crown.
\nIt was on the terrible earthquake-day
\nThat the Deacon finished the one-hoss-shay.<\/p>\n
\nThere is always somewhere a weakest spot,–
\nIn hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
\nIn panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,<\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n
\nFind it somewhere you must and will,–
\nAbove or below, or within or without,–
\nAnd that’s the reason, beyond a doubt,
\nA chaise breaks down, but doesn’t wear out.<\/p>\n
\nWith an “I dew vum,” or an “I tell yeou,”)
\nHe would build one shay to beat the taown
\n‘n’ the keounty ‘n’ all the kentry raoun’;
\nIt should be so built that it couldn’ break daown:
\n“Fer,” said the Deacon, “t’s mighty plain
\nThut the weakes’ place mus’ stan’ the strain;
\n‘n’ the way t’ fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest T’ make that place uz strong uz the rest.”<\/p>\n
\nWhere he could find the strongest oak,
\nThat couldn’t be split nor bent nor broke,–<\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n
\nHe sent for lancewood to make the thills;
\nThe crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees,<\/p>\n
\nBut lasts like iron for things like these;<\/p>\n
\nLast of its timber,–they couldn’t sell ’em,
\nNever no axe had seen their chips,
\nAnd the wedges flew from between their lips,
\nTheir blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
\nStep and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
\nSpring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
\nSteel of the finest, bright and blue;
\nThoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
\nBoot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
\nFound in the pit when the tanner died.
\nThat was the way he “put her through.”
\n“There!” said the Deacon, “naow she ‘ll dew.”<\/p>\n
\nShe was a wonder, and nothing less!<\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n
\nDeacon and deaconess dropped away,
\nChildren and grandchildren–where were they?
\nBut there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
\nAs fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake day!<\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n
\nThe Deacon’s Masterpiece strong and sound.
\nEighteen hundre increased by ten;–
\n“Hahnsum kerridge” they called it then.
\nEighteen hundred and twenty came;–
\nRunning as usual; much the same.
\nThirty and forty at last arrive,
\nAnd then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.<\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n
\nWithout both feeling and looking queer.
\nIn fact, there’s nothing that keeps its youth
\nSo far as I know, but a tree and truth.
\n(This is a moral that runs at large;
\nTake it.–You ‘re welcome.–No extra charge.)<\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n
\nThere are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
\nA general flavor of mild decay,
\nBut nothing local, as one may say.
\nThere couldn’t be,– for the Deacon’s art
\nHad made it so like in every part
\nThat there wasn’t a chance for one to start.
\nFor the wheels were just as strong as the thills
\nAnd the floor was just as strong as the sills,
\nAnd the panels just as strong as the floor,
\nAnd the whippletree neither less nor more,
\nAnd the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,
\nAnd spring and axle and hub encore,
\nAnd yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
\nIn another hour it will be worn out!<\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n
\nThis morning the parson takes a drive.
\nNow, small boys, get out of the way!
\nHere comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
\nDrawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
\n“Huddup!” said the parson. –Off went they.<\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n
\nAt what the — Moses — was coming next.
\nAll at once the horse stood still,
\nClose by the meet’n’-house on the hill
\nFirst a shiver, and then a thrill,
\nThen something decidedly like a spill,–<\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n
\nAt half-past nine by the meet’n’-house clock,–
\nJust the hour of the Earthquake shock!<\/p>\n
\nWhen he got up and stared around?
\nThe poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
\nAs if it had been to the mill and ground!
\nYou see, of course, if you ‘re not a dunce,
\nHow it went to pieces all at once,–
\nAll at once, and nothing first,–
\nJust as bubbles do when they burst.<\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n
\nLogic is logic. That’s all I say.<\/p>\n