The Deacons Masterpiece

Have you heard of. the wonderful one-horse shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it----ah, but stay,

I'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits,-
Have you ever heard of that, I say?

It was Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
Georgius Secundus was then alive,-
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the. earth open and gulp her down,

And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-horse shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always somewhere a weakest spot,---

In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In a 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,
That a chaise brake's down,   but doesn't wear out.

But the Deacon swore (as deacons do,)
With a "You Know what," or an 'I tell you')
He would build one shay to beat the town
'N' the County 'n' all the Country round';
It should be so built that it couldn't break down:

"Fur," said the Deacon, it's mighty plain"
'That the weakes' place,   mus' stan' the strain;
'N' the way t, fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only just -
'T' 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 spoke and floor and sills;

He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars we're 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 their timber,- they couldn't sell 'em,

Never an axe 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 of 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, "now she'll dew!"

Do!     I tell you,   I rather guess
She was a wonder,    and nothing less!

Deacon and deaconess died away,
Colts grew horses,     beards turned grey
Children and grandchildren -where were they?

But there stood the stout old one horse shay
As fresh as on lisbon's-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 keep its youth,
So far as I know.,   But a tree, and truth.

(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it.--'Youre welcome.--NO extra charge,)

First of November,--   the Earthquake day
There are traces of age in the one horse shay,
A general flavour 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-horse shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed,   ewe,-necked bay,
"Huddup!"   said the parson.-----'N' off went they.

The parson was working his Sunday text---------
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the ----Moses----- He should say next 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 a 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.

That's the
End of the wonderful one-, hoss shay.
Logic is logic,    That's all I say.