But the Deacon swore, (as Deacons do, With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,") He would build one shay to beat the taown 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; It should be so built that it could n' break daown; "Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plain Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain; 'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,

Is only jest

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 could n'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 whitewood, that cuts like cheeee,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,'
Last of its timber, they could n'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 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, 66 naow she'll dew!"

|

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!
How it went to pieces all at once,
You see, of course, if you 're not a dunce,
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.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

RUDOLPH THE HEADSMAN.

RUDOLPH, professor of the headsman's trade,
-Alike was famous for his arm and blade.
One day a prisoner Justice had to kill
Knelt at the block to test the artist's skill.
Bare-armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, and shaggy-
browed,

Rudolph the headsman rose above the crowd.
His falchion lightened with a sudden gleam,
As the pike's armor flashes in the stream.

He sheathed his blade; he turned as if to go;
The victim knelt, still waiting for the blow.
Why strikest not? Perform thy murderous
act,"

66

The prisoner said. (His voice was slightly cracked.)

"Friend, I have struck," the artist straight replied;

66

"Wait but one moment, and yourself decide." He held his snuff-box, Now then, if you please!"

The prisoner sniffed, and, with a crashing sneeze, Off his head tumbled, bowled along the floor, Bounced down the steps ;- the prisoner said no more !

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

CITY AND COUNTRY.

READ AT A FESTIVAL GATHERING OF THE SONS OF BERKSHIRE, MASS.

COME back to your Mother, ye children, for shame, Who have wandered like truants for riches and

fame!

With a smile on her face, and a sprig in her сар, She calls you to feast from her bountiful lap.

Come out from your alleys, your courts, and your lanes,

And breathe, like our eagles, the air of our plains; Take a whiff from our fields, and your excellent wives

Will declare 't is all nonsense insuring your lives.

Come, you of the law, who can talk, if you please, Till the man in the moon will allow it's a cheese, And leave the old lady that never tells lies," To sleep with her handkerchief over her eyes.

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Ye healers of men, for a moment decline
Your feats in the rhubarb and ipecac line;
While you shut up your turnpike, your neigh-

bors can go

The old roundabout road to the regions below.

You clerk, on whose ears are a couple of pens, And whose head is an ant-hill of units and tens, Though Plato denies you, we welcome you still As a featherless biped, in spite of your quill.

Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it;
And in the education of the lad

No little part that implement hath had.
His pocket-knife to the young whittler brings
A growing knowledge of material things.

Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art,
His chestnut whistle and his shingle dart,
His elder popgun with its hickory rod,
Its sharp explosion and rebounding wad,
His cornstalk fiddle, and the deeper tone
That murmurs from his pumpkin-stalk trombone,
Conspire to teach the boy. To these succeed
His bow, his arrow of a feathered seed,
His windmill, raised the passing breeze to win,
His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin ;
Or, if his father lives upon the shore,
You'll see his ship, "beam ends upon the floor,"
Full rigged with raking masts, and timbers
stanch,

And waiting near the washtub for a launch.

Thus by his genius and his jack-knife driven,
Ere long he'll solve you any problem given;
Make any gimcrack musical or mute,
A plow, a couch, an organ or a flute;
Make you a locomotive or a clock,
Cut a canal, or build a floating-dock,
Or lead forth Beauty from a marble block;
Make anything in short, for sea or shore,
From a child's rattle to a seventy-four ;-
Make it, said I?— Ay, when he undertakes it,
He'll make the thing and the machine that
makes it.

And when the thing is made, whether it be
To move on earth, in air, or on the sea;
Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide,
Or upon land to roll, revolve, or slide;
Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring,
Whether it be a piston or a spring,
Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass,
The thing designed shall surely come to pass;
For, when his hand 's upon it, you may know
That there's go in it, and he'll make it go.

JOHN PIERPONT.

THE MODERN BELLE.

SHE sits in a fashionable parlor,
And rocks in her easy-chair;
She is clad in silks and satins,
And jewels are in her hair;
She winks and giggles and simpers,
And simpers and giggles and winks;
And though she talks but little,

"T is a good deal more than she thinks.