The deacon’s masterpiece: 
Or the wonderful “One-hoss-shay.” 
A logical story.

Have you heard of the wonderful one-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?

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-hoss-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 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,
A chaise breasts down, but doesn’t wear out.

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 COULDN’ 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 couldn’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 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 its 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 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, “naow she’ll dew.”

Do!  I tell you, I father guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less! 
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
Children and grand-children—­where were they? 
But there stood the stout old one-hoss-shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!