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 come 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 flavor 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 whippletree 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.—­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! 
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.

—­I think there is one habit,—­I said to our company a day or two afterwards—­worse than that of punning.  It is the gradual substitution of cant or flash terms for words which truly characterize their objects.  I have known several very genteel idiots whose whole vocabulary had deliquesced into some half dozen expressions.  All things fell into one of two great categories, —­fast or slow.  Man’s chief end was to be