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 whipple-tree neither less nor more, And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, And the 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-hoss 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.
THE PURPLE COW
BY GELETT BURGESS
_Reflections on a Mythic Beast, Who"s Quite Remarkable, at Least._
I never Saw a Purple Cow; I never Hope to See One; But I can Tell you, Anyhow, I"d rather See than Be One.
_Cinq Ans Apres._
(_Confession: and a Portrait, Too, Upon a Background that I Rue!_)
Ah, yes! I wrote the "Purple Cow"-- I"m Sorry, now, I Wrote it!
But I can Tell you, Anyhow, I"ll Kill you if you Quote it!
THE CURSE OF THE COMPETENT
BY HENRY J. FINN
My spirit hath been seared, as though the lightning"s scathe had rent, In the swiftness of its wrath, through the midnight firmament, The darkly deepening clouds; and the shadows dim and murky Of destiny are on me, for my dinner"s naught but--_turkey_.
The chords upon my silent lute no soft vibrations know, Save where the meanings of despair--out-breathings of my woe-- Tell of the cold and selfish world. In melancholy mood, The soul of genius chills with only--_fourteen cords of wood_.
The dreams of the deserted float around my curtained hours, And young imaginings are as the thorns bereft of flowers; A wretched outcast from mankind, my strength of heart has sank Beneath the evils of--_ten thousand dollars in the bank_.
This life to me a desert is, and kindness, as the stream That singly drops upon the waste where burning breezes teem; A banished, blasted plant, I droop, to which no freshness lends Its healing balm, for Heaven knows, I"ve but--_a dozen friends_.
And Sorrow round my brow has wreathed its coronal of thorns; No dewy pearl of Pleasure my sad sunken eyes adorns; Calamity has clothed my thoughts, I feel a bliss no more,-- Alas! my wardrobe now would only--_stock a clothing store_.
The joyousness of Memory from me for aye hath fled; It dwells within the dreary habitation of the dead; I breathe my midnight melodies in languor and by stealth, For Fate inflicts upon my frame--_the luxury of health_.
Envy, Neglect, and Scorn have been my hard inheritance; And a baneful curse clings to me, like the stain on innocence; My moments are as faded leaves, or roses in their blight-- I"m asked but once a day to dine--_to parties every night_.
Would that I were a silver ray upon the moonlit air, Or but one gleam that"s glorified by each Peruvian"s prayer!
My tortured spirit turns from earth, to ease its bitter loathing; My hatred is on all things here, because--_I want for nothing_.
THE GRAMMATICAL BOY
BY BILL NYE
Sometimes a sad, homesick feeling comes over me, when I compare the prevailing style of anecdote and school literature with the old McGuffey brand, so well known thirty years ago. To-day our juvenile literature, it seems to me, is so transparent, so easy to understand, that I am not surprised to learn that the rising generation shows signs of lawlessness.
Boys to-day do not use the respectful language and large, luxuriant words that they did when Mr. McGuffey used to stand around and report their conversations for his justly celebrated school reader. It is disagreeable to think of, but it is none the less true, and for one I think we should face the facts.
I ask the careful student of school literature to compare the following selection, which I have written myself with great care, and arranged with special reference to the matter of choice and difficult words, with the flippant and commonplace terms used in the average school book of to-day.
One day as George Pillgarlic was going to his tasks, and while pa.s.sing through the wood, he spied a tall man approaching in an opposite direction along the highway.
"Ah!" thought George, in a low, mellow tone of voice, "whom have we here?"
"Good morning, my fine fellow," exclaimed the stranger, pleasantly. "Do you reside in this locality?"
"Indeed I do," retorted George, cheerily, doffing his cap. "In yonder cottage, near the glen, my widowed mother and her thirteen children dwell with me."
"And is your father dead?" exclaimed the man, with a rising inflection.
"Extremely so," murmured the lad, "and, oh, sir, that is why my poor mother is a widow."
"And how did your papa die?" asked the man, as he thoughtfully stood on the other foot a while.
"Alas! sir," said George, as a large hot tear stole down his pale cheek and fell with a loud report on the warty surface of his bare foot, "he was lost at sea in a bitter gale. The good ship foundered two years ago last Christmastide, and father was foundered at the same time. No one knew of the loss of the ship and that the crew was drowned until the next spring, and it was then too late."