Who the painter was none may tell,- Ay! since the galloping Normans came, Save to daughter or son might bring: Mother and sister, and child and wife, What if a hundred years ago Those close-shut lips had answered—No! One-tenth another to nine-tenths me? Soft is the breath of a maiden's Yes: There were tones in the voice that whisper'd then O lady and lover! how faint and far It shall be a blessing, my little maid! THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE: 66 OR THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS SHAY." (A Logical Story.) HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss 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 happen'd without delay, Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits,— Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less! Children and grandchildren-where were they? EIGHTEEN HUNDRED,-it came and found Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Take it! You're welcome. No extra charge.) FIRST OF NOVEMBER, the Earthquake-day,— 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, First of November, 'Fifty-five! Then something decidedly like a spill,— End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. |