Who the painter was none may tell,-
One whose best was not over well;
Hard and dry, it must be confess'd,
Flat as a rose that has long been press'd;
Yet in her cheek the hues are bright,
Dainty colours of red and white;
And in her slender shape are seen
Hint and promise of stately mien.
Look not on her with eyes of scorn!
Dorothy Q. was a lady born!

Ay! since the galloping Normans came,
England's annals have known her name :
And still to the three-hill'd rebel town
Dear is that ancient name's renown,
For many a civic wreath they own,
The youthful sire and the grayhair'd son.
O damsel Dorothy! Dorothy Q.!
Strange is the gift that I owe to you;
Such a gift as never a king

Save to daughter or son might bring:
All my tenure of heart and hand,
All my title to house and land,

Mother and sister, and child and wife,
And joy and sorrow, and death and life.

What if a hundred years ago

Those close-shut lips had answered—No!
When forth the tremulous question came
That cost the maiden her Norman name;
And under the folds that look so still
The bodice swell'd with the bosom's thrill?
Should I be I, or would it be

One-tenth another to nine-tenths me?

Soft is the breath of a maiden's Yes:
Not the light gossamer stirs with less;
But never a cable that holds so fast
Through all the battles of wave and blast,
And never an' echo of speech or song
That lives in the babbling air so long!

There were tones in the voice that whisper'd then
You may hear to-day in a hundred men !

O lady and lover! how faint and far
Your images hover, and here we are,
Solid and stirring in flesh and bone,-
Edwards and Dorothys-all their own—
A goodly record for time to show
Of a syllable spoken so long ago!-
Shall I bless you, Dorothy! or forgive,
For the tender whisper that bade me live?

It shall be a blessing, my little maid!
I will heal the stab of the Red-Coat's blade,
And freshen the gold of the tarnish'd frame,
And gild with a rhyme your household name;
So you shall smile on us brave and bright
As first you greeted the morning's light,
And live untroubled by woes and fears
Through a second youth of a hundred years.

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,—
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,

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 rather guess

She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beasts turn'd gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropp'd away,

Children and grandchildren-where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED,-it came and found
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound;
Eighteen hundred increased by ten,-
"Hahnsum kerridge" they call'd 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 flavour 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-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tail'd, ewe-neck'd bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson ;-off went they.
The parson was working his Sunday's text,-
Had got to fifthly, and stopp'd perplex'd
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.