high up in air, that moves steadily, with a solemn sound, as if it were the spirit of summer journeying past us; and, impatient of delay, it does not stoop to the earth, but touches the tops of the trees, with a murmuring sound, 5 sighing a sad farewell, and passing on.

Such days fill one with pleasant sadness. How sweet a pleasure is there in sadness! It is not sorrow; it is not despondency; it is not gloom! It is one of the moods of joy. At any rate I am very happy, and yet it is sober, 10 and very sad happiness. It is the shadow of joy upon the soul! I can reason about these changes. I can cover over the dying leaves with imaginations as bright as their own hues; and, by Christian faith, transfigure the whole scene with a blessed vision of joyous dying and glorious 15 resurrection. But what then? Such thoughts glow like evening clouds, and not far beneath them are the evening twilights, into whose dusk they will soon melt away. And all communions, and all admirations, and all associations, celestial or terrene, come alike into a pensive sadness, that 20 is even sweeter than our joy. It is the minor key of the thoughts.

XXIII. - THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; OR THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HORSE SHAY."

A LOGICAL STORY.
HOLMES.

[OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, M. D., was born in Cambridge, Massachu setts, August 29, 1809, was graduated at Harvard College in 1829, and com、 menced the practice of medicine in Boston in 1836. He has been for many years one of the professors in the medical department of Harvard College, and he is understood to be highly skilful both in the theory and practice of his profession. He began to write poetry at quite an early age. His longest productions are occasional poems which have been recited before literary societies, and received with very great favor. His style is brilliant, sparkling, and terse; d many of his heroic stanzas remind us of the point and condensation of Pope. In his shorter poems, he is sometimes grave, and sometimes gay. When in the former mood, he charms us by his truth and manliness of feeling, and his sweetness of sentiment; when in the latter, he delights us with the

glance and play of the wildest wit and the richest humor. Everything that he writes is carefully finished, and rests on a basis of sound sense and shrewd observation. Dr. Holmes also enjoys high reputation and wide popularity as a prose writer. He is the author of "The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, "The Professor at the Breakfast Table," and "Elsie Venner," works of fiction which originally appeared in the "Atlantic Monthly Magazine," and of various occasional discourses.

This poem is illustrative of New England character, and the words italicized are spelt in such a way as to indicate certain peculiarities of pronunciation sometimes heard among the uneducated, in New England.]

1 HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way

It run 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?

2 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.

3 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 breaks down, but does n't wear out.

4 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 could n' break daown;
-"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plain
That 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."

5 So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That could n'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 could n'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!"

6 Do! I tell you, I rather guess

She was a wonder, and nothing less!

Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away;
Children and grandchildren

where were they?

But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!

7 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.

8 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 could n't be, for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part

That there was n'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 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!

10 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.

11 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.

12 End of the wonderful one-hoss shay: Logic is logic. That's all I say.