DEACONS THE MASTERPIECE Or, the Wonderful one-Hoss Shay A Logical Story By Oliver Wendell Homes
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 happened without delay, Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits,-Have you ever heard of that, I say? 'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,--
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.
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,
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 whitewood, 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 couldn'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.
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 doesn't wear out.
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! 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 couldn' break daown! --"Fur," said the Deacon, "t 's mighty Thut plain the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
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!
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THE DEACONS MASTERPIECE
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.
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.
Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer.
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
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 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 ...