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!"

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.)

And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, And the whippletree neither less nor more, 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-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.

223

Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,

Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.

THIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,

Sails the unshadowed main,
The venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind its purpled
wings

In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun
their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
Wrecked is the ship of pearl!
And every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont
to dwell,

As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,

Before thee lies revealed, — Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,

Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathéd horn!

While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:

Its matins from the branches high,
And every minstrel-voice of Spring,
That trills beneath the April sky,
Shall greet her with its earliest cry.

When, turning round their dial-track,
Eastward the lengthening shadows pass,
Her little mourners, clad in black,
The crickets, sliding through the grass,
Shall pipe for her an evening mass.

At last the rootlets of the trees
Shall find the prison where she lies,

soul,

As the swift seasons roll!

In leaves and blossoms to the skies. So may the soul that warmed it rise!

If any, born of kindlier blood,
Should ask, What maiden lies below?
Say only this: A tender bud,

That tried to blossom in the snow,
Lies withered where the violets blow.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

[U. s. A.]

THE HERITAGE.

THE rich man's son inherits lands,
And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,
And he inherits soft, white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares;

The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft, white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants,

His stomach craves for dainty fare;
With sated heart, he hears the pants

Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,
And wearies in his easy chair;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit? Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;

King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,
A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labor sings;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

A patience learned by being poor, Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,