Volume 1 — OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

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? 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, 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, That a chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out. 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 plain Thut 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." So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn'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 couldn't sell 'em, Never an ax 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!" 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! 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 arrived, 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 flavor 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 whipple-tree 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-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.

Five mites of monads dwelt in a round drop That twinkled on a leaf by a pool in the sun. To the naked eye they lived invisible; Specks, for a world of whom the empty shell Of a mustard-seed had been a hollow sky. One was a meditative monad, called a sage; And, shrinking all his mind within, he thought: "Tradition, handed down for hours and hours, Tells that our globe, this quivering crystal world, Is slowly dying. What if, seconds hence When I am very old, yon shimmering doom Comes drawing down and down, till all things end?" Then with a wizen smirk he proudly felt No other mote of God had ever gained Such giant grasp of universal truth. One was a transcendental monad; thin And long and slim of mind; and thus he mused: "Oh, vast, unfathomable monad-souls! Made in the image"—a hoarse frog croaks from the pool, "Hark! 'twas some god, voicing his glorious thought In thunder music. Yea, we hear their voice, And we may guess their minds from ours, their work. Some taste they have like ours, some tendency To wriggle about, and munch a trace of scum." He floated up on a pin-point bubble of gas That burst, pricked by the air, and he was gone. One was a barren-minded monad, called A positivist; and he knew positively; "There was no world beyond this certain drop. Prove me another! Let the dreamers dream Of their faint gleams, and noises from without, And higher and lower; life is life enough." Then swaggering half a hair's breadth hungrily, He seized upon an atom of bug, and fed. One was a tattered monad, called a poet; And with a shrill voice ecstatic thus he sang: "Oh, little female monad's lips! Oh, little female monad's eyes! Ah, the little, little, female, female monad!" The last was a strong-minded monadess, Who dashed amid the infusoria, Danced high and low, and wildly spun and dove, Till the dizzy others held their breath to see. But while they led their wondrous little lives Æonian moments had gone wheeling by, The burning drop had shrunk with fearful speed: A glistening film—'twas gone; the leaf was dry. The little ghost of an inaudible squeak Was lost to the frog that goggled from his stone; Who, at the huge, slow tread of a thoughtful ox Coming to drink, stirred sideways fatly, plunged, Launched backward twice, and all the pool was still. Edward Rowland Sill.