Bruce then exhibited the ploughshare, and the other irons. The plough, he assured them, belonged to the first settler on this classic spot. The bolts had fastened it together, and the chain had drawn it through the ground. It was this plough, of which these were the interesting relics, that had reclaimed the hill from its original wilderness state, and made possible the existence of that great and glorious school to which they at present had the proud privilege of belonging.
Finally, he exhibited the bone. Dr. Porter, he said, thought it was the bone of a horse; while Mr. Simmons thought that it once had belonged to a cow, or perhaps an ox. For his part, he had a theory of his own. He thought that it was the bone of that nightmare that had been making such a disturbance among them during the last week. That bone was now going into the Museum, and he was confident that the peculiar animal to which it belonged would never trouble the school again.
As Bruce ended, he was greeted with three cheers. Three more followed for the plough; three for the pot of money; and three for the bone.
After this, Bart arose with his memorandum-book, in which he had been diligently scribbling.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “after the able, polished, elegant, eloquent, ornate, and thoroughly exhaustive address from my learned friend, who has just sat down, it would be quite out of my power to say anything. Besides, I’m appointed to give the poem. The subject is connected with one of the articles before us. I mean the bone. Dr. Porter has one theory; Mr. Simmons another; my learned friend has a third. For my part, I have my own theory, which I adopted at the moment of its discovery, and which I still maintain. This, gentlemen, is the subject of my poem.”
After which Bart read the following from his memorandum-book:—
THE TRUE THEORY OF THE BONE.
“O, I’m the bone of a Parley Yoo
That settled in Minas Bay,
That dammed the marshes, and cleared the woods,
And called the place Grand Pré.
"And the grain it riz, and the settlement growed,
And werry content were we,
With our cattle and pigs, and bosses and gigs,
And beautiful scenerie.
"And there it was nothing but Nong-tong-paw,
Et cetera, from morning to night,
And Mercy, madame, and Wee, moo-soo,—
We were all so werry polite.
"But the Britishers came, and druv us off;
So I took to my heels, and ran,
And one of them chased me, and quick I went
For rather an elderly man.
"And he had a gun, and I had none;
And he fired that gun at me;
And he shot my leg, and off it dropped,
Which was rather a bother, you see.
"But I seized my leg, and I hopped away,
As quick as quick could be,
And the Britisher loaded his gun agin,
For another shot at me.
"But I dodged the Britisher in the woods,
And took the leg that was shot,
And buried it under the apple tree,
In this werry identical spot.
"And I’m the werry identical bone
Of the leg of the Parley Yoo
That was buried beneath the apple tree,
And dug up again by you!”
This closed the proceedings.
A procession was then formed, headed by the “B. O. W. C.,” who led the way to the Museum.