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 whippletree 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 meetin'-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 meetin'-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.
GRIGGSBY'S STATION.
Pap's got his patent right, and rich as all creation; But where's the peace and comfort that we all had before? Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station— Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!
The likes of us a-livin' here! It's just a mortal pity To see us in this great big house, with cyarpets on the stairs, And the pump right in the kitchen! And the city! city! city!— And nothin' but the city all around us ever' wheres!
Climb clean above the roof and look from the steeple, And never see a robin, nor a beech or ellum tree! And right here in ear-shot of at least a thousan' people, And none that neighbors with us, or we want to go and see!
Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station— Back where the latch-string's a-hangin' from the door, And ever' neighbor 'round the place is dear as a relation— Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!