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<span style="color: DarkGreen; background-color: White;">Title: </span>The
Deacon's Masterpiece; or The Wonderful "One-Hoss Shay"<br>
<span style="color: DarkGreen; background-color: White;">Author: </span>Oliver
Wendell Holmes <br>
<p>A Logical Story</p>
<p> Have you heard of the wonderful one-horse shay, <br>
That was built in such a logical way <br>
It ran a hundred years to a day, <br>
And then, of a sudden, it--ah but stay, <br>
I'll tell you what happened without delay, <br>
Scaring the parson into fits, <br>
Frightening people out of their wits, <br>
Have you ever heard of that, I say?</p>
<p> Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, <br>
Georgius Secundus was then alive, <br>
Snuffy old drone from the German hive. <br>
That was the year when Lisbon-town <br>
Saw the earth open and gulp her down <br>
And Braddock's army was done so brown, <br>
Left without a scalp to its crown. <br>
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day <br>
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.</p>
<p> Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,<br>
There is always somewhere a weakest spot, -<br>
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,<br>
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,<br>
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,--lurking still,<br>
Find it somewhere you must and will,--<br>
Above or below, or within or without,--<br>
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,<br>
That a chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.</p>
<p> But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,<br>
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,")<br>
He would build one shay to beat the taown<br>
'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';<br>
It should be so built that it couldn' break daown,<br>
"Fur," said the Deacon, "It's mighty plain<br>
Thut the weakes' place mus' Stan' the strain; <br>
'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, <br>
Is only jest <br>
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."</p>
<p> So the Deacon inquired of the village folk <br>
Where he could find the strongest oak, <br>
That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke, <br>
That was for spokes and floor and sills; <br>
He sent for lancewood to make the thins; <br>
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees. <br>
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, <br>
But lasts like iron for things like these;<br>
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"--<br>
<br>
Last of its timber,--they couldn't sell 'em,<br>
Never an axe had seen their chips,<br>
And the wedges flew from between their lips,<br>
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;<br>
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,<br>
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,<br>
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;<br>
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;<br>
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide <br>
Found in the pit when the tanner died. <br>
That was the way he "put her through." <br>
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"</p>
<p> Do! I tell you, I rather guess<br>
She was a wonder, and nothing less!<br>
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,<br>
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,<br>
Children and grandchildren--where were they?<br>
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay<br>
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day</p>
<p> EIGHTEEN HUNDRED; -it came and found<br>
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.<br>
Eighteen hundred increased by ten;--<br>
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.<br>
Eighteen hundred and twenty came;--<br>
Running as usual; much the same.<br>
Thirty and forty at last arrive,<br>
And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.</p>
<p> Little of all we value here<br>
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year<br>
Without both feeling and looking queer.<br>
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,<br>
So far as I know but a tree and truth.<br>
(This is a moral that runs at large;<br>
Take it.--You're welcome.--No extra charge.)<br>
<br>
FIRST of NOVEMBER,--the Earthquake-day--<br>
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,<br>
A general flavor of mild decay,<br>
But nothing local, as one may say.<br>
There couldn't be,--for the Deacon's art<br>
Had made it so like in every part<br>
That there wasn't a chance for one to start.<br>
For the wheels were just as strong as the thins,<br>
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,<br>
And the panels just as strong as the floors<br>
And the whipple-tree neither less nor more,<br>
And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,<br>
And spring and axle and hub encore.<br>
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt<br>
In another hour it will be worn out!</p>
<p> First of November, 'Fifty-five!<br>
This morning the parson takes a drive.<br>
Now, small boys, get out of the way!<br>
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,<br>
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.<br>
"Huddup!" said the parson.--Off went they.<br>
The parson was working his Sunday's text,--<br>
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed<br>
At what the--Moses--was coming next.</p>
<p> All at once the horse stood still,<br>
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.<br>
First a shiver, and then a thrill,<br>
Then something decidedly like a spill,--<br>
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,<br>
At half past nine by the meet'n'-house clock--<br>
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!</p>
<p> What do you think the parson found, <br>
When he got up and stared around? <br>
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, <br>
As if it had been to the mill and ground! <br>
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, <br>
How it went to pieces all at once, <br>
All at once, and nothing first, <br>
Just as bubbles do when they burst.</p>
<p> End of the wonderful one-boss shay. <br>
Logic is logic. That's all I say.<br>
</p>
<p class="lineb">-THE END-<br>
Oliver Wendell Holmes' poem: The Deacon's Masterpiece; or The Wonderful
"One-Hoss Shay"</p>
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