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And why should this be thought so odd ? “Shook him !- how ?" Bolus stammered out. Can't men have taste to cure a phthisic ?
“We jolted him about." Of poetry, though patron god, Apollo patronizes physic.
“What! shake a patient, man ! - a shake won't
do." Bolus loved verse, and took so much delight in 't, “No, sir, — and so we gave him two." That his prescriptions he resolved to write in 't ;
Two shakes! Foul nurse, No opportunity he e'er let pass
'T would make the patient worse !” Of writing the directions on his labels
“It did so, sir, -- and so a third we tried." In dapper couplets, like Gay's fables,
“Well, and what then?” “ Then, sir, my mas. Or rather like the lines in Hudibras.
ter died !"
GEORGE COLMAN. Apothecary's verse! — and where's the treason ?
*T is simply honest dealing, not a crime : When patients swallow physic without reason, It is but fair to give a little rhyme.
He had a patient lying at death's door,
LET Taylor preach, upon a morning breezy, Some three miles from the town, it might be How well to rise while nights and larks are fly. four,
ing, To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article
For my part, getting up seems not so easy
By half as lying.
What if the lark does carol in the sky,
Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly ?
I'm not a trout.
Talk not to me of bees and such-like hums,
The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime, – And to the patient's house he goes,
Only lie long enough, and bed becomes
A bed of time.
To me Dan Phæbus and his car are naught, It was, indeed, a very sorry hack;
His steeds that paw impatiently about,
Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought,
The first turn-out!
Right beautiful the dewy meads appear
Besprinkled by the rosy-fingered girl ;
What then, — if I prefer my pillow-beer
To early pearl ?
My stomach is not ruled by other men's,
And, grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs As if the knocker fell by chance
Wherefore should master rise before the hens Out of their fingers.
Have laid their eggs? The servant lets him in with dismal face,
Why from a comfortable pillow start
To see faint flushes in the east awaken ?
A fig, say I, for any streaky part,
An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn,
Who used to haste the dewy grass among, “Well, how 's the patient ?" Bolus said :
“ To meet the sun upon the upland lawn,”. John shook his head.
Well, — he died young. “Indeed !- hum ! -- ha ! — that 's very odd ! He took the draught ?" John gave a nod. With charwomen such early hours agree, “Well, how? — what then? Speak out, you And sweeps that earn betimes their bit and sup; dunce!”
But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be “Why, then,” says John, “we shook him once.”
All up, — all up!
A LOGICAL STORY.
-- a fork.
One of this kidney — Toby Tosspot hight –
THE ONE-HOSS SHAY; Was coming from the Bedford late at night;
OR THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE.
Although he had a tolerable notion
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, 'T was n't direct, —'t was serpentine.
That was built in such a logical way He worked with sinuosities, along,
It ran a hundred years to a day, Like Monsieur Corkscrew, worming through a
And then of a sudden, it — ah, but stay,
I'll tell you what happened without delay,
Frightening people out of their wits,
Have you ever heard of that, I say? At length, with near four bottles in his pate,
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. He saw the moon shining on Shove's brass plate,
Georgius Secundus was then alive, When reading, “ Please to ring the bell,”
Snuffy old drone from the German hive. And being civil beyond measure,
That was the year when Lisbon-town “Ring it !” says Toby, .“ very well;
Saw the earth open and gulp her down, I'll ring it with a deal of pleasure.”
And Braddock's army was done so brown, Toby, the kindest soul in all the town,
Left without a scalp to its crown. Gave it a jerk that almost jerked it down.
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day He waited full two minutes, — no one came;
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay. He waited full two minutes more ; -- and then Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, Says Toby, “If he's deaf, I'm not to blame;
There is always somewhere a weakest spot, I'll pull it for the gentleman again.”
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, But the first peal woke Isaac in a fright,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, Who, quick as lightning, popping up his head,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, – lurking still, Sat on his head's antipodes, in bed,
Find it somewhere you must and will,
Above or below, or within or without, Pale as a parsnip, - bolt upright.
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, At length he wisely to himself doth say, calming A chaise breaks down, but does n't wear out. his fears,
But the Deacon swore, (as Deacons do, “Tush ! 't is some fool has rung and run away”; With an “I dew vum,” or an “ I tell ycou,”) When peal the second rattled in his ears. He would build one shay to beat the taown
'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; Shove jumped into the middle of the floor ;
It should be so built that it could n' break daown; And, trembling at each breath of air that stirred,
“ Fur,” said the Deacon, “'t 's mighty plain He groped down stairs, and opened the street Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain ; door,
'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, While Toby was performing peal the third.
Is only jest Isaac eyed Toby, fearfully askant,
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest.” And saw he was a strapper, stout and tall; So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Then put this question, “Pray, sir, what d'ye Where he could find the strongest oak, want ?"
That could n't be split nor bent nor broke, Says Toby, “I want nothing, sir, at all.”
That was for spokes and floor and sills ;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills ; "Want nothing! Sir, you've pulled my bell, I
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees; vow,
The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese, As if you 'd jerk it off the wire."
But lasts like iron for things like these ; Quoth Toby, gravely making him a bow,
The hubs of logs from the “Settler's ellum," “I pulled it, sir, at your desire.”
Last of its timber, — they could n't sell 'em, “At mine?” “Yes, yours ; I hope I've done Never an axe had seen their chips, it well.
And the wedges flew from between their lips, High time for bed, sir ; I was hastening to it; Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; But if you write up, Please to ring the bell,'
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Common politeness makes me stop and do it.” Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steei of the finest, bright and blue ;
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half past nine by the meet'n'-house clock, Found in the pit when the tanner died.
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock ! That was the way he “put her through.”
What do you think the parson found, “There !' said the Deacon, “naow she 'lldew !" When he got up and stared around ?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, Do ! I tell you, I rather guess
As if it had been to the mill and ground ! She was a wonder, and nothing less !
You see, of course, if you 're not a dunce, Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
How it went to pieces all at once,
All at once, and nothing first,
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.
SINGING through the forests, Thirty and forty at last arrive,
Rattling over ridges; And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.
Shooting under arches, Little of all we value here
Rumbling over bridges ; Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Whizzing through the mountains, Without both feeling and looking queer.
Buzzing o'er the vale, In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,
Bless me! this is pleasant, So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
Riding on the rail ! (This is a moral that runs at large; Take it. -- You 're welcome. -Noextra charge.)
Men of different “stations”
In the eye of fame, First of NOVEMBER, — the Earthquake-day.
Here are very quickly There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
Coming to the same; A general flavor of mild decay,
High and lowly people, But nothing local as one may say.
Birds of every feather, There could n't be, --- for the Deacon's art
On a common level,
Gentleman in shorts,
Looming very tall ; And the panels just as strong as the floor,
Gentleman at large, And the whippletree neither less nor more,
Talking very small ; And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,
Gentleman in tights, And spring and axle and hub encore.
With a loose-ish mien; And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
Gentleman in gray, In another hour it will be worn out !
Looking rather green ; First of November, 'Fifty-five!
Gentleman quite old, This morning the parson takes a drive.
Asking for the news; Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Gentleman in black, Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
In a fit of blues ; Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
Gentleman in claret, “Huddup!” said the parson. — Off went they.
Sober as a vicar ; The parson was working his Sunday's text,
Gentleman in tweed,
Dreadfully in liquor !
Stranger on the right
Looking very sunny, First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Obviously reading Then something decidedly like a spill, –
Something rather funny.
He was furtherinore embellished
By a ticket in his hat.
The conductor touched his arm,
And awoke him from a nap; When he gave the feeding flies
An admonitory slap, And his ticket to the man
In the yellow-lettered cap.
So, launching into talk,
We rattled on our way, With allusions to the crops
That along the meadows lay, Whereupon his eyes were lit
With a speculative ray.
The heads of many men
Were bobbing as in sleep, And many babies lifted
Their voices up to weep; While the coal-dust darkly fell
On bonnets in a heap.
All the while the swaying cars
Kept rumbling o'er the rail, And the frequent whistle sent
Shrieks of anguish to the gale, And the cinders pattered down
On the grimy floor like hail.
When suddenly a jar,
And a thrice-repeated bump, Made the people in alarm
From their easy cushions jump ; For they deemed the sounds to be
The inevitable trump.
A splintering crash below,
A doom-foreboding twitch, As the tender gave a lurch
Beyond the flying switch, And a mangled mass of men
Lay writhing in the ditch.
With a palpitating heart
My friend essayed to rise ; There were bruises on his limbs
And stars before his eyes, And his face was of the hue
Of the dolphin when it dies.
Now the smiles are thicker,
Wonder what they mean? Faith, he's got the Knicker
bocker Magazine !
Stranger on the left
Closing up his peepers,; Now he snores amain,
Like the Seven Sleepers ; At his feet a volume
Gives the explanation, How the man grew stupid
From “ Association !"
Ancient maiden lady
Anxiously remarks, That there must be peril
'Mong so many sparks; Roguish-looking fellow,
Turning to the stranger, Says it's his opinion
She is out of danger !
Woman with her baby,
Sitting vis-à-vis ; Baby keeps a-squalling,
Woman looks at me ; Asks about the distance,
Says it's tiresome talking, Noises of the cars
Are so very shocking!
Of the precious casket, Knowing eggs are eggs,
Tightly holds her basket; Feeling that a smash,
If it came, would surely Send her eggs to pot,
Singing through the forests,
Rattling over ridges ; Shooting under arches,
Rumbling over bridges ; Whizzing through the mountains,
Buzzing o'er the vale, Bless me! this is pleasant, Riding on the rail !
JOHN G. SAXE.
I Met him in the cars,
Where resignedly he sat;
And so was his cravat;
I was very well content
In escaping with my life ; But my mutilated friend
Commenced a legal strife, Being thereunto incited
By his lawyer and his wife.