Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. 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. Now in building of chaises, I tell There is always somewhere a weakest spot, In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thi!l, 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 with out, And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out. But the Deacon swore, (as Deacon's do, With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,") He would build one shay to beat the taown 'n' the keountry 'n' all the kentry raoun'; It should be so built that it couldn' break daown: "Fur," said the Deacon, "t's Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' '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 foik 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 they couldn't Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celerytips; 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 "There!" said the Deacon, ZEKLE crep' up quite unbeknown, Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung Fetched back from Concord busted. The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin'. 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blessed cretur, A dogrose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter. But long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple, The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in Ap'il. She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir; My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, She knowed the Lord was nigher. An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, When her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upon it. Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! She seemed to've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole. She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk "You want to see my Pa, Is'pose?" "Wal... no... I come dasignin' "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." To say why gals act so or so, Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; Mebby to mean yes an' say no Comes nateral to women. He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t'other, An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. Says he, "I'd better call agin;" Says she, "Think likely, Mister;" That last word pricked him like a pin, An'... Wal, he up an' kist her. When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, For she was jes' the quiet kind Snowhid in Jenooary. The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin', Then her red come back like the tide HER LETTER. I'm sitting alone by the fire, In short, sir, "the belle of the sea son Is wasting an hour on you. A dozen engagements I've broken; yet. They say he'll be rich, when he grows up. And then he adores me indeed. "And how do I like my position?" "And what do I think of New York?" "And now, in my higher ambition, With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?" And isn't it nice to have riches, And diamonds and silks, and all that?" "And aren't it a change to the ditches And tunnels of Poverty Flat ?" his trunk, Miss, And insists on his legs being free; And his language to me from his bunk, Miss, Is frequent and painful and free.) He hopes you are wearing no willows, But are happy and gay all the while; That he knows-(which this dodging of pillows Imparts but small ease to the style, And the same you will pardon) – he knows, Miss, That, though parted by many a mile, Yet, were he lying under the snows, Miss, They'd melt into tears at your smile. BRET HARTE. ATHEISM. "THERE is no God," the wicked 66 saith, And truly it's a blessing, For what he might have done with us It's better only guessing." "There is no God," a youngster thinks, "Or really if there may be, He surely didn't mean a man Always to be a baby." |