Parnassus

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
Georgius Secundus was then alive,
Snuffy old drone from the German
hive.

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.
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-
hoss-shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell
you what,

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
mighty plain

Thut the weakes' place mus' stan'
the strain;

'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
ellum,'
Last of its timber,
sell 'em,

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
through."

"There!" said the Deacon,
she'll dew!"

ZEKLE crep' up quite unbeknown,
An' peeked in thru the winder,
An' there sot Huldy all alone,
'Ith no one nigh to hender.

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung
An' in amongst 'em rusted
The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther
Young

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,
A-raspin' on the scraper,
All ways to once her feelin's flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o' the sekle,
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,
But hern went pity Zekle.

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk
Ez though she wished him furder,
An' on her apples kep' to work,
Parin' away like murder.

"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,
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kin' o' smily roun' the lips
An' teary roun' the lashes.

For she was jes' the quiet kind
Whose naturs never vary,
Like streams that keep a summer
mind

Snowhid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued

Too tight for all expressin',
Tell mother see how inetters stood,
And gin 'em both her blessin'.

Then her red come back like the tide
Down to the Bay o' Fundy,
An' all I know is they was cried
In meetin' come nex' Sunday.
LOWELL: Biglow Papers.

HER LETTER.

I'm sitting alone by the fire,
Dressed just as I came from the dance,
In a robe even you would admire,
It cost a cool thousand in France;
I'm bediamonded out of all reason,
My hair is done up in a cue:

In short, sir, "the belle of the sea

son

Is wasting an hour on you.

A dozen engagements I've broken;
I left in the midst of a set;
Likewise a proposal, half spoken,
That waits- on the stairs- for me

yet. They say he'll be rich, when he

grows up.

And then he adores me indeed.
And you,sir,are turning your nose up,
Three thousand miles off, as you read.

"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 ?"