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

Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away, 15
Children and grandchildren--where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay,
As fresh as on Lisbon-Earthquake day!

_Eighteen hundred_--it came and found
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. 20
Eighteen hundred increased by ten--
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came--
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and Forty at last arrive, 25
And then come Fifty--and _Fifty-five_.

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-- 5
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 10
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, 15
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! 20
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. 25

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 t