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,
  Children and grand-children—­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. 
  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,
  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.—­
  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
  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,
  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! 
  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.

  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 the meet’n’-house on the hill. 
  —­First a shiver, and then a thrill,
  Then something decidedly like a spill,—­
  And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
  At half-past nine by the meet’n’-house-clock,—­
  Just the hour of the Earthquake-shock! 
  —­What do you think the parson found,
  When he got up and stared around? 
  The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
  As if it had been to the mill and ground! 
  You see, of course, if you’re not a dunce,
  How it went to pieces all at once,—­
  All at once, and nothing first,—­
  Just as bubbles do when they burst.

  End of the wonderful one-hoss-shay. 
  Logic is logic.  That’s all I say.