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 was n'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 whipple-tree 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! 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. PARSON TURELL'S LEGACY OR, THE PRESIDENT'S OLD ARM-CHAIR A MATHEMATICAL STORY FACTS respecting an old arm-chair. At Cambridge. Is kept in the College there. Seems but little the worse for wear. That 's remarkable when I say It was old in President Holyoke's day. (One of his boys, perhaps you know, Died, _at one hundred_, years ago.) He took lodgings for rain or shine Under green bed-clothes in '69. Know old Cambridge? Hope you do.-- Born there? Don't say so! I was, too. (Born in a house with a gambrel-roof,-- Standing still, if you must have proof.-- "Gambrel?--Gambrel?"--Let me beg You'll look at a horse's hinder leg,-- First great angle above the hoof,-- That 's the gambrel; hence gambrel-roof.) Nicest place that ever was seen,-- Colleges red and Common green, Sidewalks brownish with trees between. Sweetest spot beneath the skies When the canker-worms don't rise,-- When the dust, that sometimes flies Into your mouth and ears and eyes, In a quiet slumber lies, _Not_ in the shape of umbaked pies Such as barefoot children prize. A kind of harbor it seems to be, Facing the flow of a boundless sea. Rows of gray old Tutors stand Ranged like rocks above the sand; Rolling beneath them, soft and green, Breaks the tide of bright sixteen,-- One wave, two waves, three waves, four,-- Sliding up the sparkling floor.