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 whipple-tree neither less nor more, And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, And the 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. THE PURPLE COW BY GELETT BURGESS _Reflections on a Mythic Beast, Who's Quite Remarkable, at Least._ I never Saw a Purple Cow; I never Hope to See One; But I can Tell you, Anyhow, I'd rather See than Be One. _Cinq Ans Apres._ (_Confession: and a Portrait, Too, Upon a Background that I Rue!_) Ah, yes! I wrote the "Purple Cow"-- I'm Sorry, now, I Wrote it! But I can Tell you, Anyhow, I'll Kill you if you Quote it! THE CURSE OF THE COMPETENT BY HENRY J. FINN My spirit hath been seared, as though the lightning's scathe had rent, In the swiftness of its wrath, through the midnight firmament, The darkly deepening clouds; and the shadows dim and murky Of destiny are on me, for my dinner's naught but--_turkey_. The chords upon my silent lute no soft vibrations know, Save where the meanings of despair--out-breathings of my woe-- Tell of the cold and selfish world. In melancholy mood, The soul of genius chills with only--_fourteen cords of wood_.