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His heart was open as the day,
His feelings all were true;
His hair was some inclined to gray,
He wore it in a queue.

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain,
His breast with pity burned;
The large round head upon his cane
From ivory was turned.

Kind words he ever had for all;

He knew no base design;

His eyes were dark and rather small, His nose was aquiline.

He lived at peace with all mankind,
In friendship he was true;

His coat had pocket-holes behind,
His pantaloons were blue.

-

Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes

He passed securely o'er,

And never wore a pair of boots

For thirty years or more.

But good Old Grimes is now at rest,
Nor fears misfortune's frown;
He wore a double-breasted vest,
The stripes ran up and down.

He modest merit sought to find,
And pay it its desert;

He had no malice in his mind,
No ruffles on his shirt.

His neighbors he did not abuse,
Was sociable and gay;

He wore large buckles on his shoes,
And changed them every day.

His knowledge, hid from public gaze, He did not bring to view,

Nor make a noise, town-meeting days, As many people do.

THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS

I WROTE Some lines once on a time
In wondrous merry mood,
And thought, as usual, men would say
They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer,
I laughed as I would die ;
Albeit, in the general way,
A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came ;
How kind it was of him,

To mind a slender man like me,
He of the mighty limb!

"These to the printer," I exclaimed, And, in my humorous way,

I added (as a trifling jest),

"There'll be the devil to pay."

He took the paper, and I watched,
And saw him peep within ;
At the first line he read, his face
Was all upon the grin.

He read the next; the grin grew broad, And shot from ear to ear;

He read the third; a chuckling noise I now began to hear.

The fourth; he broke into a roar; The fifth his waistband split; The sixth; he burst five buttons off, And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
I watched that wretched man,
And since, I never dare to write
As funny as I can.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES,

UNIV

OF

CH2

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THE ONE-HOSS SHAY;

OR, THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE.

A LOGICAL STORY.

Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thorough brace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide

HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, Found in the pit when the tanner died.

That was built in such a logical way

It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then of a sudden, it—ah, but stay,
I'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits,
Have you ever heard of that. I say?

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But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,") He would build one shay to beat the taown 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; It should be so built that it could n' 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 folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That could n'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 whitewood, 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, they could n't sell 'em,
Never an axe had seen their chips,

And the wedges flev from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;

That was the way he "put her through." "There!" said the Deacon, "naow she 'll dew!"

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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.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

RUDOLPH THE HEADSMAN. RUDOLPH, professor of the headsman's trade, Alike, was famous for his arm and blade. One day a prisoner Justice had to kill Knelt at the block to test the artist's skill. Bare-armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, and shaggy

browed,

Rudolph the headsman rose above the crowd.
His falchion lightened with a sudden gleam,
As the pike's armor flashes in the stream.
He sheathed his blade; he turned as if to go;
The victim knelt, still waiting for the blow.
"Why strikest not? Perform thy murderous

act," The prisoner said. cracked.)

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(His voice was slightly That boy with the grave mathematical look Made believe he had written a wonderful book,

"Friend, I have struck," the artist straight re- And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was true! So they chose him right in,

plied;

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a good joke it was

There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain,

That could harness a team with a logical chain; When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire,

We called him "The Justice," but now he's "The Squire."

And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith,Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith,

HAS there any old fellow got mixed with the But he shouted a song for the brave and the boys?

free,

if there has, take him out, without making a Just read on his medal, "

"My country," "of

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