The Deacon's Masterpiece, or The One-Hoss Shay — selected stanzas

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, 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? Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always somewhere a weakest spot, — In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, — lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will, — Above or below, or within or without, — And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out. Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren — where were they? But there stood the stout old one-hoss-shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day! 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. 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. 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! 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.