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 could n'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 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.

66

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.

ESTIVATION.

AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, BY MY LATE LATIN TUTOR.

IN candent ire the solar splendor flames;
The foles, languescent, pend from arid

rames;

His humid front the cive, anheling, wipes, And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes.

How dulce to vive occult to mortal eyes, Dorm on the herb with none to supervise, Carp the suave berries from the crescent vine, And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine!

To me, alas! no verdurous visions come,
Save yon exiguous pool's conferva-scum, -
No concave vast repeats the tender hue
That laves my milk-jug with celestial blue!

Me wretched! Let me curr to quercine shades!
Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids!
O, might I vole to some umbrageous clump, —
Depart, be off, - excede, -evade, — erump!

CONTENTMENT.

"Man wants but little here below."

ITTLE I ask; my wants are few;
I only wish a hut of stone,
(A very plain brown stone will do,)
That I may call my own;·
And close at hand is such a one,
In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me;
Three courses are as good as ten; -
If Nature can subsist on three,

Thank Heaven for three. Amen!
I always thought cold victual nice; —
My choice would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land ; -
Give me a mortgage here and there, -
Some good bank-stock,

some note of hand, Or trifling railroad share,

I only ask that Fortune send
A little more than I shall spend.

Honors are silly toys, I know,
And titles are but empty names;
I would, perhaps, be Plenipo,

But only near St. James; I'm very sure I should not care To fill our Gubernator's chair.

Jewels are bawbles; 't is a sin

To care for such unfruitful things; One good-sized diamond in a pin, Some, not so large, in rings,

A ruby, and a pearl, or so,

Will do for me;

-I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire;
(Good, heavy silks are never dear ;) —
I own perhaps I might desire

Some shawls of true Cashmere, -
Some marrowy crapes of China silk,
Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

I would not have the horse I drive

So fast that folks must stop and stare; An easy gait two, forty-five

Suits me; I do not care;

Perhaps, for just a single spurt,

Some seconds less would do no hurt.

Of pictures, I should like to own
Titians and Raphaels three or four,
I love so much their style and tone,
One Turner, and no more,

(A landscape, — foreground golden dirt, –
The sunshine painted with a squirt.)

Of books but few, -some fifty score
For daily use, and bound for wear;
The rest upon an upper floor;
Some little luxury there

Of red morocco's gilded gleam,
And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems, such things as these, Which others often show for pride,

I value for their power to please,

And selfish churls deride;

One Stradivarius, I confess,

Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess.

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn,
Nor ape the glittering upstart fool; ·
Shall not carved tables serve my turn,
But all must be of buhl?

Give grasping pomp its double share,
I ask but one recumbent chair.

Thus humble let me live and die,
Nor long for Midas' golden touch;
If Heaven more generous gifts deny,
I shall not miss them much,-
Too grateful for the blessing lent
Of simple tastes and mind content!