nent to weaken his grog or punch." The answer proves to have no relation whatever to the temperance-movement, as no better reason is given than that island- (or, as it is absurdly written, ile and) water won't mix. But when I came to the next question and its answer, I felt that patience ceased to be a Why an onion is like a piano" is a query that a person of sensibility would be slow to propose; but that in an educated community an individual could be found to answer it in these words,"Because it smell odious," quasi, it's melodious,-is not credible, but too true. I can show you the paper. virtue. Dear reader, I beg your pardon for repeating such things. I know most conversations reported in books are altogether above such trivial details, but folly will come up at every table as surely as purslain and chickweed and sorrel will come up in gardens. This young fellow ought to have talked philosophy, I know perfectly well; but he didn't,—he made jokes.] I am willing, I said, to exercise your ingenuity in a rational and contemplative manner.-No, I do not proscribe certain forms of philosophical speculation which involve an approach to the absurd or the ludicrous, such as you may find, for example, in the folio of the Reverend Father Thomas Sanchez, in his famous Disputations, "De Sancto Matrimonio." I will therefore turn this levity of yours to profit by reading you a rhymed problem, wrought out by my friend the Professor. THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE: OR THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS-SHAY." A LOGICAL STORY. HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-how-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, Bearing the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits,—— Have you ever heard of that, I say? Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, It should be so built that it couldn' break daowu. Is only jest T make that place uz strong uz the rest." So the Deacon inquired of the village folk The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees; · Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; That was the way he "put her through.”— Do I tel you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less! |