I stand alone upon the peaceful summit of this hill, and turn in every direction. The east is all a-glow; the blue north flushes all her hills with radiance; the west stands in burnished armor; the southern hills buckle the zone of the horizon together with emeralds and rubies, such as were never set in the fabled girdle of the gods! Of gazing there cannot be enough. The hunger of the eye grows by feeding.

Only the brotherhood of evergreens-the pine, the cedar, in the spruce, and the hemlockrefuse to join this universal

revel. They wear their sober green through autumn and winter, as if they were set to keep open the path of summer through the whole year, and girdle all seasons together with a clasp of endless green. But in vain do they 15 give solemn examples to the merry leaves which frolie with

every breeze that runs sweet riot in the glowing shades. Gay leaves will not be counselled, but will die bright and laughing. But both together-the transfigured leaves of deciduous trees and the calm unchangeableness of ever20 greens-how more beautiful are they than either alone! The solemn pine brings color to the cheek of the beeches, and the scarlet and golden maples rest gracefully upon the dark foliage of the million-fingered pine.

Lifted far above all harm of fowler or impediment of 25 mountain, wild fowl are steadily flying southward. The simple sight of them fills the imagination with pictures. They have all summer long called to each other from the reedy fens and wild oat-fields of the far north. Summer is already extinguished there. Winter is following their 30 track, and marching steadily toward us. The spent flowers, the seared leaves, the thinning tree-tops, the morning frost, have borne witness of a change on earth; and these caravans of the upper air confirm the tidings. Summer is gone; winter is coming!

35

The wind has risen to-day. It is not one of those gusty, playful winds, that frolic with the trees. It is a wind

high up in air, that moves steadily, with a solemn sound, as if it were the spirit of summer journeying past us; and, impatient of delay, it does not stoop to the earth, but touches the tops of the trees, with a murmuring sound, 5 sighing a sad farewell, and passing on.

Such days fill one with pleasant sadness. How sweet a pleasure is there in sadness! It is not sorrow; it is not

despondency; it is not gloom!

It is one of the moods of

joy. At any rate I am very happy, and yet it is sober, 10 and very sad happiness. It is the shadow of joy upon the soul! I can reason about these changes. I can cover over the dying leaves with imaginations as bright as their own hues; and, by Christian faith, transfigure the whole scene with a blessed vision of joyous dying and glorious 15 resurrection. But what then? Such thoughts glow like

evening clouds, and not far beneath them are the evening twilights, into whose dusk they will soon melt away. And all communions, and all admirations, and all associations, celestial or terrene, come alike into a pensive sadness, that 20 is even sweeter than our joy. It is the minor key of the thoughts.

XXIII. THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; OR THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HORSE SHAY."

A LOGICAL STORY.

HOLMES.

[OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, M. D., was born in Cambridge, Massacht setts, August 29, 1809, was graduated at Harvard College in 1829, and con menced the practice of medicine in Boston in 1836. He has been for many years one of the professors in the medical department of Harvard College, and he is understood to be highly skilful both in the theory and practice of his profession. He began to write poetry at quite an early age. His longest productions are occasional poems which have been recited before literary societies, and received with very great favor. His style is brilliant, sparkling, and terse; and many of his heroic stanzas remind us of the point and condensation of Pope. In his shorter poems, he is sometimes grave, and sometimes gay. When in the former mood, he charms us by his truth and manliness of feeling, and his sweetness of sentiment; when in the latter, he delights us with the

glance and play of the wildest wit and the richest humor. Everything that he writes is carefully finished, and rests on a basis of sound sense and shrewd observation. Dr. Holmes also enjoys high reputation and wide popularity as a prose writer. He is the author of "The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, "The Professor at the Breakfast Table," and "Elsie Venner," works of fiction which originally appeared in the "Atlantic Monthly Magazine," and of various occasional discourses.

This poem is illustrative of New England character, and the words italicized are spelt in such a way as to indicate certain peculiarities of pronunciation sometimes heard among the uneducated, in New England.]

1

HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way

It run 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?

2 Seventeen hundred and fifty-five:
Georgius Secundus was then alive,
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown,

It was on the terrible Earthquake-day,
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

3 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 does n't wear out.

4 But the Deacon swore, (as deacons do,

5

With an

66

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
That the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'n' the way t'fix it, uz, I maintain,

Is only jest

7" 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 white-wood, 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 flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace, bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.

That was the way he "put her through.'

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"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"

6 Do! I tell you, I rather guess

She was a wonder, and nothing less!

But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!

7 Eighteen hundred;

- it came and found

The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten;
"Hahnsum kerridge," they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came;-
Running as usual; much the same.
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 the spring and axle and hub encore.