filled high as possible, share we with one another. This, with shot and bayonets, will be good in your insides and in my inside-in the insides of all of us brethren.

6. Oh, how good it is-oh, how pleasant it is, for brethren to engage in internecine strife! What a glorious spectacle we Christian Anglo-Saxons, engaged in the work of mutual destruction-in the reciprocation of savage outrages-shall present to the despots and the fiends!

7. How many dollars will you spend? How many pounds sterling shall we? How much capital we shall sink on either side-on land as well as in the sea! How much we shall have to show for it in corpses and wooden legs !-never ask what other return we may expect for the investment.

8. So, then, American kinsmen, let us fight; let us murder and ruin each other. Let demagogues come hot from their conclave of evil spirits, "cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war," and do you be mad enough to be those mad dogs, and permit yourselves to be hounded upon us by them.

PUNCH

89. THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY."

A LOGICAL POEM.

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

[AVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,

HA

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?

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 crɔwn.

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,

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 couldn' 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

T' make that place uz strong uz tne rest.”

5. 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 ;
6. 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 where the tanner died.
That was the way he "put her through."
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dewm

1. Do! I tell you, I rather guess

She was a wonder, and nothing less!
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!

8. 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 came Fifty-and Fifty-five.

9. 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.)

10. 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 whipple-tree 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!

11. 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 !

12. The parson was working his Sunday 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 spillAnd the parson was sitting upon a rock,

At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock-
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!

13. 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.

HOLMES

100. LAST DAYS OF PETER STUYVESANT.

IN process of time, the old Governor, like all other children

of mortality, began to exhibit tokens of decay. Like an aged oak, which, though it has long braved the fury of the elements, and still retains its gigantic proportions, yet begins to shake and groan with every blast-so was it with the gallant Peter; for though he still bore the port and semblance of what he was in the days of his hardihood and chivalry, yet did age and infirmity begin to sap the vigor of his frame-but his heart, that most unconquerable citadel, still triumphed unsubdued.

2. With matchless avidity would he listen to every article of intelligence concerning the battles between the English and Dutch still would his pulse beat high whenever he heard of the victories of De Ruyter-and his countenance lower, and his eyebrows knit, when fortune turned in favor of the English. At length, as on a certain day he had just smoked his fifth pipe, and was napping after dinner in his arm-chair, conquer ing the whole British nation in his dreams, he was suddenly aroused by a fearful ringing of bells, rattling of drums, and roaring of cannon, that put all his blood in a ferment.