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 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!

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.
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 meetin'-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 meetin'-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.

Beautiful! Sir, you may say so. Thar is n't her match in the

county,

Is thar, old gal? Chiquita, my darling, my beauty!

Feel of that neck, sir,- thar's velvet! Whoa! Steady- ah,

will you? you vixen!

Whoa! I say. Jack, trot her out; let the gentleman look at her paces.

Morgan! She ain't nothin' else, and I've got the papers to prove it.

Sired by Chippewa Chief, and twelve hundred dollars won't buy

her.

Briggs of Tuolumne owned her. Did you know Briggs of Tuolumne?

Busted hisself in White Pine, and blew out his brains down in 'Frisco?

Hed n't no savey,-hed Briggs. Thar, Jack! that 'll do,- quit that foolin'!

Nothin' to what she kin do when she's got her work cut out before her,

Hosses is hosses, you know, and likewise, too, jockeys is jockeys; And 't ain't every man as can ride as knows what a hoss has got in him.

Know the old ford on the Fork, that nearly got Flanigan's leaders? Nasty in daylight, you bet, and a mighty rough ford in low water! Well, it ain't six weeks ago that me and the Jedge, and his nevey, Struck for that ford in the night, in the rain, and the water all round us;

Up to our flanks in the gulch, and Rattlesnake Creek just a bilin', Not a plank left in the dam, and nary a bridge on the river.

I had the gray, and the Jedge had his roan, and his nevey, Chiquita; And after us trundled the rocks jest loosed from the top of the cañon.

Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to the ford, and Chiquita

Buckled right down to her work, and afore I could yell to her

rider,

Took water jest at the ford, and there was the Jedge and me standing,

And twelve hundred dollars of hoss-flesh afloat, and a driftin' to thunder!

Would ye b'lieve it, that night, that hoss, that ar' filly,Chiquita,

Walked herself into her stall, and stood there all quiet and dripping!

Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary a buckle of harness,

Just as she swam the Fork,- that hoss, that ar' filly, Chiquita.

That's what I call a hoss! and what did you say?-O, the

nevey?

Drownded, I reckon,- leastways, he never kem back to deny it. Ye see the derned fool had no seat,-ye could n't have made him a rider:

And then, ye know, boys will be boys, and hosses—well, hosses

is hosses!

Bret Harte.

THE BIRTH OF IRELAND

"With due condescension, I'd call your attention to what I shall mention of Erin so green,

And, without hesitation, I'll show how that nation became, of creation, the gem and the queen.

"'T was early one morning, without any warning, that Vanus was born in the beautiful Say;

And, by the same token, and sure 't was provoking, her pinions were soaking, and would n't give play.

"Old Neptune, who knew her, began to pursue her, in order to woo her the wicked old Jew

And almost had caught her atop of the water-great Jupiter's daughter! — which never would do.

"But Jove, the great janius, looked down and saw Vanus and Neptune so heinous pursuing her wild,

And he spoke out in thunder he'd rend him asunder — and sure 't was no wonder for tazing his child.

"A star that was flying hard by him espying, he caught with small trying and down let it snap;

It fell quick as winking on Neptune a-sinking, and gave him, I'm thinking, a bit of a rap.

"That star it was dryland, both lowland and highland, and formed a sweet island, the land of my birth:

Thus plain is the story that, sent down from glory, old Erin asthore is the gem of the earth!"

- Anonymous.

LADY TEAZLE AND SIR PETER

(Scenes from "School for Scandal")

ACT II. SCENE 1.

Sir P. Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I'll not bear it!

Lady T. Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear it or not, as you please; but I ought to have my own way in everything; and,

what's more, I will, too. What though I was educated in the country, I know very well that women of fashion in London are accountable to nobody after they are married.

Sir P. Very well, ma'am, very well; so a husband is to have no influence, no authority?

Lady T. Authority! No, to be sure; if you wanted authority over me, you should have adopted me, and not married me; I am sure you were old enough.

Sir P. Old enough! ay, there it is! Well, well, Lady Teazle, though my life may be made unhappy by your temper, I'll not be ruined by your extravagance.

Lady T. My extravagance! I'm sure I'm not more extravagant than a woman ought to be.

Sir P. No, no, madam, you shall throw away no more sums on such unmeaning luxury. 'Slife! to spend as much to furnish your dressing-room with flowers in winter as would suffice to turn the Pantheon into a greenhouse, and give a fête champêtre at Christmas!

Lady T. Sir Peter, am I to blame because flowers are dear in cold weather? You should find fault with the climate, and not with me. For my part, I'm sure, I wish it was spring all the year round, and that roses grew under our feet!

Sir P. Zounds, madam! if you had been born to this, I should n't wonder at your talking thus; but you forget what your situation was when I married you.

Lady T. No, no, I do n't; 't was a very disagreeable one, or I should never have married you.

Sir P. Yes, yes, madam, you were then in somewhat a humbler style, the daughter of a plain country Squire. Recollect, Lady Teazle, when I first saw you sitting at your tambour, in a pretty, figured linen gown, with a bunch of keys at your side; your hair combed smooth over a roll, and your apartment hung round with fruits in worsted, of your own working.

Lady T. O, yes! I remember it very well, and a curious life I led. My daily occupation to inspect the dairy, superintend the poultry, make extracts from the family receipt-book,- and comb my Aunt Deborah's lap-dog.

Sir P. Yes, yes, ma'am, 't was so, indeed!

Lady T. And then, you know, my evening amusements: To draw patterns for ruffles, which I had not materials to make up;