Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,

But how or why, they don't understand.

XV

So, Willy, let me and you be wipers

Of scores out with all men-especially pipers!

And, whether they pipe us free fróm rats or fróm mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!

37

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE

ROBERT SOUTHEY

A well there is in the West country,

And a clearer one never was seen;
There is not a wife in the West country
But has heard of the well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm tree stand beside,
And behind does an ash-tree grow,
And a willow from the bank above
Droops to the water below.

A traveler came to the well of St. Keyne;
Pleasant it was to his eye,

For from cock-crow he had been traveling,
And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,
For thirsty and hot was he,
And he sat down upon the bank,
Under the willow tree.

There came a man from the neighboring town

At the well to fill his pail, On the well-side he rested it,

And bade the stranger hail.

"Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he, "For an if thou hast a wife,

The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life.

"Or has your good woman, if one you have,
In Cornwall ever been?

For an if she have, I'll venture my life
She has drank of the well of St. Keyne."

"I have left a good woman who never was here," The stranger he made reply;

"But that my draught should be better for that, I pray you answer me why."

"St. Keyne," quoth the countryman, "many a time Drank of this crystal well,

And before the angel summoned her

She laid on the water a spell.

"If the husband of this gifted well
Shall drink before his wife,

A happy man thenceforth is he,
For he shall be master for life.

"But if the wife should drink of it first, Heaven help the husband then!"

The stranger stooped to the well of St. Keyne, And drank of the waters again.

"You drank of the well I warrant, betimes?"

He to the countryman said.

But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake,
And sheepishly shook his head.

"I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done,
And left my wife in the porch.

But i' faith, she had been wiser than me,
For she took a bottle to church."

38

THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE

OR, THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY"

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

A LOGICAL STORY

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss 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,
Scaring the parson into fits,

Frightening people out of their wits,-
Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five,

Georgius Secundus was then alive,-
Snuffy old drone 1 from the German hive;
That was the year when Lisbon-town

Saw the earth open and gulp her down,

1. Snuffy old drone from the German hive. George II, King of England, belonged to the House of Hanover, Germany.

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.

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, within or without,-
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
That a chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.

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't 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 jist

T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn'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 couldn'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;
Throughbrace 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.”—
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"

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!

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.

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.)