The awful silence answered, "They are mine!" The dust beneath me answered, "They are mine!"

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 34: From "Outre Mer," by Henry W. Longfellow.]

EXPRESSION: Learn all you can about the Coliseum. When was it built? by whom? For what was it used?

WORD STUDY: _Forum_, _Palatine_, _Via Sacra_, _t.i.tus_, _Domitian_, _Libyan_, _Anatolia_.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE[35]

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 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.

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 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'_ break daown: "Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plain Thut 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 the rest."

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Deacon's Masterpiece.]

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 ax 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."-- "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 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 couldn't be,--for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn'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 spring and axle and hub _encore_.

And yet, as a _whole_, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be _worn out_!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

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 meet'n'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 meet'n'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.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 35: From "The Autocrat or the Breakfast Table," by Oliver Wendell Holmes, a noted American author and physician (1809--1894).]

EXPRESSION: Read the selection silently to appreciate its humor.

Now read it aloud with careful attention to naturalness of expression. Study the historical allusions--"Georgius Secundus,"

"Lisbon town," "Braddock's army," "the Earthquake day," etc.

Read again the pa.s.sages in which dialect expressions occur. Try to speak these pa.s.sages as the author intended them to be spoken.

Select the pa.s.sages which appeal most strongly to your sense of humor. Read them in such manner as to make their humorous quality thoroughly appreciable to those who listen to you.

Now study the selection as a poem, comparing it with several typical poems which you have already studied. Remembering your definition of poetry (page 138), what is the real poetical value of this delightful composition? Is it a true poem? Find some other poems written by Dr. Holmes. Bring them to the cla.s.s and read them aloud.

Talk with your teacher about the life of Dr. Holmes and about his prose and poetical works. As a poet, how does he compare with Longfellow? with Whittier? with Walt Whitman? with Browning?

DOGS AND CATS[36]

Most people agree that the dog has intelligence, a heart, and possibly a soul; on the other hand, they declare that the cat is a traitor, a deceiver, an ingrate, a thief. How many persons have I heard say: "Oh, I can't bear a cat! The cat has no love for its master; it cares only for the house. I had one once, for I was living in the country, where there were mice. One day the cook left on the kitchen table a chicken she had just prepared for cooking; in came the cat, and carried it off, and we never saw a morsel of it. Oh, I hate cats; I will never have one."

True, the cat is unpopular. Her reputation is bad, and she makes no effort to improve the general opinion which people have of her. She cares as little about your opinion as does the Sultan of Turkey.

And--must I confess--this is the very reason I love her.

In this world, no one can long be indifferent to things, whether trivial or serious--if, indeed, anything is serious. Hence, every person must, sooner or later, declare himself on the subjects of dogs and cats.

Well, then! I love cats.