It was with an anxious feeling that Mrs. Partington, having smoked her specs, directed her gaze toward the western sky, in quest of the tailless comet of 1850.

"I can't see it," said she; and a shade of vexation was perceptible in the tone of her voice. "I don't think much of this explanatory system,"

continued she, "that they praise so, where the stars are mixed up so that _I_ can't tell Jew Peter from Satan, nor the consternation of the Great Bear from the man in the moon. 'Tis all dark to me. I don't believe there is any comet at all. Who ever heard of a comet without a tail, I should like to know? It isn't natural; but the printers will make a tale for it fast enough, for they are always getting up comical stories."

With a complaint about the falling dew, and a slight murmur of disappointment, the dame disappeared behind a deal door like the moon behind a cloud.

GOING TO CALIFORNIA

"Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Partington sorrowfully, "how much a man will bear, and how far he will go, to get the soddered dross, as Parson Martin called it when he refused the beggar a sixpence for fear it might lead him into extravagance! Everybody is going to California and Chagrin arter gold. Cousin Jones and the three Smiths have gone; and Mr. Chip, the carpenter, has left his wife and seven children and a blessed old mother-in-law, to seek his fortin, too. This is the strangest yet, and I don't see how he could have done it; it looks so ongrateful to treat Heaven's blessings so lightly. But there, we are told that the love of money is the root of all evil, and how true it is! for they are now rooting arter it, like pigs arter ground-nuts. Why, it is a perfect money mania among everybody!"

And she shook her head doubtingly, as she pensively watched a small mug of cider, with an apple in it, simmering by the winter fire. She was somewhat fond of a drink made in this way.

MRS. PARTINGTON IN COURT

"I took my knitting-work and went up into the gallery," said Mrs.

Partington, the day after visiting one of the city courts; "I went up into the gallery, and after I had adjusted my specs, I looked down into the room, but I couldn't see any courting going on. An old gentleman seemed to be asking a good many impertinent questions--just like some old folks--and people were sitting around making minutes of the conversation. I don't see how they made out what was said, for they all told different stories. How much easier it would be to get along if they were all made to tell the same story! What a sight of trouble it would save the lawyers! The case, as they call it, was given to the jury, but I couldn't see it, and a gentleman with a long pole was made to swear that he'd keep an eye on 'em, and see that they didn't run away with it.

Bimeby in they came again, and they said somebody was guilty of something, who had just said he was innocent, and didn't know nothing about it no more than the little baby that had never subsistence. I come away soon afterward; but I couldn't help thinking how trying it must be to sit there all day, shut out from the blessed air!"

Apropos of Superintendent Andrews's reported objection to the singing of the "Recessional" in the Chicago public schools on the ground that the atheists might be offended, the _Chicago Post_ says:

For the benefit of our skittish friends, the atheists, and in order not to deprive the public-school children of the literary beauties of certain poems that may be cla.s.sed by Doctor Andrews as "hymns," we venture to suggest this compromise, taking a few lines in ill.u.s.tration from our National anthem:

"Our fathers' G.o.d--a.s.suming purely for the sake of argument that there is a G.o.d--to Thee, Author of liberty--with apologies to our friends, the atheists--

To Thee I sing--but we needn't mean it, you know.

Long may our land be bright,

With freedom's holy light;

Protect us by Thy might--remember, this is purely hypothetical----

Great G.o.d--again a.s.suming that there is a G.o.d--our king--simply an allegorical phrase and not intended offensively to any taxpayer."

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; Or, the Wonderful "One-hoss Shay"

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 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, 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'_ 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."

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 arrived, 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 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 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.