He took the draught?" John gave a nod.

With charwomen such early hours agree,

"Why, then," says John,

we shook him once."

"Now blessings light on him that first invented sleep! it covers a man all over, thoughts and all, like a cloak; it is meat for the hungry, drink for the thirsty, heat for the cold, and cold for the hot." DON QUIXOTE. Part II. ch. 67.

"GOD bless the man who first invented sleep!" So Sancho Panza said, and so say I;

And bless him, also, that he did n't keep
His great discovery to himself, nor try
To make it as the lucky fellow might-
A close monopoly by patent-right !

Yes,

--

bless the man who first invented sleep, (I really can't avoid the iteration ;) But blast the man with curses loud and deep, Whate'er the rascal's name or age or station, Who first invented, and went round advising, That artificial cut-off, - Early Rising!

"Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed,"
Observes some solemn, sentimental owl;
Maxims like these are very cheaply said;
But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl,
Pray just inquire about his rise and fall,
And whether larks have any beds at all!

"The time for honest folks to be abed

Is in the morning, if I reason right; And he who cannot keep his precious head Upon his pillow till it 's fairly light, And so enjoy his forty morning winks, Is up to knavery, or else he drinks! Thomson, who sung about the "Seasons," said It was a glorious thing to rise in season ; But then he said it lying-in his bed,

At ten o'clock A. M., the very reason
He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is,
His preaching was n't sanctioned by his practice.

"T is, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake,
Awake to duty, and awake to truth,
But when, alas! a nice review we take

Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth, The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep Are those we passed in childhood or asleep!

"T is beautiful to leave the world awhile

For the soft visions of the gentle night:
And free, at last, from mortal care or guile,
To live as only in the angels' sight,
In sleep's sweet realm so coseyly shut in,
Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin!

THE ONE-HOSS SHAY;

OR THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE.

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,

his fears, "Tush! 't is some fool has rung and run away"; When peal the second rattled in his ears.

Shove jumped into the middle of the floor;
And, trembling at each breath of air that stirred,
He groped down stairs, and opened the street

door,

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 could n' 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 could n't be split nor bent nor broke, -
That was for spokes and floor and sills;

The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees; The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these;

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,

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.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

RAILROAD RHYME.

SINGING through the forests,

Rattling over ridges; Shooting under arches,

Rumbling over bridges; Whizzing through the mountains, Buzzing o'er the vale,

Bless me! this is pleasant,
Riding on the rail !

Men of different "stations"
In the eye of fame,
Here are very quickly
Coming to the same;
High and lowly people,

Birds of every feather,
On a common level,

Travelling together.

Gentleman in shorts,
Looming very tall;
Gentleman at large,

Talking very small;
Gentleman in tights,

With a loose-ish mien ; Gentleman in gray,

Looking rather green;

Gentleman quite old,
Asking for the news;
Gentleman in black,
In a fit of blues;
Gentleman in claret,
Sober as a vicar;
Gentleman in tweed,
Dreadfully in liquor!

Stranger on the right

Looking very sunny, Obviously reading

Something rather funny.