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.

THE PURPLE COW

BY GELETT BURGESS

_Reflections on a Mythic Beast,
Who's Quite Remarkable, at Least._

I never Saw a Purple Cow;
I never Hope to See One;
But I can Tell you, Anyhow,
I'd rather See than Be One.

_Cinq Ans Apres._

(_Confession: and a Portrait, Too,
Upon a Background that I Rue!_)

Ah, yes! I wrote the "Purple Cow"--
I'm Sorry, now, I Wrote it!
But I can Tell you, Anyhow,
I'll Kill you if you Quote it!

THE CURSE OF THE COMPETENT

BY HENRY J. FINN

My spirit hath been seared, as though the lightning's scathe had rent,
In the swiftness of its wrath, through the midnight firmament,
The darkly deepening clouds; and the shadows dim and murky
Of destiny are on me, for my dinner's naught but--_turkey_.

The chords upon my silent lute no soft vibrations know,
Save where the meanings of despair--out-breathings of my woe--
Tell of the cold and selfish world. In melancholy mood,
The soul of genius chills with only--_fourteen cords of wood_.

The dreams of the deserted float around my curtained hours,
And young imaginings are as the thorns bereft of flowers;
A wretched outcast from mankind, my strength of heart has sank
Beneath the evils of--_ten thousand dollars in the bank_.

This life to me a desert is, and kindness, as the stream
That singly drops upon the waste where burning breezes teem;
A banished, blasted plant,