Yet could I not surrender him wholly to the tutelage of the pagan (which, literally interpreted, signifies village) muse without yet a further effort for his conversion, and to this end I resolved that whatever of poetic fire yet burned in myself, aided by the assiduous bellows of correct models, should be put in requisition. Accordingly, when my ingenious young parishioner brought to my study a copy of verses which he had written touching the acquisition of territory resulting from the Mexican war, and the folly of leaving the question of slavery or freedom to the adjudication of chance, I did myself indite a short fable or apologue after the manner of Gay and Prior, to the end that he might see how easily even such subjects as he treated of were capable of a more refined style and more elegant expression. Mr. Biglow's production was as follows:-- THE TWO GUNNERS. A FABLE. Two fellers, Isrel named and Joe, One Sundy mornin' 'greed to go Agunnin' soon's the bells wuz done And meetin' finally begun, So 'st no one wouldn't be about Ther Sabbath-breakin' to spy out. Joe didn't want to go a mite; He felt ez though 't warnt skeercely right, But, when his doubts he went to speak on, Isrel he up and called him Deacon, An' kep' apokin' fun like sin An' then arubbin' on it in, Till Joe, less skeered o' doin' wrong Than bein' laughed at, went along. Past noontime they went trampin' round An' nary thing to pop at found, Till, fairly tired o' their spree, They leaned their guns agin a tree, An' jest ez they wuz settin' down To take their noonin', Joe looked roun' And see (across lots in a pond That warn't more 'n twenty rod beyond,) A goose that on the water sot Ez ef awaitin' to be shot. Isrel he ups and grabs his gun; Sez he, "By ginger, here's some fun!" "Don't fire," sez Joe, "it aint no use, Thet's Deacon Peleg's tame wild-goose;" Sez Isrel, "I don't care a cent, I've sighted an' I'll let her went;" _Bang!_ went queen's-arm, ole gander flopped His wings a spell, an' quorked, an' dropped. Sez Joe, "I wouldn't ha' been hired At that poor critter to ha' fired, But, sence it's clean gin up the ghost, We'll hev the tallest kind o' roast; I guess our waistbands 'll be tight 'Fore it comes ten o'clock ternight." "I won't agree to no such bender," Sez Isrel, "keep it tell it's tender; 'T aint wuth a snap afore it's ripe." Sez Joe, "I'd jest ez lives eat tripe; You _air_ a buster ter suppose I'd eat what makes me hol' my nose!" So they disputed to an' fro Till cunnin' Isrel sez to Joe, "Don't less stay here an' play the fool, Less wait till both on us git cool, Jest for a day or two less hide it An' then toss up an' so decide it." "Agreed!" sez Joe, an' so they did, An' the ole goose wuz safely hid.