_Nut_ to be continooed, HOSEA BIGLOW. I don't much s'pose, hows'ever I should plen it, I could git boosted into th' House or Sennit,-- Nut while the twolegged gab-machine 's so plenty, 'Nablin' one man to du the talk o' twenty; I 'm one o' them thet finds it ruther hard To mannyfactur' wisdom by the yard, An' maysure off, acordin' to demand, The piece-goods el'kence that I keep on hand, The same ole pattern runnin' thru an' thru, An' nothin' but the customer thet 's new. I sometimes think, the furder on I go, Thet it gits harder to feel sure I know, An' when I 've settled my idees, I find 'T war n't I sheered most in makin' up my mind; 'T wuz this an' thet an' t' other thing thet done it, Sunthin' in th' air, I could n' seek nor shun it. Mos' folks go off so quick now in discussion, All th' ole flint locks seems altered to percussion, Whilst I in agin' sometimes git a hint Thet I 'm percussion changin' back to flint; Wal, ef it's so, I ain't agoin' to werrit, For th' ole Oueen's-arm hez this pertickler merit,-- It gives the mind a hahnsome wedth o' margin To kin' o' make its will afore dischargin': I can't make out but jest one ginnle rule,-- No man need go an' _make_ himself a fool, Nor jedgment ain't like mutton, thet can't bear Cookin' tu long, nor be took up tu rare. Ez I wuz say'n', I ha'n't no chance to speak So 's 't all the country dreads me onct a week, But I 've consid'ble o' thet sort o' head Thet sets to home an' thinks wut _might_ be said, The sense thet grows an' werrits underneath, Comin' belated like your wisdom-teeth, An' git so el'kent, sometimes, to my gardin Thet I don' vally public life a fardin'. Our Parson Wilbur (blessin's on his head!) 'Mongst other stories of ole times he hed, Talked of a feller thet rehearsed his spreads Beforehan' to his rows o' kebbige-heads, (Ef 'twarn't Demossenes, I guess 'twuz Sisro,) Appealin' fust to thet an' then to this row, Accordin' ez he thought thet his idees Their diff'runt ev'riges o' brains 'ould please; "An'," sez the Parson, "to hit right, you must Git used to maysurin' your hearers fust; For, take my word for 't when all 's come an' past, The kebbige-heads 'll cair the day et last; Th' ain't ben a meetin' sense the worl' begun But they made (raw or biled ones) ten to one."