Eventually Stray said, why not take a simple nursery rhyme and work upon it, just as musicians take some simple melody as the theme of their great compositions?
It was a good idea, and after some consideration--for we had most of us forgotten our nursery rhymes--we fixed upon the tragical history of "Jack and Jill;" and decided to deal with it.
The understanding was that we might treat it any way we liked except-- notable exception--in prose! And so we went off to our studies and gave ourselves up to our inspirations.

The result, the reader shall judge of for himself.

Only he shall never know the real names of the poets; nor will anything induce me to disclose which particular production was the performance of the humble Author of this veritable narrative.
I will select the specimens haphazard, and distinguish them only by their numbers.
Number 1 was a follower of the classic models, and rendered the story in Homeric fashion.
Attend, ye Nine! and aid me, while I sing The cruel fate of two whom heaven's dread king Hurled headlong to their doom.

Scarce had the sun His blazing course for one brief hour run When Jack arose and radiant climbed the mount To where beneath the summit sprang the fount.
Nor went he single; Jill, the beauteous maid, Danced at his side, and took his proffered aid.
Together went they, pail in hand, and sang Their love songs till the leafy valleys rang.
Alas! the fount scarce reached, the heedless swain Turned on his foot and slipped and turned again.
Then fell he headlong: and the woe-struck maid, Jealous of his fell doom, a moment stayed And watched him; then to the depths she rushed And shared his fate.

Behold them, mangled, crushed.
Weep, oh my muse! for Jack, for Jill your tears outpour, For hand-in-hand they'll climb the hill no more.
After this somewhat severe version of the story it is a relief to turn to the lighter rendering of the same affecting theme by Number 2.
Number 2 was evidently an admirer of that species of poetry which begins everything at the wrong end, and seems to expect the reader to assist the poet in understanding what it is the latter is driving at.
What's the matter, Jack?
Lost your head, poor wight! I always told you the block wasn't screwed on too tight.
Tumbled?
Is that it?
It's a mercy you lit on your head.
Nothing brittle in that;--if you'd come on your feet instead-- Broke it?
No, never! You have?
I knew it was slightly cracked: Never mind that there was nought to come out--that's a comforting fact! What! two of you?
Who is the other?
Not Jill, I declare! Is her head cracked too?
On my word, you're a pair.
Have I seen a pail lying about?
Why, no, I have not.
Pails don't grow wild on this hill--that is, that I wot.
Oh, you dropped it, you did?
Oh, I see, 'twas your pail, And it tumbled you both o'er the rock?
That's your tale.
It may turn up somewhere, perhaps.