ess by main strength, nor by force of will, has learned that
when other resources fail she has only to stoop to conquer: that her
weakness is her strength, her tears her weapons, and her baby her
shield. So when the Poet's politic little wife found there was no money
forthcoming, and consequently no dinner, she advised him to go hunting
for birds, as it was very necessary for growing children to have the
little bones to pick; not that she cared for a pie made from birds
herself, but it was really necessary for the child just at this age.

Off sets the duped husband in a spirit of self-sacrifice, determined
that no negligence of his shall prevent his child from growing properly;
and if birds are necessary to the process, then birds it shall be. A
weary day is spent tramping among the woods and bushes, and towards
night, with two dozen of the feathered creatures in his bag, he turns
his footsteps homeward. He is rewarded by a smile and a word of praise
for his unusual good luck, and with a pat on the shoulder and a promise
of a splendid dinner in an hour or two, he is set to work to pluck the
birds.

Time passes on, the savory smell of the cooking birds occasionally
saluting his nostrils and making his mouth water with anticipation, when
at last comes the joyful summons, and all seat themselves around the
table and engage with unbounded admiration in this wonderful issue of
the day's labor.

The little lever which has moved the mighty events to this result sits
in his high chair, a spoon in one hand, a fork in the other, and beats a
grand tattoo ornamented with numerous little shrill sounds of baby joy,
in honor of the glorious sight, the like of which his eyes have never
seen before. Father and mother gaze enraptured upon the joyful sight of
the crowing youngster, exchange intelligent and admiring glances at his
precocity, and inwardly congratulate themselves upon possessing such a
wonderful improvement on babies in general.

But the Poet himself, with his sensitive nature--who can fathom the
profound depths of his soul now stirred by two such entrancing sights as
the high-smoking blackbird-pie won by his own prowess, and the little
monarch for whose sake all this was brought about? The delicious smell
excites him like draughts of rich old wine, and all the soul within him
bubbles up exultingly, and he improvises on the moment. Joyfully he
sings in melodious tones, his nerves trembling with ecstasy, and his
blood bub