The inspiration to the above lines came about in a very natural way. The Poet was poor. That is, speaking after the manner of later days, he was occasionally hard-up. His occasions were very lengthy ones and the interregnum a period remarkably brief. It had become a sort of chronic state with him, and although he occasionally wrote a bit of verse by request, his modesty would not allow him to charge more than a sixpence or thereabouts for any article, and the consequence was that he understood to the fullest extent the meaning of the term hard times. Now it is a well-known fact that families, especially where there are wives and babies, do not take kindly to poverty and its concomitants, but emphatically insist upon having something to eat, drink, and wear. Time has proved that even the weakest are wise in their own way, and are given knowledge for self-protection; and woman, although she may not command success 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.