Every mother immediately seized upon the verse, and, setting it to music of her own, sang it as a cradle song to soothe the troubles of infanthood, and repeated it in great glee to the intelligent babe when in a crowing mood, as the poem most fitted for the infant’s brain to comprehend.

Papa, anxious to watch the unfolding of the human mind, and its gradual development, would take the baby-prodigy in his arms, and with keen glance directed upon its face, repeat, in thrilling tones, the sublime words.  With what joy would he remark and comment upon any gleam of intelligence, and again and again would he recite, in an impressive voice, those words so calculated to aid in bringing into blossom the bud of promise.

But who can meditate upon the memorable stanzas, and not see, in fancy, the enthusiastic youth—­the lover of melody and of nature—­as he enters his dingy room, the ordinary abiding place of poetical geniuses.  He sees his beloved fiddle, and his no less beloved feline friend, in loving conjunction; he bursts out rapturously with impetuous joy: 

      “Hey! diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle!”

He sees the two things dearest to his heart, and sees them both at one time!  And he must be excused for his sudden night into the regions of classicism.

No wonder that he immediately imagines the world to be as full of joy as he himself, and that he thinks

       “The cow jumped over the moon.”

Perhaps the sight was a sufficient re-moon-eration to him for his past troubles; and the exhilaration of his spirits caused him to dance, to cut pigeon-wings, and otherwise gaily disport himself; consequently,

       “The little dog laughed to see the sport,”

which every intelligent dog would have done, under the circumstances.  Certainly, dear reader, you would have done so yourself.

The hilariousness of the poet increasing, and his joyfulness expanding, his manifestations did not confine themselves to simple dancing-steps and an occasional pigeon-wing, but, inadvertently perhaps, he introduced the “can-can,” and that explains why

       “The dish ran away with the spoon.”

For the end of his excited toe came in contact with his only dish and spoon, and propelled them to the other side of the room.  As he does not tell us whether the dish remained whole after its escapade, we must conclude that it was broken, and that the dreadful accident caused, immediately, a damp to descend upon his effervescent spirits.

In what better way could he give vent to his feelings than in descriptive verse?  He could not shed his tears upon the paper and hand them around for inspection, or write a melancholy sonnet on the frailty of crockery, as a relief to his mind.  No! he chose the course best fitted to command public attention, as the result proved.  He told his tale—­its cause and effect—­in as few words as possible.  Fortunate if other poets would only do the same!