The Poet having now advanced so far in his work as to make a very respectable collection of poems, and beginning to run short of matter, casts his eyes around him in search of aid, hoping to find inspiration in some fortuitous moment from the many little incidents that are always occurring, and which only observing minds would notice.  For the time he sees nothing that would suggest even to the most sparkling intellect the shadow of a rhyme, and he begins to be in despair.  He walks up and down his dingy room, thrusts his long fingers amid the raven locks that adorn his poetical cranium, and gently at first, then furiously, irritates the cuticle of his imaginative head-piece, hoping thereby to waken up his ideas and find a foundation upon which to erect another stone in the edifice of his never-fading glory.

This process does not seem to be as successful as usual:  the ideas refuse to come at his bidding, and he glares around in consternation, Can it be possible that he has exhausted himself; that his ideas are entirely run out; that the fountain is dry, and the Muse has ceased to smile upon him; that he must descend from his high elevation as the poet of the family, the hope and pride of his friends and the admiration of himself, and sink to the level of his earthy brothers and become one of them, no better and no worse?  No—­perish the thought! never again will he mingle with those rude and vulgar natures, having no thoughts or feelings above their creature comforts:  content to live like animals, uninspired by the divine afflatus, untouched by the poetic fire.  Full of determined energy never to yield the high position he has acquired, he rushes forth into the open air and takes his winding way through the green meadows and leafy wilds.  Here, sitting on the stump of an old tree, he spies little Bob Peepers, weeping as if his heart would break:  the briny tears coursing down his ruddy cheeks form little rivulets of salt water with high embankments of genuine soil on either side, and a distracted map of a war-ridden country is depicted upon his grief-stricken countenance.  Full of compassion for the suffering, the tender heart of the Poet melts at the sight, and in mellifluous tones he asks, “What is the matter, BUB?”

Sobbingly digging his fists into his eyes, and carefully wiping his classic nose on the sleeve of his jacket, the heart-broken mourner murmurs:—­

    “I’ve lost my sheep,
    And don’t know where to find them,”

and bursts forth into a prolonged howl.  That heart-rending cry of agony is too much for the gentle Poet, who, sinking upon the ground beside the weeper, ventures to whisper a hope that Time, or some of the neighbors, may bring back the lost sheep and restore happiness and tranquillity to the agitated bosom.  The suggestion is met with incredulous scorn and another burst of uncontrollable sorrow, amid the pauses of which Bob recounts to his sympathetic friend how,