It is owing to this peculiarity of our humanity which always has been and always will be, that the world has received the remarkable lines placed at the heading of this article.  Since the Poet’s time there have been attempts by other aspirants to immortality to continue the story so well begun, and add a lengthy jingle to the already completed verse, conceiving in their futile minds the idea that it was an unfinished structure upon which they could build for themselves a temple of fame; but all such dastardly attempts met with the success they deserved, and that was speedy oblivion; and we contend and will maintain to the bitter end, that these lines are the only right and true lines written on the subject by our immortal Poet, and that the others which are falsely circulated as part and parcel of the original, are spurious, emanating, it is said, from a half-insane idiot who hung himself immediately after finishing them.

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.