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 bubbling through his veins like sparkling champagne:—­

    Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye,
    Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie. 
    When the pie was opened the birds began to sing;
    Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king?

One adoring glance at the rosy little king, who sits with open mouth and spoon poised in air, staring in amazement at such unusual hilarity; one comprehensive glance at his wife, and the keen knife and fork pierce to the depth of the dainty dish, and the delicate blackbirds come forth; but they do not sing.  That was poetic license.  Perhaps, on the whole, it was just as well that they did not sing, for it would only have delayed the dinner, and hungry folks are rather practical, and would much prefer testing the birds for themselves to hearing from them.

The event of the day is over.  Quiet has settled upon the earth and upon the Poet’s household.  He leans back in his chair in peaceful revery, and muses upon the scenes of the day.  Slowly, like distant music, come back to his mind the diamonds of thought that dropped from his lips under the unwonted excitement, and as he strings them together he jots them down in his memorandum for future service.

* * * * *

[ILLUSTRATION:  The Tempter and the Tempted

Mephistopheles Butler. “MR. PRESIDENT, PUT IN ABOUT ST. DOMINGO, STRONG.”]

* * * * *

HIRAM GREEN IN PITTSBURGH.

Owing to the smokey condition of the city, the “Lait Gustise” looses his identity.