Little Bo-Peep has lost his sheep,
And don't know where to find them.
Let them alone and they'll come home,
And bring their tails behind them.
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, "being wearied with watching the
gambolling sheep, he laid himself down in the meadow to sleep, and never
awoke till a blue-bottle fly, who buzzing about so tickled his eye that
sleep fled away. Then he rose to his feet, and looked around for the
gambolling sheep, but found, they were gone he couldn't tell where: so
he threw himself down in the deepest despair, bemoaning his strange
unaccountable loss, and the horrible beating he'd get from the Boss,
when at night he went home with his sad tale of woe. He was sure he
would never have courage to go."
The sad tale so pathetically and ingenuously told melted the already
simmering heart of the hearer, who counselled tranquillity and
philosophy in the words
"Let them alone and they'll come home,"
and jocularly added, as he saw a ray of hope lighting up the eye of the
boy, like the first rays of the sun seen through a fog,
"And bring their tails behind them."
The brilliant idea of their tails coming behind them instead of before
them tickled the risibilities of the sympathizing friends, and for a few
moments the woods echoed to their responsive mirth.
The laugh did them good. The poet perceived instantly he had a theme
upon which to build his verse, and hastily bidding BOB "good-by," he
flew exultingly to his paternal abode, rushed up the garret stairs,
seized his goose-quill, and amid the tumultuous beatings of his
over-charged heart and throbbing brain jotted down on the instant, in
all the enthusiasm of poetic fervor, the incident that had fallen under
his inspired observation. Not to be too personal, and still to preserve
the truthfulness of the history, he dropped a few letters from BOB
PEEPER'S name, while, with a wonderful accuracy unknown to modern
writers, he keeps to the subject of his verse, its misery, the remedy
and result, and facetiously gives to the world the same cause for
laughter and inspiration that he received so gratefully.
* * * * *