The Cat.

Stop, naughty pussy! that's not fair!
Jump down this minute from the chair!
You've eaten my nice slice of bread.
And here are only crumbs instead.

I for a minute left the room
To listen to the "Buy a broom,"
And now I think it's quite too bad
That you my luncheon should have had.



Her mother said, "My dear, if you
Had done what you were told to do,
And put the plate upon the shelf,
You might have had the bread yourself.

"But if you have no thought nor care,
And leave your luncheon on a chair,
You must not blame poor pussy-cat;
She knows no better, dear, than that.

"The one who left her bread about
Upon the chair, while she went out,--
The one who hangs her head for shame,--
My little girl's the one to blame!"

H. P. Nichols

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H. P. Nichols

Sunday.

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

Spring.

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

The Little Beggar-Girl.

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

The First Hymn.

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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Puss In The Corner.

"You are a naughty pussy-cat,
I think it right to mention that,
To all who see your picture here,
'Twas you who broke my Bunny dear.

An hour ago, as you can tell,
I left him here, alive and well;
And now he's dead and, what is more,
You've broke his leg I'm pretty sure.

For you my puss I'll never care,
No never, never, never, there,
And you are in disgrace you know,
And in the corner you must go.

What crying? Then I must cry too
And I can't bear to punish you;
Perhaps my Bunny isn't dead,
Perhaps you've only stunned his head.

And though I'm sure you broke his leg,
It may be mended with a peg,
And though he's very, very, funny,
My Bunny's not a real Bunny,
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...

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Sorrow For A Favourite Tabby Cat, Who Left This Scene Of Troubles, Friday Night, Nov. 26, 1819.

Let brutish hearts, as hard as stones,
Mock The weak Muse's tender moans,
As now she wails o'er Titty's bones
With anguish deep;
Doubtless o'er parent's dying groans
They'd little weep.

Ah, Pity! thine's a tender heart,
Thy sigh soon heaves, thy tears soon start;
And thou hast given the muse her part
Salt tears to shed,
To mourn and sigh with sorrow's smart;
For pussy's dead.

Ah, mourning Memory! 'neath thy pall
Thou utterest many a piercing call,
Pickling in vinegar's sour gall
Ways that are fled--
The way, the feats, the tricks, and all,
Of pussy dead.

Thou tell'st of all the gamesome plays
That mark'd her happy kitten-days:
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On the sand floor;
But now sad sorrow damps my lays:

John Clare

Miss Ediths Modest Request

My papa knows you, and he says youre a man who makes reading for books;
But I never read nothing you wrote, nor did Papa, I know by his looks.
So I guess youre like me when I talk, and I talk, and I talk all the day,
And they only say, Do stop that child! or, Nurse, take Miss Edith away.

But Papa said if I was good I could ask you alone by myself
If you wouldnt write me a book like that little one up on the shelf.
I dont mean the pictures, of course, for to make them youve got to be smart
But the reading that runs all around them, you know, just the easiest part.

You neednt mind what its about, for no one will see it but me,
And Jane, thats my nurse, and John, hes the coachman, just only us three.
Youre to write of a bad little girl, that was wicked and bold and a...

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The Three Little Kittens.

Knit, knit, knit, knit!
See old white-capped Pussy sit,
Fairly gray with worry and care,
In her little straight-backed rocking-chair?
Knit, knit, knit,
Till she is tired of it!

Why does she work so? Look and see,
There in the corner, children three!
Plump and furry and full of fun,
(A good-for-nothing is every one.)
And all those kittens
Must have mittens!

Weather is cold; and snow and sleet
Make it bad for their little feet;
And they dare not peep outside, because
Jack Frost stands ready to pinch their paws--
That's why she sits,
And knits, and knits.

If by any chance she drops her ball,
And if one of them chases it at all,
She peeps out over her glasses' rim
With a savage, dreadful scowl at him,
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Kit's Cradle.

They've taken the cosy bed away
That I made myself with the Shetland shawl,
And set me a hamper of scratchy hay,
By that great black stove in the entrance-hall.

I won't sleep there; I'm resolved on that!
They may think I will, but they little know
There's a soft persistence about a cat
That even a little kitten can show.

I wish I knew what to do but pout,
And spit at the dogs and refuse my tea;
My fur's feeling rough, and I rather doubt
Whether stolen sausage agrees with me.

On the drawing-room sofa they've closed the door,
They've turned me out of the easy-chairs;
I wonder it never struck me before
That they make their beds for themselves up-stairs.

*            *            *            *            *

I've found a crib wher...

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Sad Memories.

They tell me I am beautiful: they praise my silken hair,
My little feet that silently slip on from stair to stair:
They praise my pretty trustful face and innocent grey eye;
Fond hands caress me oftentimes, yet would that I might die!

Why was I born to be abhorr'd of man and bird and beast?
The bulfinch marks me stealing by, and straight his song hath ceased;
The shrewmouse eyes me shudderingly, then flees; and, worse than that,
The housedog he flees after me - why was I born a cat?

Men prize the heartless hound who quits dry-eyed his native land;
Who wags a mercenary tail and licks a tyrant hand.
The leal true cat they prize not, that if e'er compell'd to roam
Still flies, when let out of the bag, precipitately home.

They call me cruel. Do I know if mouse or so...

Charles Stuart Calverley