The Cat That Walked By Himself

Pussy can sit by the fire and sing,
Pussy can climb a tree,
Or play with a silly old cork and string
To 'muse herself, not me.
But I like Binkie my dog, because
He knows how to behave;
So, Binkie's the same as the First Friend was,
And I am the Man in Cave!

Pussy will play Man Friday till
It's time to wet her paw
And make her walk on the window-sill
(For the footprint Crusoe saw)
Then she fluffles her tail and mews,
And scratches and won't attend.
But Binkie will play whatever I choose,
And he is my true First Friend!

Pussy will rub my knees with her head
Pretending she loves me hard;
But the very minute I go to my bed
Pussy runs out in the yard,
And there she stays till the morning-light;
So I know it is only pretend;
But Binkie, he snores at my feet all night,
And he is my Firstest Friend!

Rudyard

Rudyard Kipling was an English journalist, short-story writer, poet, and novelist. He was born in British India, which inspired much of his work. His notable works include the novels 'The Jungle Book,' 'Kim,' and the poem 'If—.' Kipling was one of the most popular writers in the United Kingdom in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. He received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1907, making him the youngest recipient of the award.

Rudyard

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English

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Chapter Headings - Just-So Stories

When the cabin port-holes are dark and green
Because of the seas outside;
When the shipgoes wop (with a wiggle between)
And the steward falls into the soup-tureen,
And the trunks begin to slide;
When Nursey lies on the floor in a heap,
And Mummy tells you to let her sleep,
And you are nt waked or washed or dressed,
Why, then you will know (if you have nt guessed)
Youre Fifty North and Forty West!
How the Whale Got His Throat.

The Camels hump is an ugly lump
Which well you may see at the Zoo;
But uglier yet is the hump we get
From having too little to do.

Kiddies and grown-ups too-oo-oo,
If we havent enough to do-oo-oo,
We get the hump,
Cameelious hump,
The hump that is black and blue!

We climb out of bed with a fro...

Rudyard

Just So Stories

        When the cabin port-holes are dark and green
            Because of the seas outside;
        When the ship goes wop (with a wiggle between)
        And the steward falls into the soup-tureen,
            And trunks begin to slide;
        When Nursey lies on the floor in a heap,
        And Mummy tells you to let her sleep,
            And you aren't waked or washed or dressed,
        Why, then you will know (if you haven't guessed)
        You're "Fifty North and Forty West!"
                                                        How the Whale Got His Throat

        The Camel's hump is an ugly lump
            Which well you may see at the Zoo;
        But uglier yet is the hump we get
            From having too little to do.

        Kiddie...

Rudyard

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

The Retired Cat.

A poets cat, sedate and grave
As poet well could wish to have,
Was much addicted to inquire
For nooks to which she might retire,
And where, secure as mouse in chink,
She might repose, or sit and think.
I know not where she caught the trick
Nature perhaps herself had cast her
In such a mould philosophique,
Or else she learnd it of her master.
Sometimes ascending, debonnair,
An apple-tree, or lofty pear,
Lodged with convenience in the fork,
She watchd the gardener at his work;
Sometimes her ease and solace sought
In an old empty watering pot:
There, wanting nothing save a fan,
To seem some nymph in her sedan
Apparelld in exactest sort,
And ready to be borne to court.
But love of change, it seems, has place
Not only in our wiser race...

William Cowper

A Friend In The Garden.

He is not John the gardener,
And yet the whole day long
Employs himself most usefully,
The flower-beds among.

He is not Tom the pussy-cat,
And yet the other day,
With stealthy stride and glistening eye,
He crept upon his prey.

He is not Dash the dear old dog,
And yet, perhaps, if you
Took pains with him and petted him,
You'd come to love him too.

He's not a Blackbird, though he chirps,
And though he once was black;
And now he wears a loose grey coat,
All wrinkled on the back.

He's got a very dirty face,
And very shining eyes!
He sometimes comes and sits indoors;
He looks--and p'r'aps is--wise.

But in a sunny flower-bed
He has his fixed abode;
He eats the things that eat my plants--
He is a friend...

Juliana Horatia Ewing

Rover

No classic warrior tempts my pen
To fill with verse these pages
No lordly-hearted man of men
My Muses thought engages.

Let others choose the mighty dead,
And sing their battles over!
My champion, too, has fought and bled
My theme is one-eyed Rover.

A grave old dog, with tattered ears
Too sore to cock up, reader!
A four-legged hero, full of years,
But sturdy as a cedar.

Still, age is age; and if my rhyme
Is dashed with words pathetic,
Dont wonder, friend; Ive seen the time
When Rove was more athletic.

He lies coiled up before me now,
A comfortable crescent.
His night-black nose and grizzled brow
Fixed in a fashion pleasant.

But ever and anon he lifts
The one good eye I mention,
And tries a thousand ...

Henry Kendall