HAPPY CAT.
In eighteen hundred and eighteen,
In pleasant time of Spring,
The pretty kitten first was seen,
Whose history I sing.
And first her pedigree to tell,—
She came, I understand,
Of parents as respectable
As any in the land.
Tib she was always called, for why?
It was her mother’s name,
And lively was the kitten’s eye,
And active was her frame.
The soft, warm coat that covered her,
Was goodly to the sight,
For spots of grey and yellow fur
Shone ’mid the milky white.
She quickly learned both rat and mouse
To combat and surprise,
For these abounded in the house
Where first Tib oped her eyes.
One half the year she tarried here,
And then went to reside
With Mrs. H., who lived quite near,
(Her cat had lately died.)
There play’d she many a youthful trick,
Which gain’d her great applause;
The rolling ball she’d follow quick,
And seize between her paws.
The floating feather she would chase,
And with a spring attain;
Nor buzzing fly could rest in peace
About the window pane.
But one mischievous trick of puss
I mention to her shame;
To see the mistress of the house
A gentle lady came.
Tib saw the bonnet of the guest
Most carefully laid down,
Then quickly comes to take her rest
Within the satin crown.
Miss Tibby’s head, and tail, and ears,
Into this quiet station
Are drawn, and not a hair appears
To common observation.
At length the lady took her hat,—
And how they all did stare
And laugh to see a sleeping cat
So snugly nestled there.
Six years rolled smoothly like the first,
From every evil free,
And many a kitten had she nurs’d
The prettiest that could be.
A most unusual sound one night
Was heard, and Tib thereby
Was roused at once from slumbers light,
To hear a baby cry!
No sound like this had met her ears
Within that ancient dome
In all the many quiet years
That this had been her home.
Straight up the stairway did she spring,
And there beheld the elf,—
A cunning, little, helpless thing,
No bigger than herself.
Tib loved the baby from that day,
And oft would rub her head
Against him in a friendly way,
Or sit beside his bed.
When puss was old, the baby Tom
Had grown a stately boy,
And since her feeble days had come,
He would his time employ
In nursing the poor, feeble cat,
With bread and milk to feed,
Or give her meat, both lean and fat,
According to her need.
