I like my cat, I like him well,
As all the house may see
I like him for himself, and not
Because the cat likes me.
He counts his only work in life,
To flourish and be fat;
And this he does with all his might;—
Of course, I like my cat.
His eyes shine out beneath his brows,
As eyes have rarely shone;
His beauty is the grandest thing
That ever cat put on.
He wears a paw of wondrous bulk,
With secret claws to match,
And puts a charm in all its play,
The pat, the box, the scratch.
I have not heard how cats are made
Within their furry veil,
But rather fancy Tippo's thoughts
Lie chiefly in his tail.
For while in every other part
His portly person sleeps,
That bushy tail, with steady wave,
A ceaseless vigil keeps.
A LARK IN A CRICKET-GROUND.
A few days ago I was passing through Sonning, an old English village on the Thames, when I was attracted to a field near the road by hearing the merry sounds of the village school at a game of cricket. I could not resist the pleasure of pausing to watch the boys at play. Before long my curiosity was aroused by shouts of "Look out!" "Take care!" "Mind where you're going!" whenever any boy approached a certain spot, which seemed to be within a few yards of one of the wickets. I asked one of the party what such outcries meant. He replied—"Oh, that's our lark, sir!" On inquiry I found that some weeks before, the boys discovered a titlark's nest in the ground close to their cricket-piece. One of the boys seems to have made the suggestion that the school should take the lark under their special patronage. The proposal was adopted, and it became a daily business to see, before settling to their play, that all was right with the lark.