A Little Cat played on a silver flute,
And a Big Cat sat and listened;
The Little Cat's strains gave the Big Cat pains,
And a tear on his eyelid glistened.
Then the Big Cat said, "Oh, rest awhile;"
But the Little Cat said, "No, no;
For I get pay for the tunes I play;"
And the Big Cat answered, "Oh!
If you get pay for the tunes you play,
I'm afraid you'll play till you drop;
You'll spoil your health in the race for wealth,
So I'll give you more to stop."
Said the Little Cat, "Hush! you make me blush;
Your offer is unusually kind;
Though it's very, very hard to leave the back yard,
I'll accept if you don't mind."
So the Big Cat gave him a thousand pounds
And a silver brush and a comb,
And a country seat on Beacon Street,
Right under the State House dome.
And the Little Cat sits with other little kits,
And watches the bright sun rise;
And the voice of the flute is long since mute,
And the Big Cat dries his eyes.

THE JONQUIL MAID

A LITTLE Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree,
Singing alone,
In a low love-tone,
And the wind swept by with a wistful moan;
For he longed to stay
With the Maid all day;
But he knew
As he blew
It was true
That the dew
Would never, never dry
If the wind should die;
So he hurried away where the rosebuds grew.
And while to the Land of the Rose went he,
Singing alone,
In a low love-tone,
A Little Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree.
The Little Maid's eyes had a rainbow hue,
And her sunset hair
Was woven with care
In a knot that was fit for a Psyche to wear;
And she pressed her lips
With her finger tips,
Threw a sly
Kiss to try
If he'd sigh
In reply,
And said with a laugh,
"Oh, it's not one half
As sweet as I give when there's Some One nigh."
And while to the Rosebud Land went he,
Singing alone,
In a low love-tone,
A Little Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree.
The wind swept back to the Jonquil Tree
At the close of day,
In the twilight gray;
But the sweet Little Maid had stolen away;
And whither she's flown
Will never be known
Till the Rose
As it blows
Shall disclose
All it knows
Of the Maid so fair
With the sunset hair.
And the sad wind comes and sighs and goes,
And dreams of the day when he blew so free,
When singing alone,
In a low love-tone,
A Little Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree.

THE ROLLICKING MASTODON

A Rollicking Mastodon lived in Spain,
In the trunk of a Tranquil Tree.
His face was plain, but his jocular vein
Was a burst of the wildest glee.
His voice was strong and his laugh so long
That people came many a mile,
And offered to pay a guinea a day
For the fractional part of a smile.
The Rollicking Mastodon's laugh was wide—
Indeed, 'twas a matter of family pride;
And oh! so proud of his jocular vein
Was the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.
The Rollicking Mastodon said one day,
"I feel that I need some air,
For a little ozone's a tonic for bones,
As well as a gloss for the hair."
So he skipped along and warbled a song
In his own triumphulant way.
His smile was bright and his skip was light
As he chirruped his roundelay.
The Rollicking Mastodon tripped along,
And sang what Mastodons call a song;
But every note of it seemed to pain
The Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.
A Little Peetookle came over the hill,
Dressed up in a bollitant coat;
And he said, "You need some harroway seed,
And a little advice for your throat."
The Mastodon smiled and said, "My child,
There's a chance for your taste to grow.
If you polish your mind, you'll certainly find
How little, how little you know."
The Little Peetookle, his teeth he ground
At the Mastodon's singular sense of sound;
For he felt it a sort of musical stain
On the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.
"Alas! and alas! has it come to this pass?"
Said the Little Peetookle: "Dear me!
It certainly seems your horrible screams
Intended for music must be."
The Mastodon stopped; his ditty he dropped,
And murmured, "Good-morning, my dear!
I never will sing to a sensitive thing
That shatters a song with a sneer!"
The Rollicking Mastodon bade him "adieu."
Of course, 'twas a sensible thing to do;
For Little Peetookle is spared the strain
Of the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.