Then the kittens, almost weeping,
Came to where a Cow lay sleeping,
And they woke her with this piteous request,
“Won’t you wear our mittens furry?”
Said the Cow, “My dears, don’t worry;
I will put them on as soon as I am dressed.”
Then the Cow put on her bonnet
With a wreath of roses on it,
And a beautiful mantilla fringed with white;
And she donned the pretty mittens,
While the silly little kittens
Clapped their paws in admiration at the sight.
The Strike of the Fireworks
’Twas the night before the Fourth of July, the people slept serene;
The fireworks were stored in the old town hall that stood on the village green.
The steeple clock tolled the midnight hour, and at its final stroke,
The fire in the queer old-fashioned stove lifted its voice and spoke;
“The earth and air have naught to do, the water, too, may play,
And only fire is made to work on Independence Day.
“I won’t stand such injustice! It’s wrong, beyond a doubt,
And I shall take my holiday. Good-by, I’m going out!”
Up spoke a Roman candle then, “The principle is right!
Suppose we strike, and all agree we will not work to-night!”
“My stars!” said a small sky-rocket. “What an awful time there’ll be,
When the whole town comes together to-night, the great display to see!”
“Let them come,” said a saucy pinwheel, “yes, let them come if they like,
As a delegate I’ll announce to them that the fireworks are going to strike!”
“My friends,” said a small cap-pistol, “this movement is all wrong,—
Gunpowder, noise, and fireworks to Fourth of July belong.
My great ancestral musket made Independence Day,
I frown on your whole conspiracy, and you are wrong, I say!”