Out of the Market Place an alley led To Poultry Cross and old white Jocko sped Beneath its shelter and surveyed the stalls Which here sell hobby horse, tops and balls, And tins for little cakes. One stall was full Of button-cards and reels and hanks of wool, Another sold you sage and pansy roots, And this, red carpet-slippers, hob-nailed boots And clogs, and hanging on a string by twos A row of little russet leather shoes; Tears filled his eyes, he turned to look again,— “Those shoes,” said he, “are just like Betsey-Jane.”
X
While thus he spake two farmers sauntered past And turned to stare at Jocko, said the last,— “I saw that monkey next a Spanish hen, The little beast has wandered from his pen!” Jocko is captured by the portly pair, They lead him, passive, to the Market Square; Once more the hens their throats exultant crane,— “Jocko!” they cackle; “Here he is again!” The farmers stuff our hero, sad and sore, Into a vacant pen and slam the door:— Through the grim wires the searching breezes moan And Jocko sits there shivering alone.
XI
The time lagged on; some children through his door Prodded his fur with sticks, the clock struck four. Now is the time, but Jocko does not care, When carriers are starting from the Bear; Fast in his pen, and all his anger gone, No longer would he live at Clarendon. Home was his one desire. “At six,” he said, “My Betsey-Jane is kissed, and goes to bed, Her bath-tub by the nursery fire will be, She will come in and look around for me And sob all night beneath her counterpane For her lost Jocko—little Betsey-Jane!”
XII
While Jocko thus lamented, through the crowd There came a little girl who sobbed aloud And clutched her Mother’s hand; ’twas Betsey-Jane, Who all the afternoon had sought in vain Her Jocko cast away in Endless Street; Tired are her little gaitered legs, her feet So weary, each new thought of Jocko brings New tears to wet her woollen bonnet strings And drip from each blue tassel to the ground. She would not look on all the beasts around, But Jocko saw her coat, and “Betsey-Jane,” He cried, “Do come and take me home again!”
XIII
Alas, they did not hear, his voice was low, With chill and hunger, Mother turned to go; But Betsey-Jane looked sadly back and then Beheld him upright in his distant pen. She dropped her Mother’s hand and with a shout Of “Jocko, Jocko!” ran to get him out;— Two shame-faced men undid at her commands His cage and Mother put him in her hands, She clasped him closely, not a word was said, And laid her tearful cheek against his head.