“I read about one who used to do it very slyly. I tried to make Topaz, but she did not like the water, and scratched me. She does like tea, and when I play in my kitchen she pats the teapot with her paw, till I give her some. She is a fine cat, she eats apple-pudding and molasses. Most cats do not.”
“That’s a first-rater,” called out Nat, and Daisy retired, pleased with the praise of her friend.
“Demi looks so impatient we must have him up at once or he won’t hold out,” said Uncle Fritz, and Demi skipped up with alacrity.
“Mine is a poem!” he announced in a tone of triumph, and read his first effort in a loud and solemn voice:—
“I write about the butterfly,
It is a pretty thing;
And flies about like the birds,
But it does not sing.
“First it is a little grub,