Highly Connected.
“I’m a very little cat,
I know, and thin at that;
But cast your eye upon this poster fine—
The big chap on that ball,
He’s just a King, that’s all—
And, by the way, a relative of mine!”
The Miser Elf.
There was a little miser elf who had a precious store
Of silver motes from moonbeams and priceless grains of ore,
And shiny dust of marigold, and glittering jeweled eyes
Of burnished stars and spangles from the wings of butterflies,
And bales of wondrous gossamer and green-gold beetles’ wings,
And many other marvelous and rare and costly things.
But, alas! with all his golden dust and jewels rich and rare,
This little elf was never free from misery and care.
The wealth that might have conjured up all good things at his beck
Was just a golden millstone that hung around his neck.
He never had one moment’s peace, his treasure out of sight,
Though he buried it for safety in a different place each night;
Each night the thought of robbers made him close his eyes in vain,
And just as soon as it was light he’d dig it up again.
One night (it was a woodland place in which he chanced to bide)—
As usual he sought a place in which his gold to hide.
He had not long been seeking before he chanced to see
A thing he’d never seen before—a curious kind of tree: