Then in he rushed, and seized the bait,
And soon the dainty morsel ate,
Then turned to go away.
But, ah! poor mouse, he finds the door,
Which he so freely passed before,
Compels him now to stay.
Now his kind mother's warnings rise,
And place before his weeping eyes,
Grim death in every shape.
Alas! poor prisoner Spot can see
No prospect left of liberty,
No chance of his escape.
Now turn we to the kitchen side,
And see what fortune can betide
Poor Streak, who there is gone;
Where by a blazing fire there sat
A glossy, well-fed tabby cat,
Half sleeping, and alone.
With veneration mixed with awe,
For the first time, a cat he saw
And thus expressed his mind:—
"Can this meek creature prove," said he,
"The cat—so oft described to me,—
Devourer of our kind."
And now, to have a nearer view,
Closer and closer still, he drew,
And hears her softly purring;
"Ah me!" he cries, "what dulcet note,
What music from that downy throat;
I'm sure she is not stirring."
The cat now turned her amber eyes,
And view'd poor Streak with glad surprise,
Then caught him with her claw;
Now o'er her head she whirls him round,
Then dashes him against the ground,
Or strikes him with her paw.
Now lets him run a little way,
Now claws him back in cruel play,
Or bites through his soft ear;
At length, exerting all his strength,
He made a leap of wond'rous length,
And got away quite clear.