One grey as dawn, one white as milk!
With dainty paws, and eyes of flame,
And thick coats soft as richest silk!
They fly like wind, these pussies gay;
Wheel madly round in dizzy game,
Then sudden stop in whirling play.
Up! Off! They follow breathlessly,
With fawn-like grace, the glowing leaves
That dance in farewell whirls of glee.
The wind dies low; in dark'ning west
The day's orb sets 'neath purpling clouds.
At last the two cats pause, and rest.
Tabitha Tiger Reflects.
(Tabitha Tiger.) Bless my claws and whiskers! but this suspense is awful. Here I have been waiting for the last two hours behind this horrid-smelling cheese, and no sign of a mouse yet. And it's just the time for them, too.
I wonder why housekeepers expect us cats to keep the house free from mice when they're away for the summer. No self-respecting cat can eat mice morning, noon and night; and one would have to do so in order to rid the house of them. Why, I should turn into a squeaking cheese-eater, myself!
Strange place for Cook to leave cheese, strikes me—the kitchen table; but it should make a fine hunting ground. If I'd only seen it before, I needn't have wasted so much time in front of that hole up in the attic—and I caught only three and a half mice during the whole week.
I suppose some boastful cats would call it four, but a first-class mouser like myself doesn't have to stretch a tale (Tail! Good pun, that—Ha! Ha!) to keep up her reputation, and that little Spring mouse really had no more meat on than half a full-grown one.