Waked by a somerset, whirling
From cushion to floor;
Waked to a wild rush for safety
From window to door.
Waking to hands that first smooth us,
And then pull our tails;
Punished with slaps when we show them
The length of our nails!
These big mortal tyrants even grudge us
A place on the mat.
Do they think we enjoy for our music
Staccatoes of "scat"?
To be treated, now, just as you treat us,—
The question is pat,—
To take just our chances in living,
Would you be a cat?
Lucy Larcom.
THE NEWSBOY'S CAT.
Want any papers, Mister?
Wish you'd buy 'em of me—
Ten year old, an' a fam'ly,
An' bizness dull, you see.
Fact, Boss! There's Tom, an' Tibby,
An' Dad, an' Mam, an Mam's cat,
None on 'em earning money—
What do you think of that?
Couldn't Dad work? Why yes, Boss,
He's working for gov'ment now,—
They give him his board for nothin',—
All along of a drunken row.
An' Mam? Well, she's in the poorhouse,—
Been there a year or so;
So I'm taking care of the others,
Doing as well as I know.