I like the kitten of my friends,
I like its claws caught in my lace,
I like the way each small ear ends,
I like the black upon its face.
I feel its heart beat in my hand,
And then I somehow understand
So many things I didn't know:
I'm kinder, and my voice is low;
And I close doors more softly, too,
And do the things I'm told to do,
Instead of wishing they were done.
—But mother says we mayn't have one.
I want a kitten all my own
To play with when I'm left alone,
And when the family's gone away
To shop, and work, and call, and play
Tennis and other things. It's all
So queer and lonely in the hall
And in the parlor, too, and in
The sitting-room, where words have been
But are not now. The chairs and I
Wait through the hours, till by-and-by,
Our only playmates little fears—
There's room in all our lives, I think,
For one small kitten, black as ink
With two white spots behind its ears.