  Four-paws, the kitten from the farm, Is come to live with Betsey-Jane, Leaving the stack-yard for the warm Flower-compassed cottage in the lane, To wash his idle face and play Among chintz cushions all the day. Under the shadow of her hair He lies, who loves him nor desists To praise his whiskers and compare The tabby bracelets on his wrists,— Omelet at lunch and milk at tea Suit Betsey-Jane and so fares he. Happy beneath her golden hand He purrs contentedly nor hears His Mother mourning through the land, The old grey cat with tattered ears And humble tail and heavy paw Who brought him up among the straw. Never by day she ventures nigh, But when the dusk grows dim and deep And moths flit out of the strange sky And Betsey has been long asleep— Out of the dark she comes and brings Her dark maternal offerings;— Some field-mouse or a throstle caught Near netted fruit or in the corn, Or rat, for this her darling sought In the old barn where he was born; And all lest on his dainty bed Four-paws were faint or under-fed. Only between the twilight hours Under the window-panes she walks Shrewdly among the scented flowers Nor snaps the soft nasturtium stalks, Uttering still her plaintive cries And Four-paws, from the house, replies, Leaps from his cushion to the floor, Down the brick passage scantly lit, Waits wailing at the outer door Till one arise and open it— Then from the swinging lantern’s light Runs to his Mother in the night. |
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