  THAT is the Kitten, The one in black That you see at the back, Whose heart was smitten (For kittens have hearts As well as brains And other parts, For pleasures and pains)— Was smitten, I say, On a sunshiny day, By a callow chicken, And made a picking Of the chicken’s bones Out there, on the stones, To the great disgust Of the mother Hen, Who came up then, And the undefended Fowl just swallowed! And the Hen was followed By the Cock well-grown, Who seemed disgusted That the Hen had trusted The chicken alone. It was on the next day That the Cat did essay To visit the place Of this disgrace, In search of a chicken Again for picking; But now the Cock, As firm as a rock, Beholding the Kitten, With rage was smitten, And stuck out his chest, And set up his crest, And crowed defiance, Like an army of lions, To the Kitten who there, With his tail in the air, Saw that the hens,— Three in number,— Were not in slumber, And so had the sense Like the arrow of an archer Swift from a bow, And left the Cock, As firm as a rock, To ruffle and crow, All under the door, As we said before, With nothing to tire him, And the hens to admire him. In a corner was sitting Another Kitten, White, not black, Who heard the clack, And knowing the story Of the chicken gory, And, seeing the Cock Defying the other (It was her brother!) Had trepidations And meditations About taking chickens, And such, for pickings. But cats will be cats The whole world long! |
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