Why doth a pussy cat prefer,
When dozing, drowsy, on the sill,
To purr and purr and purr and purr
Instead of merely keeping still?
With nodding head and folded paws,
She keeps it up without a cause.

Why doth she flaunt her lofty tail
In such a stiff right-angled pose?
If lax and limp she let it trail
'Twould seem more restful, Goodness knows!
When strolling 'neath the chairs or bed,
She lets it bump above her head.
Why doth she suddenly refrain
From anything she's busied in
And start to wash, with might and main,
Most any place upon her skin?
Why doth she pick that special spot,
Not seeing if it's soiled or not?
Why doth she never seem to care
To come directly when you call,
But makes approach from here and there,
Or sidles half around the wall?
Though doors are opened at her mew,
You often have to push her through.
Why doth she this? Why doth she that?
I seek for cause—I yearn for clews;
The subject of the pussy cat
Doth endlessly inspire the mews.
Why doth a pussy cat? Ah, me,
I haven't got the least idee. '.

Burges Johnson.

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright—
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done—
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"
The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead—
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"
"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
"O Oysters come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But not a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head—
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat—
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more—
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock,
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
Of cabbages—and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need;
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed—
Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us," the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said,
"Do you admire the view?"
"It was so kind of you to come,
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but,
"Cut us another slice.
I wish you were not quite so deaf—
I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick.
After we've brought them out so far
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but,
"The butter's spread too thick!"
"I weep for you," the Walrus said,
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?"
But answer came there none—
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

Lewis Carroll.

I am
A Clam!
Come learn of me
Unclouded peace and calm content,
Serene, supreme tranquillity,
Where thoughtless dreams and dreamless thoughts are blent.
When the salt tide is rising to the flood,
In billows blue my placid pulp I lave;
And when it ebbs I slumber in the mud,
Content alike with ooze or crystal wave.
I do not shudder when in chowder stewed,
Nor when the Coney Islander engulfs me raw.
When in the church soup's dreary solitude
Alone I wander, do I shudder? Naw!
If jarring tempests beat upon my bed,
Or summer peace there be,
I do not care: as I have said,
All's one to me;
A Clam
I am.

Unknown.

The saddest fish that swims the briny ocean,
The Catfish I bewail.
I cannot even think without emotion
Of his distressful tail.
When with my pencil once I tried to draw one,
(I dare not show it here)
Mayhap it is because I never saw one,
The picture looked so queer.
I vision him half feline and half fishy,
A paradox in twins,
Unmixable as vitriol and vichy—
A thing of fur and fins.
A feline Tantalus, forever chasing
His fishy self to rend;
His finny self forever self-effacing
In circles without end.
This tale may have a Moral running through it
As Æsop had in his;
If so, dear reader, you are welcome to it,
If you know what it is!

Oliver Herford.

"Can you spare a Threepenny bit,
Dear Miss Turkey," said Sir Mouse,
"For Job's Turkey's benefit?
I've engaged the Opera House!"
"Alas! I've naught to spare!"
Said Miss Turkey, "save advice,
I am getting up a Fair,
To relieve the Poor Church Mice."

Oliver Herford.

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat:
They took some honey, and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"Oh, lovely Pussy, oh, Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl,
How charmingly sweet you sing!
Oh, let us be married; too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away for a year and a day,
To the land where the bong-tree grows;
And there in the wood a Piggy-wig stood,
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

Edward Lear.

When the little armadillo
With his head upon his pillow
Sweetly rests,
And the parrakeet and lindo
Flitting past my cabin window
Seek their nests,—
When the mists of even settle
Over Popocatapetl,
Dropping dew,—
Like the condor, over yonder,
Still I ponder, ever fonder,
Dear, of You!

May no revolution shock you,
May the earthquake gently rock you
To repose,
While the sentimental panthers
Sniff the pollen-laden anthers
Of the rose!
While the pelican is pining,
While the moon is softly shining
On the stream,
May the song that I am singing
Send a tender cadence winging
Through your dream!
I have just one wish to utter—
That you twinkle through your shutter
Like a star,
While, according to convention,
I shall cas-u-ally mention
My guitar.
SeÑorita Maraquita,
Muy bonita, pobracita!—
Hear me weep!—
But the night is growing wetter,
So I guess that you had better
Go to sleep.

Arthur Guiterman.

I am a lone, unfathered chick,
Of artificial hatching,
A pilgrim in a desert wild,
By happier, mothered chicks reviled,
From all relationships exiled,
To do my own lone scratching.

Fair science smiled upon my birth
One raw and gusty morning;
But ah, the sounds of barnyard mirth
To lonely me have little worth;
Alone am I in all the earth—
An orphan without borning.
Seek I my mother? I would find
A heartless personator;
A thing brass-feathered, man-designed,
With steam-pipe arteries intermined,
And pulseless cotton-batting lined—
A patent incubator.
It wearies me to think, you see—
Death would be better, rather—
Should downy chicks be hatched of me,
By fate's most pitiless decree,
My piping pullets still would be
With never a grandfather.
And when to earth I bid adieu
To seek a planet greater,
I will not do as others do,
Who fly to join the ancestral crew,
For I will just be gathered to
My incubator.

Robert J. Burdette.

It was an artless Bandar, and he danced upon a pine,

And much I wondered how he lived, and where the beast might dine,

And many, many other things, till, o'er my morning smoke,

I slept the sleep of idleness and dreamed that Bandar spoke.

He said: "Oh, man of many clothes! sad crawler on the Hills!

Observe, I know not Ranken's shop, nor Ranken's monthly bills!

I take no heed to trousers or the coats that you call dress;

Nor am I plagued with little cards for little drinks at Mess.

"I steal the bunnia's grain at morn, at noon and eventide

(For he is fat and I am spare), I roam the mountainside,

I follow no man's carriage, and no, never in my life

Have I flirted at Peliti's with another Bandar's wife.

"Oh, man of futile fopperies—unnecessary wraps;

I own no ponies in the Hills, I drive no tall-wheeled traps;

I buy me not twelve-button gloves, 'short-sixes' eke, or rings,

Nor do I waste at Hamilton's my wealth on pretty things.

"I quarrel with my wife at home, we never fight abroad;

But Mrs. B. has grasped the fact I am her only lord.

I never heard of fever—dumps nor debts depress my soul;

And I pity and despise you!" Here he pouched my breakfast-roll.

His hide was very mangy and his face was very red,

And undisguisedly he scratched with energy his head.

His manners were not always nice, but how my spirit cried

To be an artless Bandar loose upon the mountainside!

So I answered: "Gentle Bandar, an inscrutable Decree

Makes thee a gleesome, fleasome Thou, and me a wretched Me.

Go! Depart in peace, my brother, to thy home amid the pine;

Yet forget not once a mortal wished to change his lot with thine."

Rudyard Kipling.

Yet another great truth I record in my verse,
That some Vipers are venomous, some the reverse;
A fact you may prove if you try,
By procuring two Vipers and letting them bite;
With the first you are only the worse for a fright,
But after the second you die.

Hilaire Belloc.

The Llama is a woolly sort of fleecy, hairy goat,
With an indolent expression and an undulating throat,
Like an unsuccessful literary man.
And I know the place he lives in (or at least I think I do)
It is Ecuador, Brazil or Chile—possibly Peru;
You must find it in the Atlas if you can.
The Llama of the Pampases you never should confound
(In spite of a deceptive similarity of sound),
With the Lhama who is Lord of Turkestan.
For the former is a beautiful and valuable beast,
But the latter is not lovable nor useful in the least;
And the Ruminant is preferable surely to the Priest
Who battens on the woful superstitions of the East,
The Mongol of the Monastery of Shan.

Hilaire Belloc.

As a friend to the children commend me the yak,
You will find it exactly the thing:
It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back,
Or lead it about with a string.

A Tartar who dwells on the plains of Thibet
(A desolate region of snow)
Has for centuries made it a nursery pet,
And surely the Tartar should know!
Then tell your papa where the Yak can be got,
And if he is awfully rich,
He will buy you the creature—or else he will not,
(I cannot be positive which).

Be kind and tender to the Frog,
And do not call him names,
As "Slimy-Skin," or "Polly-wog,"
Or likewise, "Uncle James,"
Or "Gape-a-grin," or "Toad-gone-wrong,"
Or, "Billy-Bandy-knees;"
The Frog is justly sensitive
To epithets like these.
No animal will more repay
A treatment kind and fair,
At least, so lonely people say Who keep a frog (and, by the way,
They are extremely rare).

Hilaire Belloc.

The Microbe is so very small
You cannot make him out at all,
But many sanguine people hope
To see him through a microscope.
His jointed tongue that lies beneath
A hundred curious rows of teeth;
His seven tufted tails with lots
Of lovely pink and purple spots

On each of which a pattern stands,
Composed of forty separate bands;
His eyebrows of a tender green;
All these have never yet been seen—
But Scientists, who ought to know,
Assure us that they must be so....
Oh! let us never, never doubt
What nobody is sure about!

Hilaire Belloc.

The crow—the crow! the great black crow!
He cares not to meet us wherever we go;
He cares not for man, beast, friend, nor foe,
For nothing will eat him he well doth know.
Know—know! you great black crow!
It's a comfort to feel like a great black crow!
The crow—the crow! the great black crow!
He loves the fat meadow—his taste is low;
He loves the fat worms, and he dines in a row
With fifty fine cousins all black as a sloe.
Sloe—sloe! you great black crow!
But it's jolly to fare like a great black crow!
The crow—the crow! the great black crow!
He never gets drunk on the rain or snow;
He never gets drunk, but he never says no!
If you press him to tipple ever so.
So—so! you great black crow!
It's an honour to soak like a great black crow!
The crow—the crow! the great black crow!
He lives for a hundred year and mo';
He lives till he dies, and he dies as slow
As the morning mists down the hill that go.
Go—go! you great black crow!
But it's fine to live and die like a great black crow!

Philip James Bailey.

Close by the threshold of a door nailed fast,
Three kittens sat; each kitten looked aghast.
I, passing swift and inattentive by,
At the three kittens cast a careless eye;
Not much concerned to know what they did there;
Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care.
But presently, a loud and furious hiss
Caused me to stop, and to exclaim, "What's this?"
When lo! upon the threshold met my view,
With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue,
A viper long as Count de Grasse's queue.
Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws,
Darting it full against a kitten's nose;
Who, having never seen, in field or house,
The like, sat still and silent as a mouse;
Only projecting, with attention due,
Her whiskered face, she asked him, "Who are you?"
On to the hall went I, with pace not slow,
But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe:
With which well armed, I hastened to the spot
To find the viper—but I found him not.
And, turning up the leaves and shrubs around,
Found only that he was not to be found;
But still the kittens, sitting as before,
Sat watching close the bottom of the door.
"I hope," said I, "the villain I would kill
Has slipped between the door and the door-sill;
And if I make despatch, and follow hard,
No doubt but I shall find him in the yard:"
(For long ere now it should have been rehearsed,
'Twas in the garden that I found him first.)
E'en there I found him: there the full-grown cat
His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat;
As curious as the kittens erst had been
To learn what this phenomenon might mean.
Filled with heroic ardour at the sight,
And fearing every moment he would bite,
And rob our household of our only cat
That was of age to combat with a rat;
With outstretched hoe I slew him at the door,
And taught him never to come there no more!

William Cowper.

A Poet's Cat, sedate and grave
As poet well could wish to have,
Was much addicted to inquire
For nooks to which she might retire,
And where, secure as mouse in chink,
She might repose, or sit and think.
I know not where she caught the trick;
Nature perhaps herself had cast her
In such a mold philosophique,
Or else she learned it of her master.
Sometimes ascending, debonair,
An apple-tree, or lofty pear,
Lodged with convenience in the fork,
She watched the gardener at his work;
Sometimes her ease and solace sought
In an old empty watering-pot,
There wanting nothing, save a fan,
To seem some nymph in her sedan,
Appareled in exactest sort,
And ready to be borne to court.
But love of change it seems has place
Not only in our wiser race;
Cats also feel, as well as we,
That passion's force, and so did she.
Her climbing, she began to find,
Exposed her too much to the wind,
And the old utensil of tin
Was cold and comfortless within:
She therefore wished, instead of those,
Some place of more serene repose,
Where neither cold might come, nor air
Too rudely wanton in her hair,
And sought it in the likeliest mode
Within her master's snug abode.
A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined
With linen of the softest kind,
With such as merchants introduce
From India, for the ladies' use;
A drawer, impending o'er the rest,
Half open, in the topmost chest,
Of depth enough, and none to spare,
Invited her to slumber there;
Puss with delight beyond expression,
Surveyed the scene and took possession.
Recumbent at her ease, ere long,
And lulled by her own humdrum song,
She left the cares of life behind,
And slept as she would sleep her last,
When in came, housewifely inclined,
The chambermaid, and shut it fast,
By no malignity impelled,
But all unconscious whom it held.
Awakened by the shock (cried puss)
"Was ever cat attended thus!
The open drawer was left, I see,
Merely to prove a nest for me,
For soon as I was well composed,
Then came the maid, and it was closed.
How smooth those 'kerchiefs, and how sweet
Oh what a delicate retreat!
I will resign myself to rest
Till Sol declining in the west,
Shall call to supper, when, no doubt,
Susan will come, and let me out."
The evening came, the sun descended,
And puss remained still unattended.
The night rolled tardily away
(With her indeed 'twas never day),
The sprightly morn her course renewed,
The evening gray again ensued,
And puss came into mind no more
Than if entombed the day before;
With hunger pinched, and pinched for room,
She now presaged approaching doom.
Nor slept a single wink, nor purred,
Conscious of jeopardy incurred.
That night, by chance, the poet, watching,
Heard an inexplicable scratching;
His noble heart went pit-a-pat,
And to himself he said—"What's that?"
He drew the curtain at his side,
And forth he peeped, but nothing spied.
Yet, by his ear directed, guessed
Something imprisoned in the chest;
And, doubtful what, with prudent care
Resolved it should continue there.
At length a voice which well he knew,
A long and melancholy mew,
Saluting his poetic ears,
Consoled him, and dispelled his fears;
He left his bed, he trod the floor,
He 'gan in haste the drawers explore,
The lowest first, and without stop
The next in order to the top.
For 'tis a truth well known to most,
That whatsoever thing is lost,
We seek it, ere it come to light,
In every cranny but the right.
Forth skipped the cat, not now replete
As erst with airy self-conceit,
Nor in her own fond comprehension,
A theme for all the world's attention,
But modest, sober, cured of all
Her notions hyperbolical,
And wishing for a place of rest,
Any thing rather than a chest.
Then stepped the poet into bed
With this reflection in his head:

MORAL

Beware of too sublime a sense
Of your own worth and consequence.
The man who dreams himself so great,
And his importance of such weight,
That all around in all that's done
Must move and act for him alone,
Will learn in school of tribulation
The folly of his expectation.

William Cowper.

Oh, many have told of the monkeys of old,
What a pleasant race they were,
And it seems most true that I and you
Are derived from an apish pair.
They all had nails, and some had tails,
And some—no "accounts in arrear";
They climbed up the trees, and they scratched out the—these
Of course I will not mention here.
They slept in a wood, or wherever they could,
For they didn't know how to make beds;
They hadn't got huts; they dined upon nuts,
Which they cracked upon each other's heads.
They hadn't much scope, for a comb, brush or soap,
Or towels, or kettle or fire.
They had no coats nor capes, for ne'er did these apes
Invent what they didn't require.
The sharpest baboon never used fork or spoon,
Nor made any boots for his toes,
Nor could any thief steal a silk handker-chief,
For no ape thought much of his nose;
They had cold collations; they ate poor relations:
Provided for thus, by-the-bye.
No Ou-rang-ou-tang a song ever sang—
He couldn't, and so didn't try.
From these though descended our manners are mended,
Though still we can grin and backbite!
We cut up each other, be he friend or brother,
And tales are the fashion—at night.
This origination is all speculation—
We gamble in various shapes;
So Mr. Darwin may speculate in
Our ancestors having been apes.

Unknown.

Jacob! I do not like to see thy nose
Turn'd up in scornful curve at yonder pig,
It would be well, my friend, if we like him,
Were perfect in our kind!... And why despise
The sow-born grunter?... He is obstinate,
Thou answerest; ugly, and the filthiest beast
That banquets upon offal.... Now I pray you
Hear the pig's counsel.
Is he obstinate?
We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words;
We must not take them as unheeding hands
Receive base money at the current worth
But with a just suspicion try their sound,
And in the even balance weight them well
See now to what this obstinacy comes:
A poor, mistreated, democratic beast,
He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek
Their profit, and not his. He hath not learned
That pigs were made for man,... born to be brawn'd
And baconized: that he must please to give
Just what his gracious masters please to take;
Perhaps his tusks, the weapons Nature gave
For self-defense, the general privilege;
Perhaps,... hark, Jacob! dost thou hear that horn?
Woe to the young posterity of Pork!
Their enemy is at hand.
Again. Thou say'st
The pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him!
Those eyes have taught the lover flattery.
His face,... nay, Jacob! Jacob! were it fair
To judge a lady in her dishabille?
Fancy it dressed, and with saltpeter rouged.
Behold his tail, my friend; with curls like that
The wanton hop marries her stately spouse:
So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hair
Rings round her lover's soul the chains of love.
And what is beauty, but the aptitude
Of parts harmonious? Give thy fancy scope,
And thou wilt find that no imagined change
Can beautify this beast. Place at his end
The starry glories of the peacock's pride,
Give him the swan's white breast; for his horn-hoofs
Shape such a foot and ankle as the waves
Crowded in eager rivalry to kiss
When Venus from the enamor'd sea arose;...
Jacob, thou canst but make a monster of him!
An alteration man could think, would mar
His pig-perfection.
The last charge,... he lives
A dirty life. Here I could shelter him
With noble and right-reverend precedents.
And show by sanction of authority
That 'tis a very honorable thing
To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest
On better ground the unanswerable defense.
The pig is a philosopher, who knows
No prejudice. Dirt?... Jacob, what is dirt?
If matter,... why the delicate dish that tempts
An o'ergorged epicure to the last morsel
That stuffs him to the throat-gates, is no more.
If matter be not, but as sages say,
Spirit is all, and all things visible
Are one, the infinitely modified,
Think, Jacob, what that pig is, and the mire
Wherein he stands knee-deep!
And there! the breeze
Pleads with me, and has won thee to a smile
That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossom'd field
Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.

Robert Southey.

A whale of great porosity
And small specific gravity,
Dived down with much velocity
Beneath the sea's concavity.
But soon the weight of water
Squeezed in his fat immensity,
Which varied—as it ought to—
Inversely as his density.
It would have moved to pity
An Ogre or a Hessian,
To see poor Spermaceti
Thus suffering compression.
The while he lay a-roaring
In agonies gigantic,
The lamp-oil out came pouring,
And greased the wide Atlantic.
(Would we'd been in the Navy,
And cruising there! Imagine us
All in a sea of gravy,
With billow oleaginous!)
At length old million-pounder,
Low on a bed of coral,
Gave his last dying flounder,
Whereto I pen this moral.

MORAL

O, let this tale dramatic,
Anent the whale Norwegian
And pressure hydrostatic,
Warn you, my young collegian,
That down-compelling forces
Increase as you get deeper;
The lower down your course is,
The upward path's the steeper.

Henry A. Beers.

There was a Cameronian cat
Was hunting for a prey,
And in the house she catched a mouse
Upon the Sabbath-day.
The Whig, being offended
At such an act profane,
Laid by his book, the cat he took,
And bound her in a chain.
"Thou damned, thou cursed creature!
This deed so dark with thee!
Think'st thou to bring to hell below
My holy wife and me?
"Assure thyself that for the deed
Thou blood for blood shalt pay,
For killing of the Lord's own mouse
Upon the Sabbath-day."
The presbyter laid by the book,
And earnestly he prayed
That the great sin the cat had done
Might not on him be laid.

And straight to execution
Poor pussy she was drawn,
And high hanged up upon a tree—
The preacher sung a psalm.
And, when the work was ended,
They thought the cat near dead;
She gave a paw, and then a mew,
And stretchÈd out her head.
"Thy name," said he, "shall certainly
A beacon still remain,
A terror unto evil ones
For evermore, Amen."

Unknown.

In early youth, as you may guess,
I revelled in poetic lore,
And while my schoolmates studied less,
I resolutely studied Moore.
Those touching lines from "Lalla Rookh,"—
"Ah, ever thus—" you know them well,
Such root within my bosom took,
I wished I had a young Gazelle.
Oh, yes! a sweet, a sweet Gazelle,
"To charm me with its soft black eye,"
So soft, so liquid, that a spell
Seems in that gem-like orb to lie.
Years, childhood passed, youth fled away,
My vain desire I'd learned to quell,
Till came that most auspicious day
When some one gave me a Gazelle.

With care, and trouble, and expense,
'Twas brought from Afric's northern cape;
It seemed of great intelligence,
And oh! so beautiful a shape.
Its lustrous, liquid eye was bent
With special lovingness on me;
No gift that mortal could present
More welcome to my heart could be.
I brought him food with fond caress,
Built him a hut, snug, neat, and warm;
I called him "Selim," to express
The marked s(e)limness of his form.
The little creature grew so tame,
He "learned to know (the neighbors) well;"
And then the ladies, when they came,
Oh! how they "nursed that dear Gazelle."
But, woe is me! on earthly ground
Some ill with every blessing dwells;
And soon to my dismay I found
That this applies to young Gazelles.
When free allowed to roam indoors,
The mischief that he did was great;
The walls, the furniture, the floors,
He made in a terrific state.
He nibbled at the table-cloth,
And trod the carpet into holes,
And in his gambols, nothing loth,
Kicked over scuttles full of coals.
To view his image in the glass,
He reared upon his hinder legs;
And thus one morn I found, alas!
Two porcelain vases smashed like eggs.

Whatever did his fancy catch
By way of food, he would not wait
To be invited, but would snatch
It from one's table, hand, or plate.
He riled the dog, annoyed the cat,
And scared the goldfish into fits;
He butted through my newest hat,
And tore my manuscript to bits.
'Twas strange, so light his hooflets weighed,
His limbs as slender as a hare's,
The noise my little Selim made
In trotting up and down the stairs.
To tie him up I thought was wise,
But loss of freedom gave him pain;
I could not stand those pleading eyes,
And so I let him go again.
How sweet to see him skip and prance
Upon the gravel or the lawn;
More light in step than fairies' dance,
More graceful than an English fawn.
But then he spoilt the garden so,
Trod down the beds, raked up the seeds,
And ate the plants—nor did he show
The least compunction for his deeds.
He trespassed on the neighbors' ground,
And broke two costly melon frames,
With other damages—a pound
To pay, resulted from his games.
In short, the mischief was immense
That from his gamesome pranks befel,
And, truly, in a double sense,
He proved a very "dear Gazelle."

At length I sighed—"Ah, ever thus
Doth disappointment mock each hope;
But 'tis in vain to make a fuss;
You'll have to go, my antelope."
The chance I wished for did occur;
A lady going to the East
Was willing; so I gave to her
That little antelopian beast.
I said, "This antler'd desert child
In Turkish palaces may roam,
But he is much too free and wild
To keep in any English home."
Yes, tho' I gave him up with tears,
Experience had broke the spell,
And if I live a thousand years,
I'll never have a young Gazelle.

Walter Parke.

O say, have you seen at the Willows so green—
So charming and rurally true—
A Singular bird; with a manner absurd,
Which they call the Australian Emeu?
Have you?
Ever seen this Australian Emeu?
It trots all around with its head on the ground,
Or erects it quite out of your view;
And the ladies all cry, when its figure they spy,
"O, what a sweet pretty Emeu!
Oh! do
Just look at that lovely Emeu!"
One day to this spot, when the weather was hot,
Came Matilda Hortense Fortescue;
And beside her there came a youth of high name—
Augustus Florell Montague:
The two
Both loved that wild foreign Emeu.
With two loaves of bread then they fed it, instead
Of the flesh of the white cockatoo,
Which once was its food in that wild neighbourhood
Where ranges the sweet kangaroo
That, too,
Is game for the famous Emeu!
Old saws and gimlets but its appetite whet
Like the world famous bark of Peru;
There's nothing so hard that the bird will discard,
And nothing its taste will eschew,
That you
Can give that long-legged Emeu!
The time slipped away in this innocent play,
When up jumped the bold Montague:
"Where's that specimen pin that I gaily did win
In raffle, and gave unto you,
Fortescue?"
No word spoke the guilty Emeu!
"Quick! tell me his name whom thou gavest that same,
Ere these hands in thy blood I imbrue!"
"Nay, dearest," she cried as she clung to his side,
"I'm innocent as that Emeu!"
"Adieu!"
He replied, "Miss M. H. Fortescue!"
Down she dropped at his feet, all as white as a sheet,
As wildly he fled from her view;
He thought 'twas her sin—for he knew not the pin
Had been gobbled up by the Emeu;
All through
"I'm innocent as that Emeu!"

Bret Harte.

A lively young turtle lived down by the banks
Of a dark rolling stream called the Jingo;
And one summer day, as he went out to play,
Fell in love with a charming flamingo—
An enormously genteel flamingo!
An expansively crimson flamingo!
A beautiful, bouncing flamingo!
Spake the turtle, in tones like a delicate wheeze:
"To the water I've oft seen you in go,
And your form has impressed itself deep on my shell,
You perfectly modelled flamingo!
You tremendously A-1 flamingo!
You in-ex-press-i-ble flamingo!
"To be sure, I'm a turtle, and you are a belle,
And my language is not your fine lingo;
But smile on me, tall one, and be my bright flame,
You miraculous, wondrous flamingo!
You blazingly beauteous flamingo!
You turtle-absorbing flamingo!
You inflammably gorgeous flamingo!"
Then the proud bird blushed redder than ever before,
And that was quite un-nec-es-sa-ry,
And she stood on one leg and looked out of one eye,
The position of things for to vary,—
This aquatical, musing flamingo!
This dreamy, uncertain flamingo!
This embarrasing, harassing flamingo!
Then she cried to the quadruped, greatly amazed:
"Why your passion toward me do you hurtle?
I'm an ornithological wonder of grace,
And you're an illogical turtle,—
A waddling, impossible turtle!
A low-minded, grass-eating turtle!
A highly improbable turtle!"

Then the turtle sneaked off with his nose to the ground
And never more looked at the lasses;
And falling asleep, while indulging his grief,
Was gobbled up whole by Agassiz,—
The peripatetic Agassiz!
The turtle-dissecting Agassiz!
The illustrious, industrious Agassiz!
Go with me to Cambridge some cool, pleasant day,
And the skeleton lover I'll show you;
He's in a hard case, but he'll look in your face,
Pretending (the rogue!) he don't know you!
Oh, the deeply deceptive young turtle!
The double-faced, glassy-cased turtle!
The green but a very mock turtle!

James Thomas Fields.