Chapters 7
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1 01 - The Kitten - read by GG 8:27
drawn the evening fire about, Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout, and child upon his three-foot stool, waiting until his supper cool, and maid whose cheek outblooms the rose, as bright the blazing faggot glows, who, bending to the friendly light, plies her task with busy slight. Come, show thy tricks. And sportive graces, thus circled round with merry faces. Backward coiled and crouching low, with glaring eyeballs watch thy foe. The housewife's spindle whirling round, or thread or straw that on the ground, its shadow throws by urchin sly. Held out to lure thy roving eye. Then, stealing onward, fiercely spring, Upon the tempting, faithless thing. Now, wheeling round with bootless skill, Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still.
As still beyond thy curving side, Its jetty tip is seen to glide. Till from thy centre, starting far, Thou sidelong veer'st with rump in air, Erected stiff and gate awry, Like madam in her tantrums high, Though near a madam of them all, Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall, More varied trick and whim displays To catch the admiring stranger's gaze. Doth power in measured verses dwell. All thy vagaries wild to tell? Ah, no, the start, the jet, the bound, The giddy scamper round and round, With leap and toss and high curvet, And many a whirling somerset, permitted by The modern muse, expression technical to use. These mock the deftest rymester skill, but poor in art, though rich in will. The fetus tumbler stage bedight, to thee is but a clumsy wight, who every limb and sinew strains to do what costs thee little pains.
For which I trow the gaping crowd, requite him oft with plaudits loud. But stopt the while thy wanton play, applauses too thy pains repay. For then beneath some urchin's hand, with modest pride thou takest thy stand. While many a stroke of kindness glides, along thy back, And tabby sides. Dilated swells thy glossy fur, And loudly croons thy busy purr. As timing well the equal sound, Thy clutching feet be pat to the ground, And all their harmless claws disclose Like prickles of an early rose, While softly from thy whiskered cheek Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek, but not alone by cottage fire. Do rustics rude thy feats admire? The learned sage whose thoughts explore the widest range of human lore?
Or with unfettered fancy fly through airy heights of poesy, pausing smiles with altered air? To see thee climb his elbow-chair, Or, struggling on the mat below, Hold warfare with his slippered toe, The widowed dame or lonely maid, Who, in the still but cheerless shade, Of home unsocial spends her age, And rarely turns a lettered page. Upon her hearth, for thee let's fall, The rounded cork or paper ball. Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch, The ends of ravelled skeen to catch, But lets thee have thy wayward will, Perplexing oft her better skill. Even he whose mind of gloomy bent, In lonely tower or prison pent, Reviews the coil of former days, And loathes the world in all its ways. What time the lamp's unsteady gleam Hath roused him from his moody dream?
Feels as thou gamblest round his seat, His heart of pride less fiercely beat, And smiles a link in thee to find That joins it still to living kind. Whence hast thou then, thou witless puss, The magic power to charm us thus? Is it that in thy glaring eye, And rapid movements we decry? Whilst we at ease secure from ill, The chimney-corner snugly fill. A lion darting on his prey, A tiger at his ruthless play, Or is it that in thee we trace, with all thy varied wanton grace, an emblem viewed with kindred eye, of tricky, restless infancy? Ah! many a lightly sportive child, who hath like thee our wits beguiled. To dull and sober manhood grown, with strange recoil our hearts disown. And so, poor kit, must thou endure, when thou become'st a cat demure.
Full many a cuff and angry word, chased roughly from the tempting board. But yet for that thou hast I wean, so oft our favoured playmate been. Soft be the change which thou shalt prove, when time hath spoiled Thee of our love, still be thou deemed by housewife fat, a comely, careful, mousing cat, whose dish is, for the public good, replenished oft with savory food. Nor, when thy span of life is past, be thou to pond or dung-hill cast, but gently borne on Goodman's spade. Beneath the decent sod he laid, and children show with glistening eyes the place where poor old pussy lies.
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2 02 - The Kitten - read by JCM 5:38
The Kitten by Joanna Bailey. Read for LibriVox.org by Jason Mills.
Wanton droll, whose harmless play beguiles the rustic's closing day, when, drawn the evening fire about, sit aged crone and thoughtless lout, and child upon his three-foot stool, waiting until his supper cool, and maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose, as bright the blazing faggot glows, Who, bending to the friendly light, plies her task with busy slight. Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces, thus circled round with merry faces. Backward-coiled and crouching low, with glaring eyeballs watch thy foe, the housewife's spindle whirling round, or thread, or straw that on the ground its shadow throws, by urchin sly held out to lure thy roving eye. Then, stealing onward, Fiercely spring upon the tempting, faithless thing.
Now wheeling round with bootless skill, thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still, as still beyond thy curving side its jetty-tip is seen to glide, till from thy centre, starting far, thou sidelong veerest, with rump in air, erected stiff, and gate awry, like madam in her tantrums high, though ne'er a madam of them all. Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall, more varied trick and whim displays, to catch the admiring stranger's gaze. Doth power in measured verses dwell, all thy vagaries wild to tell? Ah, no. The start, the jet, the bound, the giddy scamper round and round, with leap and toss and high curvet, and many a whirling somerset, permitted by the modern muse, expression technical to use, these mock the deftest rhymester's skill.
But poor in art, though rich in will. The foetist tumbler, stage bedight, to thee is but a clumsy wight, who every limb and sinews strains to do what costs thee little pains, for which I trow the gaping crowd requite him oft with plaudits loud. But stop to the while thy wanton play applauses to thy pains repay, for then beneath some urchin's hand with modest pride Thou takest thy stand, while many a stroke of kindness glides along thy back and tabby sides. Dilated swells thy glossy fur, and loudly croons thy busy purr, as, timing well the equal sound, thy clutching feet be pat the ground, and all their harmless claws disclose like prickles of an early rose, while softly from thy whiskered cheek thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek.
But not alone by cottage fire do rustics rude thy feats admire. The learned sage, whose thoughts explore the widest range of human lore, or with unfettered fancy fly through airy heights of poesy, pausing, smiles, with altered air, to see thee climb his elbow-chair, or, struggling on the mat below, hold warfare with his slippered toe. The widowed dame or lonely maid, Who in the still but cheerless shade of home unsocial Spends her age, and rarely turns a lettered page, Upon her hearth for thee lets fall The rounded cork or pepper-ball, Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch The ends of ravelled skein to catch, But lets thee have thy wayward will, Perplexing oft her better skill. E'en he whose mind, of gloomy bent, in lonely tower or prison pent, reviews the coil of former days, and loathes the world and all its wares, what time the lamp's unsteady gleam hath roused him from his moody dream, feels, as though gamblest round his seat, his heart of pride less fiercely beat, and smiles, a link in thee to find, that joins it still to living kind.
Whence hast thou, then, thou witless puss, The magic power to charm us thus. Is it that in thy glaring eye and rapid movements we descry, whilst we at ease secure from ill the chimney-corner snugly fill, a lion darting on his prey, a tiger at his ruthless play? Or is it that in thee we trace with all thy varied wanton grace an emblem, viewed with kindred eye, of tricky, restless infancy? Ah, many a lightly sportive child, who hath like thee our wits beguiled, to dull and sober manhood grown, with strange recoil our hearts disown. And so, poor kit, must thou endure, when thou becomet a cat demure, full many a cough and angry word, chased roughly from the tempting board. But yet, for that thou hast, I ween, so oft our favoured playmate been, soft be the change which thou shalt prove.
When time hath spoiled thee of our love, still be thou deemed by a housewife fat, a comely, careful, mousing cat, whose dish is, for the public good, replenished oft with savoury food. Nor, when thy span of life is past, be thou to pond or dung-hill cast, but gently borne on Goodman's spade, beneath the decent sod be laid, and children show with glistening eyes the place where poor old pussy lies.
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3 03 - The Kitten - read by JW 7:22
The Kitten by Joanna Bailey. Wanton droll, whose harmless play beguiles the rustic closing day, when drawn the evening fire about, sit aged crone, and thoughtless lout, and child upon his three-foot stool, waiting until his supper cool. And maid whose cheek outblooms the rose, as bright the blazing faggot glows, who, bending to the friendly light, plies her task with busy sleight. Come, show thy tricks, and sportive graces, thus circled round with merry faces, backward coiled and crouching low, with glaring eyeballs watch thy foe. The housewife's spindle whirling round, or thread or straw that on the ground its shadow throws by urchin's sly, held out to lure thy roving eye. Then, stealing onward, fiercely spring upon the tempting, faceless thing.
Now wheeling round with bootless skill, thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still. As still beyond thy curving side its jetty tip is seen to glide, till from thy centre starting far thou sidelong vearest with rumpent air erect stiff and gait awry like madame in her tantrums high. Though ne'er a madame of them all whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall More varied trick and whim displays to catch the admiring stranger's gaze. Doth power in measured verses dwell? All thy vagaries wild to tell? Ah, no! The start, the jet, the bound, the giddy scamper round and round, with leap and toss and high curvet, and many a whirling somerset. Permitted by the modern muse, expression technical to use, these mock the deftest rhymester's skill.
But poor in art, though rich in will, the fetid's tumbler, stage bedight, to thee is but a clumsy wight, who every limb and sinew strains to do what cost thee little pains. For which, I trow, the gaping crowd requite him oft with plaudits loud. But stopt the while thy wanton play, applauses to thy pains repay. For then beneath some urchin's hand, with modest pride thou takest thy stand, while many a stroke of kindness glides along thy back and tabby sides. Dilated swells thy glossy fur, and loudly croons thy busy purr. As timing well the equal sound, thy clutching feet bepat the ground, and all their harmless claws disclose, like prickles of an early rose, while softly from thy whiskered cheek thy half-closed eyes peer, mild and meek, but not alone by cottage fire, Do rustics rude thy feats admire?
The learned sage, whose thoughts explore the wildest range of human lore, or with unfettered fancy fly through airy heights of poesy, pausing smiles with altered air, to see thee climb his elbow-chair, or, struggling on the mat below, hold warfare with his slippered toe. The widowed dame or lonely maid, Who, in the still but cheerless shade of home, unsocial, spends her age and rarely turns a lettered page, upon her hearth for thee lets fall the rounded cork or paper ball, nor chides thee on thy wicked watch the ends of rabbleed skein to catch, but lets thee have thy wayward will perplexing oft Her better skill. E'en he whose mind of gloomy bent, in lonely tower or prison pent, reviews the coil of former days, and loathes the world and all its ways.
What time the lamp's unsteady gleam hath roused him from his moody dream? Feels as thou gamblest round his seat His heart of pride less fiercely beat, and smiles, a link in thee to find that joins it still to living kind. Whence hast thou then, thou witless puss, the magic power to charm us thus? Is it that thy glaring eye and rapid movements we descry, whilst we at ease secure from ill, The chimney-corner snugly fill, a lion darting on his prey, a tiger at his ruthless play. Or is it that in thee we trace, with all thy varied want and grace, an emblem viewed with kindred eye, of trickery, restless infancy? Ah! many a lightly sportive child, who hath like thee our wits beguiled, To dull and sober manhood grown, with strange recoil, our hearts disowned.
And so, poor kid, must thou endure, when thou becometst a cat demure, for many a cough and angry word, chased roughly from the tempting board. But yet, for that thou hast I ween, so oft our favorite playmate been, soft, Be the change which thou shalt prove. When time hath spoiled thee of our love, still be thou deemed by housewife Bat, a comely, careful mousing cat, whose dish is for the public good, replenished oft with savoury food, nor when thy span of life is past, be thou to pond or dung-hill cast. But gently borne on Goodsman's spade, Beneath the decent sod be laid. And children, show with glistening eyes The place where poor old pussy lies.
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4 04 - The Kitten - read by LLW 6:54
The Kitten by Joanna Bailey. Wanton droll whose harmless play beguiles the rustic's closing day, when, drawn the evening fire about, sit aged crone and thoughtless lout, and child upon his three-foot stool, waiting until his supper cool. And maid whose cheek outblooms the rose, as bright the blazing faggot glows, who, bending to the friendly light, plies her task with busy sleight. Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces, thus circled round with merry faces. Backward coiled and crouching low, with glaring eyeballs watch thy foe, the housewife spindle whirling round, Or thread, or straw, that on the ground its shadow throws, by urchin sly held out to lure thy roving eye. Then, stealing onward, fiercely spring upon the tempting faithless thing.
Now wheeling round with bootless skill, thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still, as still beyond thy curving side its jetty tip is seen to glide. Till from thy center starting far, thou sidelong veer'st with rumpen air erected stiff, and gate awry, like madam in her tantrums high, though ne'er a madam of them all, whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall, more varied trick and whim displays to catch the admiring stranger's gaze. Doth power in measured verses dwell? All thy vagaries wild to tell? Ah, no, the start, the jet, the bound, the giddy scamper round and round, with leap and toss and high curvet, and many a whirling somerset, permitted by the modern muse, expression technical to use, these mock the deftest rhymester's skill, but poor in art, though rich in will.
The fetus tumbler stage bedight to thee is but a clumsy wight, who every limb and sinew strains to do what cost thee little pains, for which I trow the gaping crowd requite him oft with plaudits loud. But stop the while thy wanton play applauses too, thy pains repay. For then beneath some urchin's hand With modest pride thou tak'st thy stand, while many a stroke of kindness glides along thy back and tabby sides. Dilated swells thy glossy fur, and loudly croons thy busy purr, as timing well the equal sound, thy clutching feet bepat the ground, and all their harmless claws disclose like prickles of an early rose. While softly from thy whiskered cheek, thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek. But not alone by cottage fire do rustics rude thy feats admire.
The learned sage whose thoughts explore the widest range of human lore, or with unfettered fancy fly through airy heights of poesy, pausing smiles with altered air, To see thee climb his elbow-chair, or, struggling on the mat below, hold warfare with his slippered toe. The widowed dame or lonely maid who in the still but churlish shade of home unsocial spends her age and rarely turns a lettered page, upon her hearth for thee lets fall the rounded cork or paper ball, Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch the ends of ravelled escane to catch, but lets thee have thy wayward will, perplexing oft her better skill. E'en he whose mind of gloomy bent and lonely tower or prison pent reviews the coil of former days and loathes the world and all its ways, What time the lamp's unsteady gleam hath roused him from his moody dream, feels as thou gamblest round his seat, his heart of pride less fiercely beat, and smiles a link in thee to find that joins it still to living kind.
Whence hast thou then, thou witless puss, the magic power to charm us thus? Is it that in thy glaring eye, and rapid movements we descry, whilst we at ease secure from ill the chimney-corner snugly fill, a lion darting on his prey, a tiger at his ruthless play? Or is it that in thee we trace with all thy varied wanton grace an emblem viewed with kindred eye of tricky restless infancy? Ah, many a lightly sportive child, who hath like thee our wits beguiled, to dull and sober manhood grown, with strange recoil our hearts disown. And so, poor kit, must thou endure, when thou become'st a cat demure, full many a cuff and angry word, chased roughly from the tempting board. But yet— For that thou hast, I ween, so oft our favoured playmate been, Soft be the change which thou shalt prove, When time hath spoiled thee of our love, Still be thou deemed by housewife fat, A comely, careful, mousing cat, Whose dish is, for the public good, Replenished oft with savoury food.
Nor, when thy span of life is past, be thou to pond or dunghill cast, but gently borne on good man's spade, beneath the decent sod belaid, and children show with glistening eyes the place where poor old pussy lies.
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5 05 - The Kitten - read by MAS 6:56
The Kitten by Joanna Bailey.
Wanton droll, whose harmless play beguiles the rustic's closing day, When, drawn the evening fire about, Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout, And child upon his three-foot stool, Waiting until his supper cool, And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose, As bright as the blazing faggot glows, Who, bending to the friendly light, Plies her task with busy's flight. Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces, Thus circled round with merry faces. Backward-coiled and crouching low, With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe. The housewife's spindle whirling round, Or thread or straw. That on the ground its shadow throws, By urchin sly held out to lure thy roving eye. Then, stealing onward, fiercely spring Upon the tempting, faithless thing.
Now, wheeling round with bootless skill, Thy bow-peep tail provokes thee still, As still beyond thy curving side Its jetty tip is seen to glide. Till from thy centers starting far, Thou sigh-long veer'st, with rump in air, Erected stiff, and gay to wry, Like madam in her tantrums high. Though ne'er a madam of them all, Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall, More varied trick and whim displays, To catch the admiring stranger's gaze. Doth power in measured verses dwell, All thy vagaries wild to tell. Ah, no. The start, the jet, the bound, the giddy scamper round and round, with leap and toss and high curvet, and many a whirling somerset, permitted by the modern muse, expression technical to use. These mock the daftest rhymester's skill, but poor in art, though rich in will.
The fetus tumbler. Stage bedight, to thee is but a clumsy wight, Who every limb and sinews strains To do what cost thee little pains, For which, I trow, the gaping crowd Requite him oft with plaudits loud. But stopt the while thy wanton play, Applauses, too, thy pains repay, For then, beneath some urchin's hand With modest pride, Thou takest thy stand, while many a stroke of kindness glides along thy back and tabby sides. Dilated swells thy glossy fur, and loudly croons thy busy purr, as, timing well the equal sound, thy clutching feet bepat the ground, and all their harmless claws disclose like prickles of an early rose. While softly from thy whiskered cheek, thy half-closed eyes peer, mild and meek.
But not alone by cottage fire do rustics brood thy feet's admire. The learned sage, whose thoughts explore the wildest range of human lore, or with unfettered fancy fly through airy heights of posy, pausing smiles with altered air to see thee climb his elbow-chair. Or, struggling on the mat below, hold warfare with his slipper'd toe. The widowed dame, or lonely maid, who, in the still but cheerless shade of home unsocial, spends her age, and rarely turns a letter'd page, upon her hearth for thee lets fall the rounded cork or paper ball. Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch the ends of ravel'd skein to catch. But lets thee have thy wayward will, perplexing oft her better skill.
E'en he whose mind, of gloomy bent, in lonely tower or prison pent, renews the coil of former days, and loathes the world in all its ways, what time the lamp's unsteady gleam hath roused him from his moody dream, feels, as thou gambolest round his seat, His heart of pride lest fiercely beat, And smiles, a link in thee to find That joins it still to living kind.
Whence hast thou then, thou witless pus, The magic power to charm us thus? Is it that in thy glaring eye and rapid movements We descry, whilst we at ease, secure from ill, The chimney corners snugly fill, a lion, Darting on his prey, a tiger at his ruthless play. Or is it that in thee we trace, with all thy varied wanton grace, an emblem viewed with kindred eye of tricky, restless infancy? Ah, many a lightly sportive child, who hath like thee our wits beguiled, to dull and sober manhood grown, with strange recoil. Our hearts disown. And so, poor Kit, must thou endure, When thou becometh a cat demure, Full many a cough and angry word, Chased roughly from the tempting board. But yet, for that thou hast, I ween, So oft our favorite playmate been, Soft be the change which thou shalt prove.
When time hath spoiled thee of our love, Still be thou deemed by a housewife fat, A comely, careful, mousing cat, Whose dish is, for the public good, Replenished oft with savory food. Nor, when thy span of life is past, Be thou to pond or dunghill cast, But gently, borne on good man's spade. Beneath the decent sod be laid, And children show with glistening eyes The place where poor old pussy lies.
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6 06 - The Kitten - read by RC 7:12
The Kitten by Joanna Bailey.
Wanton droll whose harmless play Beguiles the rustic's closing day, When, drawn the evening fire about, Sit aged croon and thoughtless lout, And child upon his three-foot stool, Waiting until his supper cool, And maid whose cheek outblooms the rose, As bright the blazing faggot glows, Who, bending to the friendly light, Plies her task with busy slight. Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces, Thus circled round with merry faces, Backward coiled and crouching low, With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe. The housewife's spindle whirling round, or thread or straw that on the ground, its shadow throws by urchins lie, held out to lure thy roving eye. Then stealing onward, fiercely spring upon the tempting faithless thing.
Now wheeling round with bootless skill, thy bow-peeped tail provokes thee still. As still beyond thy curving side, Its jetty tip is seen to glide, Till from thy centre starting far, Thou sidelong ve'erst with rump in air, Erected stiff and gait awry, Like madam in her tantrums high, Though ne'er a madam of them all, Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall, More varied trick and whim displays, To catch the admiring stranger's gaze, Doth power in measured verses dwell? All thy vagaries wild to tell? Ah, no, the start, the jet, the bound, the giddy scamper round and round, with leap and toss and high curvet, and many a whirling somerset. Permitted by the modern muse, expression technical to use, these mock the deftest, rhymester's skill, But poor in art, though rich in well.
The featest tumbler, stage bedight, to thee is but a clumsy wight, who every limb and sinew strains to do what costs thee little pains, for which I trow the gaping crowd requite him oft with plaudits loud.
But stopt the while thy wanton play. Applauses, too, thy pains repay, for then, beneath some urchin's hand, with modest pride thou takest thy stand, while many a stroke of kindness glides along thy back and tabby sides, dilated swells thy glossy fur, and loudly croons thy busy par-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r Thy clutching feet bepat the ground, and all their harmless claws disclose like prickles of an early rose, while softly from thy whiskered cheek thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek. But not alone by cottage fire do rustics rude thy feats admire, the learned sage whose thoughts explore The widest range of human lore, or with unfettered fancy fly through airy hearts of poesy, pausing smiles with altered air to see thee climb his elbow-chair, or, struggling on the mat below, hold warfare with his slippered toe, the widow dame or lonely maid who, in the still but cheerless shade of home unsocial, spends her age And rarely turns a lettered page.
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall The rounded cork or paper ball, Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch The ends of ravelled scound to catch, But lets thee have thy wayward will Perplexing oft her better skill. E'en he whose mind of gloomy bent In lonely tower or prison pent Reviews the coil of former days, and loathes the world and all its ways. What time the lamp's unsteady gleam hath roused him from his moody dream? Feels as though gambolst round his seat, his heart of pride less fiercely beat, and smiles, a link in thee to find, that joins it still to living kind. Whence hath thou then, thou witless poos, the magic power to charm us thus? Is it that in thy glaring eye and rapid movements we descry, whilst we at ease, secure from ill, the chimney-corners snugly fill, a lion darting on his prey, a tiger at his ruthless play?
Or is it that in thee we trace with all thy varied wanton grace? An emblem, viewed with kindred eye, of tricky, restless infancy. Ah, many a lightly sportive child, who hath, like thee, our wits beguiled, to dull and sombre manhood grown, with strange recoil our hearts disown. And so, poor Ket, must thou endure, when thou become'st a cat demure, full many a cuff and angry word. Chased roughly from the tempting board. But yet for that thou hast I ween, So oft our favored playmate been. Soft be the change which thou shalt prove, When time hath spoiled thee of our love. Still be thou deemed by housewife fat, A comely, careful, mousing cat, Whose dish is for the public good, Replenished oft with savory food, nor, when thy span of life is past, be thou to pond or dunghill cast, but gently borne on goodman's spade, beneath the decent sod be laid, and children show with glistening eyes the place where poor old pussy lies.
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7 07 - The Kitten - read by SP and SC 7:24
The Kidden by Joanna Bailey. Read for LibriVox.org by Rachel. And Super Coconut. Wanton droll whose harmless play Beguiles the rustic's closing day, When, drawn the evening fire about, Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout, And child upon his three-foot stool, Waiting until his supper cool, And maid whose cheek outblooms the rose, As bright the blazing faggot glows. Who, bending to the friendly light, plies her task with busy slate. Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces, thus circled round with merry faces. Backward coiled and crouching low, with glaring eyeballs watch thy foe. The housewife's spindle whirling round, or thread or straw that on the ground, its shadow throws by urchits lie, held out to lure thy roving eye.
Then stealing onward fiercely spring upon the tempting faithless thing. Now wheeling round with bootless skill, thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still. As still beyond thy curving side its jetty tip is seen to glide, till from thy centre starting far thou sidelong veer'st with rump in air, erected stiff and gate awry, like madam in her tantrums high. Though ne'er a madam of them all, whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall, more varied trick and whim displays, to catch the admiring stranger's gaze. Doth power in measured verses dwell, all thy vagaries wild to tell, ah, no, the start, the dent, the bound, the giddy scamper round and round, with leap and toss and high curvet, and many a whirling somerset.
Permitted by the modern muse, expression technical to use, these mock the deftest rhymester's skill, but poor in art, though rich in will. The speech's tumbler is stage bedight, to V is but a clumsy wight, who ever linen's new strings, to do what cost the little pains. For which I trowd a gaping crowd, could kite him off with plaudits loud. But stopt the while thy wanton play, applauses to thy pains repay. For then beneath some urchin's hand, with modest pride thou takest thy stand, while many a stroke of kindness glides along thy back and heavy sides. Dilated swells thy glossy fur, and loudly croons thy busy purr. As, timing well the equal sound, thy clutching feet bepat the ground, and all their harmless claws disclose like prickles of an early rose, while softly from thy whiskered cheek thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek.
But not alone by cottage fire, the watch it Rude by freets and mire, the learned phage whose fox floor, the widest range of human war, or with unfettered antsy fly through area heights of pole-eye. Pausin smiles with autumn air to see the climb his arable chair. Or, struggling on the map below, hold wearful with his snippered coat. The widdle dame or a lonely maid, too in the still but dearest aid, of whom and social spends her age, and rarely turns a lettered page. Upon her heart For thee let's fall, rounded cork or paper ball.
Nor change that on thy wicked watch. The ends of a gravel scheme to catch, but let's see how the labor will. For a flex enough for better skill. E'en he whose mind of gloomy bent, in lowly tower or prison pent, reviews the coil of former days, and loathes the world in all its ways. What time the lamp's unsteady gleam hath roused him from his moody dream? Feels as thou gambol'st round his seat, his heart of pride less fiercely beat, and smiles a link in me to find that joins it still to living kind. When shathed out then the windless puss, the magic power to charm us thus, is it that in thy glaring eye? In rapid movements we disquire the street of these secure from ill.
Chimney corner snugly fell. A lion darting on his prey. A tiger at his ruthless clay. Lord, is it that in dewy trace, with all lie buried, wanton grace, an emblem veiled with kindred eye? A tricky restless infancy. Ah, many a lightly sportive child, who hath like thee our wits beguiled, to dull and sober manhood grown, with strange recoil our hearts disown.
And so, poor kit, must thou endure, when thou become'st a cat demure, full many a cuff and angry word, chased roughly from the tempting board, But yet for that thou hast I ween, so oft our favoured playmate been. So be the change which thou shalt prove, when time hath spoiled thee of our love. Still be thou deemed by housewife that, a comely careful mousing cat, whose dish is for the public good, replenished oft with savoury food. Nor when thy span of life is past, Be thou to pond or dunghill cast, but gently borne on good man's spade, beneath the decent sod be laid, and children show with glistening eyes the place where poor old pussy lies.