Kit's Cradle.

They've taken the cosy bed away That I made myself with the Shetland shawl, And set me a hamper of scratchy hay, By that great black stove in the entrance-hall. I won't sleep there; I'm resolved on that! They may think I will, but they little know There's a soft persistence about a cat That even a little kitten can show. I wish I knew what to do but pout, And spit at the dogs and refuse my tea; My fur's feeling rough, and I rather doubt Whether stolen sausage agrees with me. On the drawing-room sofa they've closed the door, They've turned me out of the easy-chairs; I wonder it never struck me before That they make their beds for themselves up-stairs. *            *            *            *            * I've found a crib where they won't find me, Though they're crying "Kitty!" all over the house. Hunt for the Slipper! and riddle-my-ree! A cat can keep as still as a mouse. It's rather unwise perhaps to purr, But they'll never think of the wardrobe-shelves. I'm happy in every hair of my fur; They may keep the hamper and hay themselves.