In Darkest Africa

At evening when the lamp is lit,

The tired Human People sit

And doze, or turn with solemn looks

The speckled pages of their books.

Then I, the Dangerous Kitten, prowl

And in the Shadows softly growl,

And roam about the farthest floor

Where Kitten never trod before.

And, crouching in the jungle damp,

I watch the Human Hunter’s camp,

Ready to spring with fearful roar

As soon as I shall hear them snore.

And then with stealthy tread I crawl

Into the dark and trackless hall,

Where ’neath the Hat-tree’s shadows deep

Umbrellas fold their wings and sleep.

A cuckoo calls—and to their dens

The People climb like frightened hens,

And I’m alone—and no one cares

In Darkest Africa—down stairs.