Watching a ball on the end of a string,

Watching it swing back and to,

Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing

Ever a Kitten can do.

First it goes this way, then it goes that,

Just like a bird on the wing.

And all of a tremble I crouch on the mat

Like a Lion, preparing to spring.

And now with a terrible deafening mew,

Like a Tiger I leap on my prey,

And just when I think I have torn it in two

It is up in the air and away.

The Dog is black or white or brown

And sometimes spotted like a clown.

He loves to make a foolish noise

And Human Company enjoys.

The Human People pat his head

And teach him to pretend he’s dead,

And beg, and fetch and carry too;

Things that no well-bred Cat will do.

At Human jokes, however stale,

He jumps about and wags his tail,

And Human People clap their hands

And think he really understands.

They say “Good Dog” to him. To us

They say “Poor Puss,” and make no fuss.

Why Dogs are “good” and Cats are “poor”

I fail to understand, I’m sure.

To Someone very Good and Just,

Who has proved worthy of her trust,

A Cat will sometimes condescend—

The Dog is Everybody’s friend.

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.

The Kitten mews outside the Door,

The Cat-bird in the Tree,

The Sea-mew mews upon the Shore,

The Catfish in the Sea.

The Emu with his feathers queer

Is mewing in the Zoo.

Why is it that I never hear

A Pussy-willow mew?

A Birdie cocked his little head,

Winked his eye at me and said,

“Say, are you a Pussy Willer,

Or just a Kitty-Catty pillar?”

Great is the Golden Cat who treads

The Blue Roof Garden o’er our heads,

The never tired smiling One

That Human People call the Sun.

He stretches forth his paw at dawn

And though the blinds are closely drawn

His claws peep through like Rays of Light,

To catch the fluttering Bird of Night.

He smiles into the Hayloft dim

And the brown Hay smiles back at him,

And when he strokes the Earth’s green fur

He makes the Fields and Meadows purr.

His face is one big Golden smile,

It measures round, at least a mile—

How dull our World would be, and flat,

Without the Golden Pussy Cat.

The Moon is like a big round cheese

That shines above the garden trees,

And like a cheese grows less each night,

As though some one had had a bite.

The Mouse delights to nibble cheese,

The Dog bites anything he sees—

But how could they bite off the Moon

Unless they went in a balloon?

And Human People, when they eat

They think it rude to bite their meat,

They use a Knife or Fork or Spoon;

Who is it then that bites the moon?

The Puppy cannot mew or talk,

He has a funny kind of walk,

His tail is difficult to wag

And that’s what makes him walk zigzag.

He is the Kitten of a Dog,

From morn till night he’s all agog—

Forever seeking something new

That’s good but isn’t meant to chew.

He romps about the Tulip bed,

And chews the Flowers white and red,

And when the Gardener comes to see

He’s sure to blame mamma or me.

One game that cannot ever fail

To please him is to chase his tail—

(To catch one’s tail, ’twixt me and you,

Is not an easy thing to do.)

If he has not a pretty face

The Puppy’s heart is in its place.

I’m sorry he must grow into

A Horrid, Noisy Dog, aren’t you?

When Human Folk at Table eat,

A Kitten must not mew for meat,

Or jump to grab it from the Dish,

(Unless it happens to be fish).

Up into the Cherry Tree,

Who should climb but little me,

With both my Paws I hold on tight,

And look upon a pleasant sight.

There are the Gardens far away,

Where little Foreign Kittens play,

And those queer specks of black and brown

Are naughty cats that live in Town.

And there among the tulips red,

Where I may never lay my head,

I see the Cruel Gardener hoe

The baby weeds that may not grow.

Now I climb down—“Oh dear,”—I mew,

“Which end goes first—what shall I do?

Oh, good Kind Gardener, big and brown,

Please come and help this Kitten down.”

When Mistress Peggy moves around,

Her dresses make a mocking sound.

“You can’t catch me!” they seem to say—

I often steal a ride that way.

Kittens large and Kittens small,

Prowling on the Back Yard Wall,

Though your fur be rough and few,

I should like to play with you.

Though you roam the dangerous street,

And have curious things to eat,

Though you sleep in barn or loft,

With no cushions warm and soft,

Though you have to stay out-doors

When it’s cold or when it pours,

Though your fur is all askew—

How I’d like to play with you!

When I grow up I mean to be

A Lion large and fierce to see.

I’ll mew so loud that Cook in fright

Will give me all the cream in sight.

And anyone who dares to say

“Poor Puss” to me will rue the day.

Then having swallowed him I’ll creep

Into the Guest Room Bed to sleep.

Kittens, you are very little,

And your kitten bones are brittle,

If you’d grow to Cats respected,

See your play be not neglected.

Smite the Sudden Spool, and spring

Upon the Swift Elusive String,

Thus you learn to catch the wary

Mister Mouse or Miss Canary.

That is how in Foreign Places

Fluffy Cubs with Kitten faces,

Where the mango waves sedately,

Grow to Lions large and stately.

But the Kittencats who snatch

Rudely for their food, or scratch,

Grow to Tomcats gaunt and gory,—

Theirs is quite another story.

Cats like these are put away

By the dread S. P. C. A.,

Or to trusting Aunts and Sisters

Sold as Sable Muffs and Wristers.

When I was just a Kitten small,

They gave to me a Rubber Ball

To roll upon the floor.

One day I tapped it with my paw

And pierced the rubber with my claw;

Now it will roll no more.

When Human Folk put out the light,

And think they’ve made it dark as night,

A Pussy Cat sees every bit

As well as when the lights are lit.

When Human Folk have gone upstairs,

And shed their skins and said their prayers,

And there is no one to annoy,

Then Pussy may her life enjoy.

No Human hands to pinch or slap,

Or rub her fur against the nap,

Or throw cold water from a pail,

Or make a handle of her tail.

And so you will not think it wrong

When she can play the whole night long,

With no one to disturb her play,

That Pussy goes to bed by day.

The Lion does not move at all,

Winter or Summer, Spring or Fall,

He does not even stretch or yawn,

But lies in silence on the lawn.

He must be lazy it is plain,

For there is moss upon his mane,

And what is more, a pair of Daws

Have built a nest between his paws.

Oh, Lazy Lion, big and brown,

This is no time for lying down!

The Sun is shining, can’t you see?

Oh, please wake up and play with me.

When People think that Kittens play,

It’s really quite the other way.

For when they chase the Ball or Bobbin

They learn to catch a Mouse or Robin.

The Kitten, deaf to Duty’s call,

Who will not chase the bounding ball,

A hungry Cathood will enjoy,

The scorn of Mouse and Bird and Boy.

The rain is raining everywhere,

Kittens to shelter fly—

But Human Folk wear overshoes,

To keep their hind paws dry.

In Winter when the air is chill,

And winds are blowing loud and shrill,

All snug and warm I sit and purr,

Wrapped in my overcoat of fur.

In Summer quite the other way,

I find it very hot all day,

But Human People do not care,

For they have nice thin clothes to wear.

And does it not seem hard to you,

When all the world is like a stew,

And I am much too warm to purr,

I have to wear my Winter Fur?