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.