The Book of Humorous Verse
Chapter 188 : But love of change it seems has place Not only in our wiser race; Cats also feel, as w

But love of change it seems has place Not only in our wiser race; Cats also feel, as well as we, That pa.s.sion's force, and so did she.

Her climbing, she began to find, Exposed her too much to the wind, And the old utensil of tin Was cold and comfortless within: She therefore wished, instead of those, Some place of more serene repose, Where neither cold might come, nor air Too rudely wanton in her hair, And sought it in the likeliest mode Within her master's snug abode.

A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined With linen of the softest kind, With such as merchants introduce From India, for the ladies' use; A drawer, impending o'er the rest, Half open, in the topmost chest, Of depth enough, and none to spare, Invited her to slumber there; Puss with delight beyond expression, Surveyed the scene and took possession.

Rec.u.mbent at her ease, ere long, And lulled by her own humdrum song, She left the cares of life behind, And slept as she would sleep her last, When in came, housewifely inclined, The chambermaid, and shut it fast, By no malignity impelled, But all unconscious whom it held.

Awakened by the shock (cried puss) "Was ever cat attended thus!

The open drawer was left, I see, Merely to prove a nest for me, For soon as I was well composed, Then came the maid, and it was closed.

How smooth those 'kerchiefs, and how sweet Oh what a delicate retreat!

I will resign myself to rest Till Sol declining in the west, Shall call to supper, when, no doubt, Susan will come, and let me out."

The evening came, the sun descended, And puss remained still unattended.

The night rolled tardily away (With her indeed 'twas never day), The sprightly morn her course renewed, The evening gray again ensued, And puss came into mind no more Than if entombed the day before; With hunger pinched, and pinched for room, She now presaged approaching doom.

Nor slept a single wink, nor purred, Conscious of jeopardy incurred.

That night, by chance, the poet, watching, Heard an inexplicable scratching; His n.o.ble heart went pit-a-pat, And to himself he said--"What's that?"

He drew the curtain at his side, And forth he peeped, but nothing spied.

Yet, by his ear directed, guessed Something imprisoned in the chest; And, doubtful what, with prudent care Resolved it should continue there.

At length a voice which well he knew, A long and melancholy mew, Saluting his poetic ears, Consoled him, and dispelled his fears; He left his bed, he trod the floor, He 'gan in haste the drawers explore, The lowest first, and without stop The next in order to the top.

For 'tis a truth well known to most, That whatsoever thing is lost, We seek it, ere it come to light, In every cranny but the right.

Forth skipped the cat, not now replete As erst with airy self-conceit, Nor in her own fond comprehension, A theme for all the world's attention, But modest, sober, cured of all Her notions hyperbolical, And wis.h.i.+ng for a place of rest, Any thing rather than a chest.

Then stepped the poet into bed With this reflection in his head:

MORAL

Beware of too sublime a sense Of your own worth and consequence.

The man who dreams himself so great, And his importance of such weight, That all around in all that's done Must move and act for him alone, Will learn in school of tribulation The folly of his expectation.

_William Cowper._

A DARWINIAN BALLAD

Oh, many have told of the monkeys of old, What a pleasant race they were, And it seems most true that I and you Are derived from an apish pair.

They all had nails, and some had tails, And some--no "accounts in arrear"; They climbed up the trees, and they scratched out the--these Of course I will not mention here.

They slept in a wood, or wherever they could, For they didn't know how to make beds; They hadn't got huts; they dined upon nuts, Which they cracked upon each other's heads.

They hadn't much scope, for a comb, brush or soap, Or towels, or kettle or fire.

They had no coats nor capes, for ne'er did these apes Invent what they didn't require.

The sharpest baboon never used fork or spoon, Nor made any boots for his toes, Nor could any thief steal a silk handker-chief, For no ape thought much of his nose; They had cold collations; they ate poor relations: Provided for thus, by-the-bye.

No Ou-rang-ou-tang a song ever sang-- He couldn't, and so didn't try.

From these though descended our manners are mended, Though still we can grin and backbite!

We cut up each other, be he friend or brother, And tales are the fas.h.i.+on--at night.

This origination is all speculation-- We gamble in various shapes; So Mr. Darwin may speculate in Our ancestors having been apes.

_Unknown._

THE PIG

A COLLOQUIAL POEM

Jacob! I do not like to see thy nose Turn'd up in scornful curve at yonder pig, It would be well, my friend, if we like him, Were perfect in our kind!... And why despise The sow-born grunter?... He is obstinate, Thou answerest; ugly, and the filthiest beast That banquets upon offal.... Now I pray you Hear the pig's counsel.

Is he obstinate?

We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words; We must not take them as unheeding hands Receive base money at the current worth But with a just suspicion try their sound, And in the even balance weight them well See now to what this obstinacy comes: A poor, mistreated, democratic beast, He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek Their profit, and not his. He hath not learned That pigs were made for man,... born to be brawn'd And baconized: that he must please to give Just what his gracious masters please to take; Perhaps his tusks, the weapons Nature gave For self-defense, the general privilege; Perhaps,... hark, Jacob! dost thou hear that horn?

Woe to the young posterity of Pork!

Their enemy is at hand.

Again. Thou say'st The pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him!

Those eyes have taught the lover flattery.

His face,... nay, Jacob! Jacob! were it fair To judge a lady in her dishabille?

Fancy it dressed, and with saltpeter rouged.

Behold his tail, my friend; with curls like that The wanton hop marries her stately spouse: So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hair Rings round her lover's soul the chains of love.

And what is beauty, but the apt.i.tude Of parts harmonious? Give thy fancy scope, And thou wilt find that no imagined change Can beautify this beast. Place at his end The starry glories of the peac.o.c.k's pride, Give him the swan's white breast; for his horn-hoofs Shape such a foot and ankle as the waves Crowded in eager rivalry to kiss When Venus from the enamor'd sea arose;...

Jacob, thou canst but make a monster of him!

An alteration man could think, would mar His pig-perfection.

The last charge,... he lives A dirty life. Here I could shelter him With n.o.ble and right-reverend precedents.

And show by sanction of authority That 'tis a very honorable thing To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest On better ground the unanswerable defense.

The pig is a philosopher, who knows No prejudice. Dirt?... Jacob, what is dirt?

If matter,... why the delicate dish that tempts An o'ergorged epicure to the last morsel That stuffs him to the throat-gates, is no more.

If matter be not, but as sages say, Spirit is all, and all things visible Are one, the infinitely modified, Think, Jacob, what that pig is, and the mire Wherein he stands knee-deep!

And there! the breeze Pleads with me, and has won thee to a smile That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossom'd field Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.

_Robert Southey._

A FISH STORY

A whale of great porosity And small specific gravity, Dived down with much velocity Beneath the sea's concavity.

But soon the weight of water Squeezed in his fat immensity, Which varied--as it ought to-- Inversely as his density.

It would have moved to pity An Ogre or a Hessian, To see poor Spermaceti Thus suffering compression.

The while he lay a-roaring In agonies gigantic, The lamp-oil out came pouring, And greased the wide Atlantic.

(Would we'd been in the Navy, And cruising there! Imagine us All in a sea of gravy, With billow oleaginous!)

At length old million-pounder, Low on a bed of coral, Gave his last dying flounder, Whereto I pen this moral.