Chips, fragments and vestiges by Gail Hamilton collected and arranged by H. Augusta Dodge |
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TROSY'S DEFENCE OF HERSELF AGAINST THE CHARGE OF SLAUGHTER, AND CRUELTY, AND GUILT |
 | Chips, fragments and vestiges by Gail Hamilton |  |
206
TROSY'S DEFENCE OF HERSELF AGAINST THE CHARGE OF SLAUGHTER, AND CRUELTY, AND GUILT
“Trosy, Trosy, you mischievous elf,
What have you, pray, to say for yourself?”
But Trosy was now
Asleep on the mow,
And only drawled dreamily, “Ma-e-ow.”
What have you, pray, to say for yourself?”
But Trosy was now
Asleep on the mow,
And only drawled dreamily, “Ma-e-ow.”
“Trosy, Trosy, come here to me,—
The naughtiest Trosy I ever did see!
I know very well what you've been about;
Don't try to conceal it, murder will out.
Why do you lie so easily there?”
“O I have had a breakfast rare!”
The naughtiest Trosy I ever did see!
I know very well what you've been about;
Don't try to conceal it, murder will out.
Why do you lie so easily there?”
“O I have had a breakfast rare!”
“Why don't you go and hunt for a mouse?”
“Oh, there's nothing fit to eat in the house!”
“Oh, there's nothing fit to eat in the house!”
“Dear me! Mrs. Kitty,
This is a pity;
But I guess the cause of your change of ditty.
What has become of the beautiful thrush
That built her nest in the heap of brush?
A brace of young robins as good as the best;
A round little, brown little, snug little nest;
Four little eggs all green and gay,
Four little birds all bare and gray,
And Papa Robin went foraging round,
Aloft on the trees, and alight on the ground.
North wind or south wind, he cared not a groat,
So he popped a fat worm down each wide-open throat;
And Mamma Robin through sun and storm
Hugged them up close, and kept them all warm;
And Tripoli watched the dear little things,
Till the feathers pricked out on their pretty wings,
And their eyes peeped up o'er the rim of the nest.
Trosy, Trosy, you know the rest.
The nest is empty, and silent, and lone;
Where are the four little robins gone?
Oh, Puss! you have done a cruel deed!
Your eyes, do they weep? your heart, does it bleed?
Do you not feel your bold cheeks turning pale?
Not you! You are chasing your wicked tail,
Or you just cuddle down in the hay, and purr,
Curl up in a ball, and refuse to stir.
But you need not try to look good and wise;
I see little robins, old Puss, in your eyes;
And this morning, just as the clock struck four,
There was some one opening the kitchen door,
And caught you creeping the wood-pile over,—
Make a clean breast of it, Kitty Clover!”
This is a pity;
But I guess the cause of your change of ditty.
What has become of the beautiful thrush
That built her nest in the heap of brush?
A brace of young robins as good as the best;
A round little, brown little, snug little nest;
Four little eggs all green and gay,
Four little birds all bare and gray,
207
Aloft on the trees, and alight on the ground.
North wind or south wind, he cared not a groat,
So he popped a fat worm down each wide-open throat;
And Mamma Robin through sun and storm
Hugged them up close, and kept them all warm;
And Tripoli watched the dear little things,
Till the feathers pricked out on their pretty wings,
And their eyes peeped up o'er the rim of the nest.
Trosy, Trosy, you know the rest.
The nest is empty, and silent, and lone;
Where are the four little robins gone?
Oh, Puss! you have done a cruel deed!
Your eyes, do they weep? your heart, does it bleed?
Do you not feel your bold cheeks turning pale?
Not you! You are chasing your wicked tail,
Or you just cuddle down in the hay, and purr,
Curl up in a ball, and refuse to stir.
But you need not try to look good and wise;
I see little robins, old Puss, in your eyes;
And this morning, just as the clock struck four,
There was some one opening the kitchen door,
And caught you creeping the wood-pile over,—
Make a clean breast of it, Kitty Clover!”
Then Trose
Arose
Rubbed up her nose,
And looked very much as if coming to blows;
Rounded her back,
Leaped from the stack,
On her feet, at my feet, came down with a whack.
When fairly awake, she stretched out her paws,
Smoothed down her whiskers, and unsheathed her claws,
Winked her green eyes,
With an air of surprise,
And spoke rather plainly for one of her size.
Arose
Rubbed up her nose,
And looked very much as if coming to blows;
208
Leaped from the stack,
On her feet, at my feet, came down with a whack.
When fairly awake, she stretched out her paws,
Smoothed down her whiskers, and unsheathed her claws,
Winked her green eyes,
With an air of surprise,
And spoke rather plainly for one of her size.
“Killed a few robins! Well, what of that?
What's virtue in man can't be vice in a cat.
There's a thing or two I should like to know,—
Who killed the chicken a week ago?
For nothing at all that I could spy
But to make an overgrown chicken pie.
'Twixt you and me,
'Tis plain to see,
The odds is, you like fricassee,
While my brave maw
Owns no such law
Content with viands a-la-raw.
What's virtue in man can't be vice in a cat.
There's a thing or two I should like to know,—
Who killed the chicken a week ago?
For nothing at all that I could spy
But to make an overgrown chicken pie.
'Twixt you and me,
'Tis plain to see,
The odds is, you like fricassee,
While my brave maw
Owns no such law
Content with viands a-la-raw.
“Who killed the robins? Oh, yes! Oh, yes!
I would get the cat, now, into a mess!
Who was it put
An old stocking-foot
Tied up with strings,
And such shabby things,
On to the end of a sharp, slender pole,
Dipped it in oil, and set fire to the whole,
And burnt all the way from here to the miller's
The nests of the sweet young caterpillars?
Grilled fowl, indeed!
Why, as I read,
You had not even the plea of need;
For all you boast
Such wholesale roast,
I saw no sign at tea or toast,
Of even a caterpillar's ghost.
I would get the cat, now, into a mess!
Who was it put
An old stocking-foot
Tied up with strings,
And such shabby things,
209
Dipped it in oil, and set fire to the whole,
And burnt all the way from here to the miller's
The nests of the sweet young caterpillars?
Grilled fowl, indeed!
Why, as I read,
You had not even the plea of need;
For all you boast
Such wholesale roast,
I saw no sign at tea or toast,
Of even a caterpillar's ghost.
“Who killed the robins? Well, I should think!
Hadn't somebody better wink
At my peccadilloes, if houses of glass
Won't do to throw stones from at those who pass?
I had four little kittens a month ago,—
Black, and malta, and white as snow;
And not a very long while before
I could have shown you three kittens more.
And so in batches of fours and threes,
Looking back as long as you please,
You would find, if you read my story all,
There were kittens from time immemorial.
Hadn't somebody better wink
At my peccadilloes, if houses of glass
Won't do to throw stones from at those who pass?
I had four little kittens a month ago,—
Black, and malta, and white as snow;
And not a very long while before
I could have shown you three kittens more.
And so in batches of fours and threes,
Looking back as long as you please,
You would find, if you read my story all,
There were kittens from time immemorial.
But what am I now? A cat bereft.
Of all my kittens, but one is left.
I make no charges, but this I ask,—
What made such a splurge in the waste-water cask?
You are quite tender-hearted, oh, not a doubt!
But only suppose old Black Pond could speak out.
Oh, nonsense! Don't mutter excuses to me!
Qui facit per alium facit per se.”
Of all my kittens, but one is left.
I make no charges, but this I ask,—
What made such a splurge in the waste-water cask?
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But only suppose old Black Pond could speak out.
Oh, nonsense! Don't mutter excuses to me!
Qui facit per alium facit per se.”
“Well, Trosy, I think full enough has been said,
And you may as well canter back into bed.
A very fine pass
Things have come to, alas!
If men must be meek,
While pussy-cats speak
Grave moral reflections in Latin and Greek.”
And you may as well canter back into bed.
A very fine pass
Things have come to, alas!
If men must be meek,
While pussy-cats speak
Grave moral reflections in Latin and Greek.”
| Chips, fragments and vestiges by Gail Hamilton | |