Catoninetales A Domestic Epic: By Hattie Brown: A young lady of colour lately deceased at the age of 14 [i.e. W. J. Linton] |
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| 8. | THANKSGIVING DAY |
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THANKSGIVING DAY
Every day's no Yule: cast the cat a castock. Proverb.
To go like a cat on a hot bake-stone. Id.
Thanksgiving day is once a year:
Thanksgiving cheer— Ah, well-away!
Thanksgiving cheer— Ah, well-away!
Forgive a rhyme like broken sherds!
For length of words grief hath not time.
For length of words grief hath not time.
Sad, sad my tale; my tears drop hot:
Vain tears, God wot! they nought avail.
Vain tears, God wot! they nought avail.
Yet, when I think of happier days,
And all the ways that did so link
And all the ways that did so link
My life to his, the tears must fall.
Bliss to recall is bale, I wis.
Bliss to recall is bale, I wis.
I see him still, his eyes on mine,
Through woeful brine my eyes full fill.
Through woeful brine my eyes full fill.
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Again he stands and curls beside,
To have his hide smooth'd by my hands.
To have his hide smooth'd by my hands.
That sleek soft fur,— I see it now,
And hear his low contented purr.
And hear his low contented purr.
I see his stripes of gold and black,
The well-arch'd back, the nose he wipes
The well-arch'd back, the nose he wipes
With cleanly paw, and that spry taile
(Might bear a flaile — upright as Law),
(Might bear a flaile — upright as Law),
His shapely legs, stretch'd tow'rd the fire
When hot desire for solace begs,
When hot desire for solace begs,
His comely head hid 'neath his thighs
When coil'd he lies upgathered
When coil'd he lies upgathered
A blessed heap snug on my lap—
Asleep mayhap or feigning sleep,
Asleep mayhap or feigning sleep,
His eyes that blink in light of day
And seem to say “I think I think,”
And seem to say “I think I think,”
His gentle claws which hurt not much,
The tender touch of his sheathed paws,
The tender touch of his sheathed paws,
His pretty ways, his clever tricks:
Here, Memory! fix thy foolish gaze!
Here, Memory! fix thy foolish gaze!
Again he climbs my shoulder's height—
His old delight — O happy times!
His old delight — O happy times!
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No more, no more can ye return—
Fire! wherefore burn? O oven door!
Fire! wherefore burn? O oven door!
O sad cook wench! Her fingers ply
The dough, for pie, while on a bench
The dough, for pie, while on a bench
Beside her lies Kok Robyn, who
Hath nought to do but wink his eyes
Hath nought to do but wink his eyes
And watch her work. Alas! who knows
What direful woes in the future lurk?
What direful woes in the future lurk?
Now in the dish plump chickens laid,
The white paste made quite to her wish,
The white paste made quite to her wish,
She places it on the oven shelf
And turns herself for another fit.
And turns herself for another fit.
Dear Robyn owns one weak defeat:
He loves the meat on chicken bones.
He loves the meat on chicken bones.
Her head is turn'd; he enters, sly,—
Behind the pie lies undiscern'd.
Behind the pie lies undiscern'd.
Now punkin pies in turn are made,
And, unaffray'd by prophecies,
And, unaffray'd by prophecies,
The making o'er, the pies are slid
Where Robyn's hid, she slams the door,
Where Robyn's hid, she slams the door,
Heaps on the coal, the oven heats;
Kok Robyn sweats: Saints save his soul!
Kok Robyn sweats: Saints save his soul!
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Muse, draw thy veil! no mews we heard,
Deaf as a Kurd, she miss'd his taile.
Deaf as a Kurd, she miss'd his taile.
But when the oven yawn'd to yield its freight
Of culinary gifts, what squall was that
Scaring the guests whose hunger had to wait?
The astonied Cook drew out in scatter'd state
Some piecrusts, chicken bones, and one DEAD CAT.
Of culinary gifts, what squall was that
Scaring the guests whose hunger had to wait?
The astonied Cook drew out in scatter'd state
Some piecrusts, chicken bones, and one DEAD CAT.
—Our dear Hattie in her fond appeal for the soul of Robyn
had no thought, we are sure, of speaking in any way profanely.
Allowance may be made for the unpreparedness of the sudden
horrific catastrophe. And she had probably read the writings
of that eminent divine and scholar, Mr. Jo. Skelton, rector of
Dis and poet-laureat to his late excellent Majesty Henry VIII,
in whose erudite poem of “Phyllip Sparowe” we may read—
“Good Lord, have mercy upon my Sparowe's soul!”
Also the Rev. Mr. Sterne appears of the same thought, as—
“A Cat has a soul, an't please your Honour.”
Which is more to the purpose. Absolute originality we do not
claim for Miss Brown, and she should be judged accordingly.
EDITOR.
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