THE YAK

As a friend to the children commend me the yak, You will find it exactly the thing: It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back, Or lead it about with a string.

A Tartar who dwells on the plains of Thibet (A desolate region of snow) Has for centuries made it a nursery pet, And surely the Tartar should know!

Then tell your papa where the Yak can be got, And if he is awfully rich, He will buy you the creature--or else he will not, (I cannot be positive which).

THE FROG

Be kind and tender to the Frog, And do not call him names, As "Slimy-Skin," or "Polly-wog,"

Or likewise, "Uncle James,"

Or "Gape-a-grin," or "Toad-gone-wrong,"

Or, "Billy-Bandy-knees;"

The Frog is justly sensitive To epithets like these.

No animal will more repay A treatment kind and fair, At least, so lonely people say Who keep a frog (and, by the way, They are extremely rare).

_Hilaire Belloc._

THE MICROBE

The Microbe is so very small You cannot make him out at all, But many sanguine people hope To see him through a microscope.

His jointed tongue that lies beneath A hundred curious rows of teeth; His seven tufted tails with lots Of lovely pink and purple spots

On each of which a pattern stands, Composed of forty separate bands; His eyebrows of a tender green; All these have never yet been seen-- But Scientists, who ought to know, a.s.sure us that they must be so....

Oh! let us never, never doubt What n.o.body is sure about!

_Hilaire Belloc._

THE GREAT BLACK CROW

The crow--the crow! the great black crow!

He cares not to meet us wherever we go; He cares not for man, beast, friend, nor foe, For nothing will eat him he well doth know.

Know--know! you great black crow!

It's a comfort to feel like a great black crow!

The crow--the crow! the great black crow!

He loves the fat meadow--his taste is low; He loves the fat worms, and he dines in a row With fifty fine cousins all black as a sloe.

Sloe--sloe! you great black crow!

But it's jolly to fare like a great black crow!

The crow--the crow! the great black crow!

He never gets drunk on the rain or snow; He never gets drunk, but he never says no!

If you press him to tipple ever so.

So--so! you great black crow!

It's an honour to soak like a great black crow!

The crow--the crow! the great black crow!

He lives for a hundred year and mo'; He lives till he dies, and he dies as slow As the morning mists down the hill that go.

Go--go! you great black crow!

But it's fine to live and die like a great black crow!

_Philip James Bailey._

THE COLUBRIAD

Close by the threshold of a door nailed fast, Three kittens sat; each kitten looked aghast.

I, pa.s.sing swift and inattentive by, At the three kittens cast a careless eye; Not much concerned to know what they did there; Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care.

But presently, a loud and furious hiss Caused me to stop, and to exclaim, "What's this?"

When lo! upon the threshold met my view, With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue, A viper long as Count de Gra.s.se's queue.

Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws, Darting it full against a kitten's nose; Who, having never seen, in field or house, The like, sat still and silent as a mouse; Only projecting, with attention due, Her whiskered face, she asked him, "Who are you?"

On to the hall went I, with pace not slow, But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe: With which well armed, I hastened to the spot To find the viper--but I found him not.

And, turning up the leaves and shrubs around, Found only that he was not to be found; But still the kittens, sitting as before, Sat watching close the bottom of the door.

"I hope," said I, "the villain I would kill Has slipped between the door and the door-sill; And if I make despatch, and follow hard, No doubt but I shall find him in the yard:"

(For long ere now it should have been rehea.r.s.ed, 'Twas in the garden that I found him first.) E'en there I found him: there the full-grown cat His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat; As curious as the kittens erst had been To learn what this phenomenon might mean.

Filled with heroic ardour at the sight, And fearing every moment he would bite, And rob our household of our only cat That was of age to combat with a rat; With outstretched hoe I slew him at the door, And taught him never to come there no more!

_William Cowper._

THE RETIRED CAT

A Poet's Cat, sedate and grave As poet well could wish to have, Was much addicted to inquire For nooks to which she might retire, And where, secure as mouse in c.h.i.n.k, She might repose, or sit and think.

I know not where she caught the trick; Nature perhaps herself had cast her In such a mold |philosophique|, Or else she learned it of her master.

Sometimes ascending, debonair, An apple-tree, or lofty pear, Lodged with convenience in the fork, She watched the gardener at his work; Sometimes her ease and solace sought In an old empty watering-pot, There wanting nothing, save a fan, To seem some nymph in her sedan, Appareled in exactest sort, And ready to be borne to court.