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And grave cat duties follow behind.
Hark! there's a sound you cannot hear,
I'll whisper its meaning in your ear-

MICE

(The kitten stared with her great green eyes,
And twitched her tail in a queer surprise)—
MICE.

No more tit-bits, dainty and nice,
No more mischief and no more play,
But watching by night and sleeping by day,
Prowling wherever the foe doth lurk,
Very short commons and very sharp work;
And kitten, oh! the hail and the thunder,
That's a black cloud, but a blacker's under.
Hark! but you'll fall from my knee, I fear,
When I whisper that awful word in your ear-
R-R-R-RATS

(The kitten's heart beat with great pit-pats,
But her whiskers quivered, and from their sheath
Flashed out the sharp, white, pearly teeth)—
R-R-R-RATS-

The scorn of dogs, but the terror of cats,
The cruellest foes and the fiercest fighters,
The sauciest thieves and the sharpest biters;
But, kitten, I see you 've a stoutish heart,
So courage, and play an honest part.

Use well your paws, and strengthen your claws,
And sharpen your teeth, and stretch your jaws;

Then woe to the tribe of pickers and stealers,
Nibblers and gnawers and evil dealers.

But now that you know life's not precisely
The thing your fancy pictured so nicely,
Off and away! race over the floor,

Out at the window and in at the door,

Roll on the turf and play in the sun,

Ere night-time cometh, and kittenhood's done.

T. WESTWOOD.

Alice. I supppose it is an allegory of growing up. Aunt C. You can have it in another aspect in the "Kitten and Falling Leaves," at which you must fancy Mr. Wordsworth looking, with his baby-daughter Dora in his arms.

Alice. I know he was called a Lake poet, and lived between 1770 and 1850, but that's all.

Aunt C. The name of Lake poets was given to the three friends, William Wordsworth, Robert Southey, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge, because they lived in the Lake country in Westmoreland. Two of them married sisters, and the whole lives of Wordsworth and Southey were spent among those mountains. Wordsworth knew every rock and pass, loved every tree and flower, and saw deep meanings in everything. He

delighted, too, in the homely, friendly people, and talked and lived much with them. I told you that Cowper made a great step in making poetry simple and easy, and Wordsworth still more made it a principle that the poetry should be in the thought, and that the words had better be as plain and simple and untwisted as possible.

Ed. Sensible man!

Alice. I hope he was happier than poor Cowper.

Aunt C. He was as happy a man as ever lived, always thinking noble and sweet thoughts, and pouring them out in flowing words, feeling that he was doing his work in helping people to trace God's hand in everything, and loved and honoured by all. It was thought a great thing to see that fine venerable old man; so, though some of his verses are sometimes laughed at and thought childish, and others may be lengthy and tiresome, he has really done much for English taste in poetry. These verses were written when he was a comparatively young man. Let us

have them, Alice.

Alice. Only, first, what is a parachute ?

Aunt C. A thing somewhat like an umbrella,

unclosed but not fastened, open. It was taken up in balloons to descend in, opening as it fell, so as to break the shock.

THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVES.

See the kitten on the wall,

Sporting with the leaves that fall;

Withered leaves-one-two-and three,

From the lofty elder tree.

Through the calm and frosty air
Of this morning, bright and fair,
Eddying round and round, they sink
Softly, lowly; one might think,
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf conveyed
Sylph or fairy hither tending,
To this lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute
In his wavering parachute.
But the kitten, how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts,
First at one, and then its fellow,
Just as light and just as yellow.
There are many now-now one,
Now they stop, and there are none.
What intenseness of desire
In her upturned eye of fire;

With a tiger-leap half way,

Now she meets the coming prey,
Lets it go as fast, and then
Has it in her power again.

Now she works with three or four,

Like an Indian conjuror.

Quick as he in feats of art,

Far beyond in joy of heart;

Were her antics played in th' eye
Of a thousand standers by,
Clapping hands, with shout and stare,
What would little Tabby care
For the plaudits of the crowd?
Far too happy to be proud,
Over-wealthy in the treasure

Of her own exceeding pleasure.

WORDSWORTH.

Grace. How pretty! How like the kitten!

Aunt C. This is only a portion of the poem. You would be less interested in the rest; but I am going to read you the conclusion, where Wordsworth says he

wishes ever to

Keep the sprightly soul awake,

And have faculties to take,

Even from things by sorrow taught,
Matter for a jocund thought;

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