Comfort.
Reading edition
“W hat, tears! my little one, how’s this?” Come, climb up in my lap, and tell me all about it. You will not love me? Will not kiss? It isn’t a nice world? Why, Dear, what makes you doubt it? First, then, your little cunning kit, That you believed was always good, and soft, and furry, Showed claws, scratched you, and fought, and bit, And all because you were in such a hurry, You could not wait for her to eat, But picked her up before her meal was over. “She ought to love you more than meat.” Well, so she ought, but then a cat’s not a good lover. And then, the fairy tale Ned told, It was so beautiful; you wanted it forever. Next day he said you were too old To think such nonsense could be true; that there were never Fairies, or brownies, or such stuff. And now you never can again believe it, As though your cat’s claws weren’t enough. “This horrid world! why do not people it.” Why Dear, my little brown-eyed Dear, I, great big I, am in just such a trouble. Don’t cry; why I have not one tear, And tears, maybe, will make us see things double. My kitten would not love me best, And when I stroked its fur the wrong way, showed its claws too. My fairy tale, it was confessed, No truer, Dear, than yours, and yet I thought it was true. Now you love me, and I’ll love you, And tell you all about a really, truly fairy— About a little girl I knew, Whose name was just the same as—guess—as yours? Yes, Mary.
