HODGE, THE CAT.

BURLY and big his books among Good Samuel Johnson sat, With frowning brows and wig askew, His snuff-strewn waistcoat far from new; So stern and menacing his air That neither “Black Sam” nor the maid To knock or interrupt him dare— Yet close beside him, unafraid, Sat Hodge, the cat. “This participle,” the Doctor wrote, “The modern scholar cavils at, But”—even as he penned the word A soft protesting note was heard. The Doctor fumbled with his pen, The dawning thought took wings and flew, The sound repeated came again— It was a faint reminding “Mew!” From Hodge, the cat. “Poor pussy!” said the learned man, Giving the glossy fur a pat, “It is your dinner time, I know, And, well, perhaps I ought to go; For if Sam every day were sent Off from his work your fish to buy, Why—men are men—he might resent, And starve or kick you on the sly— Eh! Hodge, my cat?” The dictionary was laid down— The Doctor tied his vast cravat, And down the buzzing street he strode, Taking an often-trodden road, And halted at a well-known stall; “Fishmonger,” spoke the Doctor, gruff, “Give me six oysters—that is all; Hodge knows when he has had enough— Hodge is my cat.” Then home; Puss dined, and while in sleep He chased a visionary rat, His master sat him down again, Rewrote his page, renibbed his pen; Each I was dotted, each T was crossed; He labored on for all to read, Nor deemed that time was waste or lost Spent in supplying the small need Of Hodge, the cat. That dear old Doctor! Fierce of mien, Untidy, arbitrary, fat, What gentle thoughts his name enfold! So generous of his scanty gold, So quick to love, so hot to scorn, Kind to all sufferers under heaven— A tenderer despot ne’er was born; His big heart held a corner even For Hodge, the cat.