HOW PUSSY BATHES.

AS Pussy sat washing her face by the gate, A nice little dog came to have a good chat; And after some talk about matters of state, Said, with a low bow, “My dear Mrs. Cat, I really do hope you’ll not think I am rude; I am curious, I know, and that you may say— Perhaps you’ll be angry—but, no, you’re too good— Pray, why do you wash in that very odd way? “Now, I, every day, rush away to the lake, And in the clear water I dive and I swim; I dry my wet fur with a run and a shake, And am fresh as a rose and neat as a pin. But you any day in the sun may be seen, Just rubbing yourself with your red little tongue; I admire the grace with which it is done— But, really, now, are you sure you get yourself clean?” And Pussy sat swelling with rage and surprise, At this from her nice little doggie friend, For she had always supposed herself rather precise, And of her sleek neatness had bragged without end; So she flew at that doggie and boxed both his ears, Scratched his nose and his eyes, and spit in his face, And set him off yelping from pain and disgrace.