MY OL’ BLACK CAT.

YOU jes’ orter to see my ol’ black cat; ’E’s soft like a cushion, but nicer’n that. ’E’s made out o’ velvet, an’ stuffed ’ith springs, An’ ther’s sumpin’ in ’im wot whizzes an’ sings. ’Is eyes ’r round ’s marbles, an’ bigger’n any o’ mine; They’re jes’ chock full o’ meanness, an’ wink, an’ blink, an’ shine. We ketch ’im an’ hol’ ’im in th’ dark, an’ rub ’im—my pa an’ I, ’N’ you orter to see them ’lectric sparks wot crackle, an’ snap, an’ fly. Sometimes my pa’ll take that cat an’ touch ’is nose to ’is—— I wouldn’t do it ’cause it hurts, and makes pa say, “Gee wiz’!” But sometimes pa is differunt, and them is the times wot he Takes me out to the woodshed an’ kinder wallops me. It gets so dark in the woodshed ’at I sneak up near th’ door, But th’ other children won’t come out, nor play ’ith me no more. My ma, she works ’ith her head tucked down, so’s not to see me cry; Them times I think how sorry this fambly ’ud be if I’d die. But yip! ’cross th’ big, black garden, my cat comes hoppity-skip, ’E never even looks to see th’ place pa throwed the whip; ’E humps ’is back up ’gainst me, an’ snuggles, and sniffs an’ sings; An’ stickles me ’ith ’is viskers, an’ talks ’bout other things. O’ course I love my ol’ black cat; w’y it seems to me at times like that I love ’im better’n I love ma, ‘n’ a good deal better’n I love pa.