TATTERS, THE CAT.

I WILL tell you a story of Tatters, the cat, Who was good, if not handsome, and sleek, and so fat, And his coat it was ragged [which caused his queer name], Did not lessen his value—he was loved all the same. Now, one day he was longing to go on the street, Just to see the fine sights, it would be such a treat; He was clever, he thought, as he planned it all o’er, And he said, “I’ll be gone but an hour, and no more.” Oh, he never meant wrong, he was seeking some fun, And to have his own way, why, he skipped out and run. He was foolish, like children so often, you see, That he got unawares in some bad company. He was easy and free, and, I’m sorry to say, How he went at the call of some boys from his play. Now, they coaxed him at first till he thought each a friend, All so trustful was Tatters, he dreamed not the end: For he looked in their faces and purred his soft way, And the shame of those boys when they scat him away; And so timid he grew, and so wild in his flight, That ’way down a dark alley he stayed all the night. And his eyes, they shone bright—like two coals in his head. It was damp, and so cold, and the ground was his bed; How he crouched all in fear, tho’ no harm he had done, From those wicked young boys, who were friends, no, not one. He was far from his home, and his coat it was rough, And more tattered it grew from the kicks and the cuffs He would get from the boys as he sought food to eat, So he stayed in the alley and avoided the street. And his life was so sad, that he soon pined away, From the day he had run to the street just to play; And one morning those boys threw a stone at his head, It could not hurt Tatters, for the poor cat was dead.