THE TROLL CAT.

Knurremurre rules with a will All the trolls in Brondhoi Hill; Throughout all Zealand has it rung— The fame of Knurremurre’s tongue. One young troll got tired of the worry. “I’ll away,” said he, “To company More pleasant than Knurremurre.”

“Wife, what’s scratching at the door On this cold winter night?” The gales through the snow-heaped forests roar, And the hut-fire is burning bright. “Open the door, good wife,” says Plat. In walks a stately, whiskered cat. He sits by the fire and dries his fur, And purrs his thanks with a loud, long purr, And eats his grout, and washes his face, And makes himself at home in the place. Weeks pass on, a good cat he; He is quite one of the family; For the kindly wife of Plat, In her wooden hut by the northern sea, Has a poet’s love for a cat.

’Tis night; the cat by the hearth-fire lies, Purring and dozing, with blinking eyes; When Plat comes in and says,— “Good wife! What strange things happen in one’s life! I saw a sight As I came to-night By Brondhoi Hill, Where all was still, Save the trolls who hammered below with a will. Out jumps in my way A man old and gray, And squeaking he said,— ‘Hearken, Plat! Tell your cat That Knurremurre is dead.’”

Up jumped the cat from the hearth-fire side— “Ho! Knurremurre dead!” he cried. “Now I may go home, I ween.” And out he scampered with a will, Out through the night to Brondhoi Hill, And nevermore was seen.