AN IDOL OF THE MARKET PLACE

DECORUM and the butcher's cat Are seldom far apart— From dawn when clouds surmount the air, Piled like a beauty's powdered hair, Till dusk, when down the misty square Rumbles the latest cart He sits in coat of white and grey Where the rude cleaver's shock Horrid from time to time descends, And his imposing presence lends Grace to a platform that extends Beneath the chopping-block. How tranquil are his close-piled cheeks, His paws, sequestered warm! An oak-grained panel backs his head And all the stock-in-trade is spread, A symphony in white and red, Round his harmonious form. The butcher's brave cerulean garb Flutters before his face, The cleaver dints his little roof Of furrowed wood; remote, aloof, He sits superb and panic proof In his accustomed place. Threading the columned County Hall, Midmost before his eyes, Alerter dog and loitering maid Cross from the sunlight to the shade, And small amenities of trade Under the gables rise; Cats of the town, a shameless crew, Over the way he sees Propitiate with lavish purr An unresponsive customer, Or, meek with sycophantic fur, Caress the children's knees. But he, betrothed to etiquette, Betrays nor head nor heart; Lone as the Ark on Ararat, A monument of fur and fat, Decorum and the butcher's cat Are seldom far apart.