THE CITY CAT.

He is gaunt and thin, with a ragged coat, A scraggy tail, and a hunted look; No songs of melody burst from his throat As he seeks repose in some quiet nook— A safe retreat from this world of sin, And all of its boots and stones and that— For the life of a cat is a life of din, If he is a city cat. He is grumpy and stumpy, and old and gray, With a sleepy look in his lonely eye, (The other he lost at a matinee— Knocked out by a boot from a window high.) Wherever he goes, he never knows— Quarter or pause in the midnight spree, For the life of a cat is a life of blows, If he is a city cat. He is pelted by boys if he stirs abroad, He is chased by dogs if he dares to roam. His grizzled bosom has never thawed 'Neath the kindly blare of the light of home. His life's a perpetual warfare waged On balcony, back yard fence, and flat; For the life of a cat is a life outraged, If he is a city cat. The country cat is a different beast. Petted, well-housed, demure, and sleek; Three times a day he is called to feast, And why should he not be quiet and meek? No dreams of urchins, tin cans, and war, Disturb his sensuous sleep on the mat; Ah! cat life is a thing worth living for, If he isn't a city cat. And even when dead, the cat With strident members uneasy lies In some alley-way, and seems staring at A coming foe with his wild wide eye, Nobody owns him and nobody cares— Another dead "Tom," and who mourns for that, If he's only a city cat. —Providence Press.