TIBBY’S DEATH.
Reading edition
It now becomes us to relate The time of Tibby’s death; In eighteen hundred and twenty-eight She drew her latest breath. Old age and slow disease conspired This faithful cat to slay, And in the garden she expired, About the last of May. Her’s was a happy life indeed; So quiet and secure, From all the persecutions freed That many cats endure. Though duly fed with milk and bread, At morn and evening, too, No man, or youth,—or child, in truth, A better mouser knew. The closet door oft stood ajar, Each shelf with viands crown’d, Yet not the worse for honest puss Were e’er the dishes found. If Tib, a cat, such praise could gain For honest, faithful deed, Oh, how much more should those attain Who think, and speak, and read.
