TO PROWL,' MY CAT.
You are life's true philosopher, An epicure of air and sun, An egoist in sable fur, To whom all moralists are one.
You hold your race-traditions fast,— While others toil, you simply live, And based upon a stable past, Remain a sound conservative !
You see the beauty of:the world Through eyes:of unalloyed content, And, in my study chair upcurled, Move me to pensive wonderment I wish I knew your trick of thought, The perfect balance of your ways ; They seem an inspiration caught
From other laws in older days.
Your padded footsteps prowl my room Half in delight and half disdain ; You like this air of studious gloom When streets without are:cold with rain!
Some day, alas ! you'll come to die, And I shall lose a constant friend ; You'll take your last look at the sky And be a puzzle to the end! C. K. B.
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