By Charles Sangster




Playful, kind, mischievous thing!
Like a stream meandering
Through the sun-enamored glade,
Frisking when its course is stayed; [Page 145]
Leaping joyously along,


With thy unassuming song,
Delighted with the thought of living,
Caring little how deceiving
Is the world, with all its joys,
Blighted hopes and false decoys.


Teasing, saucy little pest!
Will you never be at rest?
Romping in and out the house,
Chasing tabby for a mouse,
Climbing nimbly up the door,


Strewing papers round the floor,
Prancing up and down the roof,
Giving, every moment, proof
That all living things should strive
To be happy while alive.


Life to thee is but a play,
Invented to pass time away;
Earth is not a house of grief;
Our existence is too brief
To yield up a single hour


To that grim, obtrusive power,
Melancholy, with his brow
Ever black as night with wo!
I’d much rather be a kitten,
With a love for humor smitten,


Than be doomed to live on earth,
And not have my share of mirth. [Page 146]
Puss! I’d rather have it said
That your waggish little head
Rested archly on my shoulders,


Making fun for all beholders,
Than be forced to live for life
With the world of gloom and strife.
Yes—much rather would I be
Full of merriment like thee,


Than a gloomy misanthrope,
Without any earthly hope
E’er to live, as was designed,
Happy both in heart and mind. [Page 147]