Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 21

The Dead p.u.s.s.y Cat

You's as stiff an' as cold as a stone, Little cat!

Dey's done frowed you out an' left you alone, Little cat!

I's a-strokin' you's fur, But you don't never purr Nor hump up anywhere, Little cat.

W'y is dat?

Is you's purrin' an' humpin'-up done?

An' w'y fer is you's little foot tied, Little cat?

Did dey pisen you's tummick inside, Little cat?

Did dey pound you wif bricks, Or wif big nasty sticks, Or abuse you wif kicks, Little cat?

Tell me dat, Did dey holler at all when you cwied?

Did it hurt werry bad w'en you died, Little cat?

Oh, w'y didn't yo wun off and hide, Little cat?

I is wet in my eyes, 'Cause I most always cwies W'en a p.u.s.s.y cat dies, Little cat, Tink of dat, An' I's awfully solly besides!

Dest lay still dere in de sof gwown', Little cat, W'ile I tucks de gween gwa.s.s all awoun', Little cat.

Dey can't hurt you no more W'en you's tired an' so sore, Dest sleep twiet, you pore Little cat, Wif a pat, An' fordet all de kicks of de town.

_Marion Short._

The Owl Critic

"Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop; The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop; The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading The _Daily_, the _Herald_, the _Post_, little heeding The young man who blurted out such a blunt question; Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion; And the barber kept on shaving.

"Don't you see, Mister Brown,"

Cried the youth, with a frown, "How wrong the whole thing is, How preposterous each wing is.

How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is-- In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis!

I make no apology; I've learned owleology.

I've pa.s.sed days and nights in a hundred collections, And cannot be blinded to any deflections Arising from unskilful fingers that fail To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail.

Mister Brown! Mister Brown! Do take that bird down, Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"I've _studied_ owls, And other night fowls, And I tell you What I know to be true: An owl cannot roost With his limbs so unloosed; No owl in this world Ever had his claws curled, Ever had his legs slanted, Ever had his bill canted, Ever had his neck screwed Into that att.i.tude.

He can't _do_ it, because 'Tis against all bird laws.

Anatomy teaches, Ornithology preaches, An owl has a toe That _can't_ turn out so!

I've made the white owl my study for years, And to see such a job almost moves me to tears!

Mister Brown, I'm amazed You should be so gone crazed As to put up a bird In that posture absurd!

To _look_ at that owl really brings on a dizziness; The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"Examine those eyes.

I'm filled with surprise Taxidermists should pa.s.s Off on you such poor gla.s.s; So unnatural they seem They'd make Audubon scream, And John Burroughs laugh To encounter such chaff.

Do take that bird down; Have him stuffed again, Brown!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"With some sawdust and bark I could stuff in the dark An owl better than that.

I could make an old hat Look more like an owl Than that horrid fowl, Stuck up here so stiff like a side of coa.r.s.e leather.

In fact, about _him _there's not one natural feather."

Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch, The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch, Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic (Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance a.n.a.lytic, And then fairly hooted, as if he should say: "Your learning's at fault this time, anyway; Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.

I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good-day!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

_James T. Fields._

At School-Close

The end has come, as come it must To all things; in these sweet June days The teacher and the scholar trust Their parting feet to separate ways.

They part: but in the years to be Shall pleasant memories cling to each, As sh.e.l.ls bear inland from the sea The murmur of the rhythmic beach.

One knew the joys the sculptor knows When, plastic to his lightest touch, His clay-wrought model slowly grows To that fine grace desired so much.

So daily grew before her eyes The living shapes whereon she wrought, Strong, tender, innocently wise, The child's heart with the woman's thought.

And one shall never quite forget The voice that called from dream and play, The firm but kindly hand that set Her feet in learning's pleasant way,--

The joy of Undine soul-possessed, The wakening sense, the strange delight That swelled the fabled statue's breast And filled its clouded eyes with sight!

O Youth and Beauty, loved of all!

Ye pa.s.s from girlhood's gate of dreams; In broader ways your footsteps fall, Ye test the truth of all that seems.

Her little realm the teacher leaves, She breaks her wand of power apart, While, for your love and trust, she gives The warm thanks of a grateful heart.

Hers is the sober summer noon Contrasted with your morn of spring; The waning with the waxing moon, The folded with the outspread wing.

Across the distance of the years She sends her G.o.d-speed back to you; She has no thought of doubts or fears; Be but yourselves, be pure, be true,

And prompt in duty; heed the deep, Low voice of conscience; through the ill And discord round about you, keep Your faith in human nature still.

Be gentle: unto griefs and needs Be pitiful as woman should, And, spite of all the lies of creeds, Hold fast the truth that G.o.d is good.

Give and receive; go forth and bless The world that needs the hand and heart Of Martha's helpful carefulness No less than Mary's better part.

So shall the stream of time flow by And leave each year a richer good, And matron loveliness outvie The nameless charm of maidenhood.

And, when the world shall link your names With gracious lives and manners fine, The teacher shall a.s.sert her claims, And proudly whisper, "These were mine!"

_John G. Whittier._