The Vagabond And Other Poems From Punch Part 4

But where was the dragon, the scale-clad dragon, the dragon that d.i.c.kon saw, The genuine dragon, The pitiless dragon, The dragon that knew no law?

Lo, just as the word to charge rang out, And before they could give their battle shout, On a stony ledge Of the ridge's edge, With its lips curled back and its teeth laid bare, And a hiss that ripped the morning air, With its backbone arched And its tail well starched, With bristling hair and flattened ears, What shape of courage and wrath appears?

A cat, a tortoisesh.e.l.l mother-cat!

And a very diminutive cat at that!

And below her, nesting upon the ground, A litter of tiny kits they found: Tortoisesh.e.l.l kittens, one, two, three, Lying as snug as snug could be.

And they took the kittens with shouts of laughter And turned for home, and the cat came after.

And when in the camp they told their tale, The women--but stop! I draw a veil.

The cat had tent-life forced upon her And was kept in comfort and fed with honour; But d.i.c.kon has heard his fill Of the furious dragon They tried to bag on The dragonless summit, the gorse-clad summit, the summit of Winter Hill!

FLUFFY, A CAT

So now your tale of years is done, Old Fluff, my friend, and you have won, Beyond our land of mist and rain, Your way to the Elysian plain, Where through the s.h.i.+ning hours of heat A cat may bask and lap and eat; Where goldfish glitter in the streams, And mice refresh your waking dreams, And all, in fact, is planned--and that's Its great delight--to please the cats.

Yet sometimes, too, your placid mind Will turn to those you've left behind, And most to one who sheds her tears, The mistress of your later years, Who sheds her tears to summon back Her faithful cat, the white-and-black.

Fluffy, full well you understood The frequent joys of motherhood-- To lick, from pointed tail to nape, The mewing litter into shape; To show, with pride that condescends, Your offspring to your human friends, And all our sympathy to win For every kit tucked snugly in.

In your familiar garden ground We've raised a tributary mound, And pa.s.sing by it we recite Your merits and your praise aright.

"Here lies," we say, "from care released A faithful, furry, friendly beast.

Responsive to the lightest word, About these walks her purr was heard.

Love she received, for much she earned, And much in kindness she returned.

Wherefore her comrades go not by Her little grave without a sigh."

THE LEAN-TO-SHED

(COMMUNICATED BY AN EIGHT-YEAR-OLD)

I've a palace set in a garden fair, And, oh, but the flowers are rich and rare, Always growing And always blowing Winter or summer--it doesn't matter-- For there's never a wind that dares to scatter The wonderful petals that scent the air About the walls of my palace there.

And the palace itself is very old, And it's built of ivory splashed with gold.

It has silver ceilings and jasper floors And stairs of marble and crystal doors; And whenever I go there, early or late, The two tame dragons who guard the gate And refuse to open the frowning portals To sisters, brothers and other mortals, Get up with a grin And let me in.

And I tickle their ears and pull their tails And pat their heads and polish their scales; And they never attempt to flame or fly, Being quelled by me and my human eye.

Then I pour them drink out of golden flagons, Drink for my two tame trusty dragons...

But John, Who's a terrible fellow for chattering on, John declares They are Teddy-bears; And the palace itself, he has often said, Is only the gardener's lean-to shed.

In the vaulted hall where we have the dances There are suits of armour and swords and lances, Plenty of steel-wrought who's-afraiders, All of them used by real crusaders; Corslets, helmets and s.h.i.+elds and things Fit to be worn by warrior-kings, Glittering rows of them-- Think of the blows of them, Lopping, Chopping, Smas.h.i.+ng And slas.h.i.+ng The Paynim armies at Ascalon...

But, bother the boy, here comes our John Munching a piece of currant cake, Who says the lance is a broken rake, And the sword with its keen Toledo blade Is a hoe, and the dinted s.h.i.+eld a spade, Bent and useless and rusty-red, In the gardener's silly old lean-to shed.

And sometimes, too, when the night comes soon With a great magnificent tea-time moon.

Through the nursery-window I peep and see My palace lit for a revelry; And I think I shall try to go there instead Of going to sleep in my dull small bed.

But who are these In the shade of the trees That creep so slow In a stealthy row?

They are Indian braves, a terrible band, Each with a tomahawk in his hand, And each has a knife _without a sheath_ Fiercely stuck in his gleaming teeth.

Are the dragons awake? Are the dragons sleepers?

Will they meet and scatter these crafty creepers?

What ho! ... But John, who has sorely tried me, Trots up and flattens his nose beside me; Against the window he flattens it And says he can see As well as me, But never an Indian--not a bit; Not even the top of a feathered head, But only a wall and the lean-to shed.

THE CONTRACT

"Come, Peggy, put your toys away; you needn't shake your head, Your bear's been working overtime; he's panting for his bed.

He's turned a thousand somersaults, and now his head must ache; It's cruelty to animals to keep the bear awake."

At this she stamped in mutiny, and then she urged her plea, Her wonted plea, "A little time, a minute more, for me."

"Be off, you little rogue of rogues," I sternly made reply; "It's wicked to be sitting up with sand in either eye.

"To bed, to bed, you sleepy head; and then, and then--who knows?-- Some day you'll be a grown-up girl, and lovely as a rose.

And some day some one else will come, a gallant youth and gay, To harry me and marry you and carry you away."

At this the storm broke out afresh:--"You know I hate the boys; They're only good at taking things, and breaking things, and noise.

So, Daddy, please remember this, because--I--want--you--to:-- I'll never marry any boy; I'll only marry _you_."

"Agreed," I cried--the imp, of course, had won the bout of wits; Had gained her point and got her time and beaten me to fits-- "Agreed, agreed,"--she danced for joy--"we'll leave no room for doubt, But bind ourselves with pen and ink, and write the contract out:-"

_This is a contract, firm and clear Made, as doth from these presents appear, Between Peggy, being now in her sixth year, A child of laughter, A sort of funny actress, Referred to hereinafter As the said contractress-- Between the said contractress, that is to say, And a person with whom she is often good enough to play; Who happens to have been something of a factor In bringing her into the world, who, in short, is her father, And is hereinafter spoken of as the said contractor.

Now the said contractress declares she would rather Marry the said contractor than any other.

At the same time she affirms with the utmost steadiness Her perfect readiness To take any other fellow on as a brother.

Still, she means to marry her father, and to be his wife, And to live happily with him all the rest of her life.

This contract is made without consideration, And is subject to later ratification.

The said contractress had it read through to see that nothing was missed, And she took her pen, and she held it tight in a chubby and cramped-up fist, And she made her mark with a blotted cross, instead of signing her name; And the said contractor he signed in full, and they mean to observe the same._

"Now give me, Peg, that old brown shoe, that battered shoe of yours, I'll stow the contract in its toe, and, if the shoe endures, When sixteen years or so are gone, I'll hunt for it myself And take it gently from its drawer, or get it from its shelf.

"And when, mid clouds of scattered rice, through all the wedding whirl A laughing fellow hurries out a certain graceless girl, Unless my hand have lost its strength, unless my eye be dim, I'll lift the shoe, the contract too, and fling the lot at him."

JOHN

He's a boy, And that's the long and (chiefly) the short of it, And the point of it and the wonderful sport of it; A two-year-old with a taste for a toy, And two chubby fists to clutch it and grasp it, And two fat arms to embrace it and clasp it; And a short stout couple of st.u.r.dy legs As hard and as smooth as ostrich eggs; And a jolly round head, so fairly round You could easily roll it, Or take it and bowl it With never a b.u.mp along the ground.

And, as to his cheeks, they're also fat-- I've seen them in ancient prints like that, Where a wind-boy high In a cloudy sky Is puffing away for all he's worth, Uprooting the trees With a reckless breeze, And strewing them over the patient earth, Or raising a storm to wreck the s.h.i.+ps With the work of his lungs and cheeks and lips.

Take a look at his eyes; I put it to you, Were ever two eyes more truly blue?

If you went and worried the whole world through You'd never discover a bluer blue; I doubt if you'd find a blue so true In the coats and scarves of a Cambridge crew.

And his hair Is as fair As a pretty girl's,

But it's right for a boy with its crisp, short curls All a-gleam, as he struts about With a laugh and a shout, To summon his sister-slaves to him For his joyous Majesty's careless whim.

But now, as, after a stand, he budges, And sets to work and solemnly trudges, Out from a bush there springs full tilt His four-legged playmate--and John is spilt.