The Wit of Women

There was some one opening the kitchen door,

And caught you creeping the wood-pile over,—

Make a clean breast of it, Kitty Clover!”

Then Kitty arose,

Rubbed up her nose,

And looked very much as if coming to blows;

Rounded her back,

Leaped from the stack,

On her feet, at my feet, came down with a whack,

Then, fairly awake, she stretched out her paws,

Smoothed down her whiskers, and unsheathed her claws,

Winked her green eyes

With an air of surprise,

And spoke rather plainly for one of her size.

“Killed a few robins; well, what of that?

What’s virtue in man can’t be vice in a cat.

There’s a thing or two I should like to know,—

Who killed the chicken a week ago,

For nothing at all that I could spy,

But to make an overgrown chicken-pie?

‘Twixt you and me,

‘Tis plain to see,

The odds is, you like fricassee,

While my brave maw

Owns no such law,

Content with viands a la raw.

“Who killed the robins? Oh, yes! oh, yes!

I would get the cat now into a mess!

Who was it put

An old stocking-foot,

Tied up with strings

And such shabby things,

On to the end of a sharp, slender pole,

Dipped it in oil and set fire to the whole,

And burnt all the way from here to the miller’s

The nests of the sweet young caterpillars?

Grilled fowl, indeed!

Why, as I read,

You had not even the plea of need;

For all you boast

Such wholesome roast,

I saw no sign at tea or roast,

Of even a caterpillar’s ghost.

“Who killed the robins? Well, I should think!

Hadn’t somebody better wink

At my peccadillos, if houses of glass

Won’t do to throw stones from at those who pass?

I had four little kittens a month ago—

Black, and Malta, and white as snow;

And not a very long while before

I could have shown you three kittens more.

And so in batches of fours and threes,