"Three cats sat by the fireside, In a basket full of coal-dust; One cat said to the other, 'Su pu, pell mell--Queen Anne's dead!' 'Is she?' quoth Grimalkin, 'then I'll reign in her stead.' Then up, up, up, they flew, up the chimney." * * * * * "Great A, little b, The cat's in the cupboard And she can't C." * * * * * "There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile; He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile. He bought a crooked cat, she caught a crooked mouse, And they all lived together in a little crooked house." * * * * * "Ding dong bell, pussy's in the well. Who put her in? Little Tommy Thin. Who pulled her out? Little Johnny Stout. What a naughty boy was that To drown poor pussy cat!" Or-- "What a naughty trick was that to drown my granny's pussy cat, Who never did any harm, but caught the mice in father's barn." CAT TALE OF DICK WHITTINGTON. This legend of Dick Whittington is of Eastern origin. The story of the poor boy whose ill-fortune was so strangely reversed by the performances of his cat and its kittens finds a parallel in a cat tale found in "Arlott's Italian Novels," published 1485. The Lord Mayor of London bearing the name of Richard Whittington was a knight's son, a citizen of London, and never poor. The possible explanation of the cat in the career of Whittington of London had reference to a coal-boat known as a "cat," and far more likely to make a fortune for the future Lord Mayor than a good mouser would be. CHAPTER VI. A CRADLE SONG OF THE FIRST CENTURY. Many authorities pronounce this lullaby to be of the earliest Christian era. Some believe that in times of yore the Virgin herself sang it to the infant Jesus. "Sleep, O son, sleep, Thy mother sings to her firstborn; Sleep, O boy, sleep, Thy father cries out to his little child. Thousands of praises we sing to thee, A thousand thousand thousands. "Sleep, my heart and my throne, Sleep, thou joy of thy mother; Let a soothing, hushed lullaby Come murmuring to thy heavenly ears. Thousands of praises we sing to thee, A thousand thousand thousands. "May nothing be wanting to thee, With roses I will cover thee, With violet garlands I will entwine thee. Thy bed shall be among the hyacinthus, Thy cradle built up with the petals of white lilies. Thousands of praises we sing to thee, A thousand thousand thousands. "If thou wishest for music I will instantly call together the shepherds. None are before them, No mortal sings more holy songs. Thousands of praises we sing to thee, A thousand thousand thousands."