"A little kettle, fat and fair, To sit on grandma's stove, To simmer softly, and to sing A song of Freddie's love." Another was this brief warning tucked into a match-box:-- "On this you scratch Your little match. When the spark flies Look out for your eyes! When the lucifer goes Look out for your nose! Little Jack gives you this With a birthday kiss." A third was rather sentimental, from Mrs. Coobiddy:-- "Within doth lie A silken tie, Your dress to deck; Soft and warm As daughter's arm Round mother's neck." Mr. Pib presented a mouse-trap all set; and in order to explain his poem, I must relate an incident in his varied career. Pib had long been one of the family, and was much respected and beloved by them all. In fact, he was so petted and stuffed that he grew as fat and big as a small dog, and so clumsy that he could no longer catch the mice who dodged about among the dishes in the kitchen closets. In vain had Mrs. Trot shut him up there; in vain had Aunt Trib told him it was his duty to clear the cupboards of such small deer. Poor fat Pib only bounced about, broke the china, rattled down the pans, to come out with empty paws, while the saucy mice squeaked scornfully, and pranced about under his very nose. One day Trib saw Pib catch a squirrel, and having eaten it he brought the tail to her as a trophy of his skill. This displeased his mistress, and she gave him away, after a good scolding for killing squirrels and letting mice, his lawful prey, go free. Pib was so depressed that he went into the bag without a mew or a scratch, and was borne away to his new home in another part of the town. But he had no intention of staying; and after a day under the sofa, passed in deep thought, and without food or drink, he made up his mind to go home. Slipping out, he travelled all night, and appeared next morning, joyfully waving his tail, and purring like a small organ. Aunt Trib was glad to see him, and when he had explained that he really did do his best about the mice, she forgave him, and got the trap for him to give grandma, that she might no longer be annoyed by having her private stores nibbled at. "Dear madam, with respect My offering I bring; The hooks all baited well, And ready for a spring. No more the cunning mice Your biscuits shall abuse, Nor put their babes to sleep Within your fur-lined shoes. The trap my work must do; Forgive your portly cat, For he, like you, has grown For lively work too fat. All larger, fiercer game I gallantly defy, And squirrel, rat and mole Beneath my paw shall die. So, with this solemn vow, T. Pib his gift presents, And sprawling at your feet Purrs forth his compliments." Which he actually did, and then sat bolt upright on the rug, surveying the scene with the dignity of a judge and the gravity of an owl.