“In the Boston of my beauty-sleep, when storm-flowers are in bloom, When storm-lilies and storm-thistles and storm-roses are in bloom, The faithful cats go creeping through the catnip-ferns, _And_ rainbows, _and_ sunshine, _and_ gloom, And pounce upon the Boston Mice, that tremble underneath the flowers, And pounce upon the big-eared rats, and drag them to the tomb. For we are Tom-policemen, vigilant and sure. We keep the Back Bay ditches and potato cellars pure. Apples are not bitten into, cheese is let alone. [Illustration: VACHEL LINDSAY 1922 THE BOSTON MOUSE WAITS IN TERROR OF THE MOUNTAIN-CAT, UNDER THE SHADOW OF THE STORM-ROSE] [Sidenote: _Come, let us whisper of men and beasts And joke as the aspens do, And yet be solemn in their way, And tell our thoughts All summer through, In the morning, In the frost, And in the midnight dew._] Sweet corn is left upon the cob, and the beef left on the bone. Every Sunday morning, the Pilgrims give us codfish balls, Because we keep the poisonous rats from the Boston halls.” And then I contradicted him, in a manner firm and flat. “I have never seen, in the famous Hub, suppression of the rat.” “So much the worse for Boston,” said the whiskery mountain-cat. And the cat continued his great dream, closing one shrewd eye: “The Tower-of-Babel Cactus blazes above the sky. Fangs and sabers guard the buds and crimson fruits on high. Yet cactus-eating eagles and black hawks hum through the air. When the pigeons weep in Copley Square, look up, those wings are there, [Illustration: VACHEL LINDSAY 1922 THE TOWER-OF-BABEL CACTUS BLAZES ABOVE THE SKY] [Sidenote: _The mountain-cat seems violent, And of no good intent. Yet read his words so gently No bird will leave its tree, No child will hate the simper or the noise And hurry away from you and me. Read like a meditative, catlike willow-tree._] [Sidenote: _Some words about singing this song, Are scattered this border along._]