In vain the kindly call; in vain The plate for which thou once wast fain At morn and noon and daylight’s wane, O king of mousers. No more I hear thee purr and purr As in the frolic days that were, When thou didst rub thy velvet fur Against my trousers. How empty are the places where Thou erst wert frankly debonair, Nor dreamed a dream of feline care, A capering kitten. The sunny haunts where, grown a cat, You pondered this, considered that, The cushioned chair, the rug, the mat, By firelight smitten. Although of few thou stood’st in dread, How well thou knew’st a friendly tread, And what upon thy back or head The stroking hand meant! A passing scent could keenly wake Thy eagerness for chop or steak. Yet, puss, how rarely didst thou break The eighth commandment! Though brief thy life, a little span Of days compared with that of man, The time allotted to thee ran In smoother meter. Now with the warm earth o’er thy breast, O wisest of thy kind and best, Forever mayst thou softly rest, _In pace_—Peter. Agnes Repplier, in her Essays in Idleness and Dozy Hours, tells us of Agrippina and her child. Charles Dudley Warner gave to the world a character sketch of his cat Calvin. A young girl who was in the house with Mr. Whittier, and of whom he was very fond, went to him one day with tearful eyes and a rueful face and said: “My dear little kitty Bathsheba is dead, and I want you to write a poem to put on her gravestone. I shall bury her under a rose bush!” Without a moment’s hesitation the poet said: Bathsheba! to whom none ever said scat! No worthier cat Ever sat on a mat Or caught a rat; _Requiescat!_