But when the bear and tiger growled, And wolf and lynx in chorus howled, And starting from its broken sleep, The monarch rose with sudden leap, And, bounding round the rocking cage, With lifted mane, it roared with rage, And thrust its paws between the bars, Until it seemed to shake the stars, A panic seized the Brownies all, And out they scampered from the hall, As if they feared incautious men Had built too frail a prison pen; And though the way was long and wild, With obstacles before them piled, They never halted in their run Until the forest shade they won. A LETTER FROM A LITTLE BOY. [Illustration] DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I want to tell little boys and girls about my two pets. One is a hen. She lives all alone, and leaves her coop every night, and goes in the barn, and flies up on old Jim's back, and sleeps there all night. Old Jim is a horse. Old Jim has a blanket for cold nights. It is an old one, and there is a hole in it on the top, and the old hen walks all around till she finds that hole, and puts her feet in there where it is warm, and there we find her every morning. My other funny pet is an old cat, named Catharine. She has only three feet, but I liked her just as well as I ever did, till last summer, when one morning we found the bird-cage door pushed in, and the bird was gone. We have another cat. We don't know but the bird flew away; but who pushed the door in? I don't like any cats so well now. Your friend, RALPH. [Illustration] * * * * * DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: A sadder tale I never heard! Just think of that poor little bird! Ralph's bird was killed,--I say so, flat,-- By that three-footed sly old cat! Now, I'm a gentlemanly pup, And I say cats should be locked up. For every time I walk the street, A crowd of cats I'm sure to meet. They rumple up my smooth, clean coat, They spoil my collar, scratch my throat, They rush and push, and tease and whirl, And pull my ears all out of curl.-- There's nothing on four legs as rude As cats and kittens are. Yours, "DUDE." [Illustration] [Illustration] JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT. DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPET If I drum in the house, "Oh, what a noise you make!" Sighs Mamma. "Baby'll wake!" If in the garden green I drum, our Bridget cries: "Ye'll mak' me spile the pies And cakes! I can not think! That droom destroys me wit! Be off, me b'y,--or quit!" If I drum in the street, Out comes Miss Peters, quick, And says her ma is sick; Or Doctor Daniel Brown Calls from his window: "Bub, That dreadful rub-a-dub Confuses my ideas. My sermon is not done. Run on, my little son!"