Our Peter, who's famed as an eater of things, Is a miniature dragon without any wings. He can gallop or trot, he can amble or jog, But he flies like a flash when he's after his prog; And the slaves who adore him, whatever his mood, Say that nothing is fleeter Than Peter the eater, Than Peter pursuing his food. He considers the garden his absolute own: It's the place where a digger can bury a bone. Then he tests his pin-teeth on a pansy or rose, Spreading ruin and petals wherever he goes; And his mistress declares, when he's nibbled for hours, That nothing is sweeter Than Peter the eater, The resolute eater of flowers. Having finished his dinner he wheedles the cook, Picks a coal from the scuttle or tackles a book, Or devotes all his strength to a slipper or mat, To the gnawing of this and the tearing of that; _Faute de mieux_ takes a dress; and his mistress asserts That there's nothing to beat her Like Peter the eater Attached by his teeth to her skirts. But at last he has supped, and the moment is come When, his stretchable turn being tight as a drum, He is meek and submissive, who once was so proud, And he creeps to his basket and slumbers aloud. And his mistress proclaims, as she tucks up his shawl, That nothing is neater Than Peter the eater, Than Peter curled up in a ball, Asleep and digesting it all. THE DOGS' WELCOME Hush! We're not a pack of boys Always bound to make a noise. True, there's one amongst us, but He is young; And, wherever we may take him, We can generally shut Such a youngster up and make him Hold his tongue. Hush! Most cautiously we go On the tippest tip of toe. Are the dogs expecting us At the gate? Two, who usually prize us, Will they jump and make a fuss? Will they really recognise us Where they wait? Hush! I hear the funny pair Softly whimpering--yes, they're there. Dane and Pekinese, they scratch At the wood, At the solid wood between us; Duke attempts to lift the latch; It's a month since they have seen us-- Open! Good! Down, Duke, down! Enough, enough! Soo-Ti's screaming; seize his scruff. Soo-Ti's having fearful fits; Duke is tearing us to bits. One will trip us, one will throw us-- But, the darlings, _don't_ they know us! Then off with a clatter the long dog leapt, and, oh, what a race he ran, At the hurricane pace of a minute a mile, as only a long dog can. Into and out of the bushes he pierced like a shooting star; And now he thundered around us, and now he was whirling far. And the little dog gazed till he seemed amazed, and then he took to it too; With shrill notes flung from his pert pink tongue right after his friend he flew; And the long legs lashed and the short legs flashed and scurried like anything, While Duke ran round in a circle and Soo-Ti ran in a ring.