They say that Dapple-grey’s not yours, but don’t you wish he were? 
    My horse’s coat is only paint, but his is soft grey hair;
    His face is big and kind, like yours, his forelock white as snow—­
    Shan’t you be sorry when you’ve done his shoes and he must go?

    I do so wish, Big Smith, that I might come and live with you;
    To rake the fire, to heat the rods, to hammer two and two. 
    To be so black, and not to have to wash unless I choose;
    To pat the dear old horses, and to mend their poor old shoes.

    When all the world is dark at night, you work among the stars,
    A shining shower of fireworks beat out of red-hot bars. 
    I’ve seen you beat, I’ve heard you sing, when I was going to bed;
    And now your face and arms looked black, and now were glowing red.

    The more you work, the more you sing, the more the bellows roar;
    The falling stars, the flying sparks, stream shining more and more. 
    You hit so hard, you look so hot, and yet you never tire;
    It must be very nice to be allowed to play with fire.

    I long to beat and sing and shine, as you do, but instead
    I put away my horse, and Nurse puts me away to bed. 
    I wonder if you go to bed; I often think I’ll keep
    Awake and see, but, though I try, I always fall asleep.

    I know it’s very silly, but I sometimes am afraid
    Of being in the dark alone, especially in bed. 
    But when I see your forge-light come and go upon the wall,
    And hear you through the window, I am not afraid at all.

    I often hear a trotting horse, I sometimes hear it stop;
    I hold my breath—­you stay your song—­it’s at the blacksmith’s shop. 
    Before it goes, I’m apt to fall asleep, Big Smith, it’s true;
    But then I dream of hammering that horse’s shoes with you!

KIT’S CRADLE.

    They’ve taken the cosy bed away
    That I made myself with the Shetland shawl,
    And set me a hamper of scratchy hay,
    By that great black stove in the entrance-hall.

    [Illustration]

    I won’t sleep there; I’m resolved on that! 
    They may think I will, but they little know
    There’s a soft persistence about a cat
    That even a little kitten can show.

    I wish I knew what to do but pout,
    And spit at the dogs and refuse my tea;
    My fur’s feeling rough, and I rather doubt
    Whether stolen sausage agrees with me.

    On the drawing-room sofa they’ve closed the door,
    They’ve turned me out of the easy-chairs;
    I wonder it never struck me before
    That they make their beds for themselves up-stairs.

* * * * *

    I’ve found a crib where they won’t find me,
    Though they’re crying “Kitty!” all over the house. 
    Hunt for the Slipper! and riddle-my-ree! 
    A cat can keep as still as a mouse.