Part 4 (1/2)

But where was the dragon, the scale-clad dragon, the dragon that d.i.c.kon saw, The genuine dragon, The pitiless dragon, The dragon that knew no law?

Lo, just as the word to charge rang out, And before they could give their battle shout, On a stony ledge Of the ridge's edge, With its lips curled back and its teeth laid bare, And a hiss that ripped the morning air, With its backbone arched And its tail well starched, With bristling hair and flattened ears, What shape of courage and wrath appears?

A cat, a tortoisesh.e.l.l mother-cat!

And a very diminutive cat at that!

And below her, nesting upon the ground, A litter of tiny kits they found: Tortoisesh.e.l.l kittens, one, two, three, Lying as snug as snug could be.

And they took the kittens with shouts of laughter And turned for home, and the cat came after.

And when in the camp they told their tale, The women--but stop! I draw a veil.

The cat had tent-life forced upon her And was kept in comfort and fed with honour; But d.i.c.kon has heard his fill Of the furious dragon They tried to bag on The dragonless summit, the gorse-clad summit, the summit of Winter Hill!

FLUFFY, A CAT

So now your tale of years is done, Old Fluff, my friend, and you have won, Beyond our land of mist and rain, Your way to the Elysian plain, Where through the s.h.i.+ning hours of heat A cat may bask and lap and eat; Where goldfish glitter in the streams, And mice refresh your waking dreams, And all, in fact, is planned--and that's Its great delight--to please the cats.

Yet sometimes, too, your placid mind Will turn to those you've left behind, And most to one who sheds her tears, The mistress of your later years, Who sheds her tears to summon back Her faithful cat, the white-and-black.

Fluffy, full well you understood The frequent joys of motherhood-- To lick, from pointed tail to nape, The mewing litter into shape; To show, with pride that condescends, Your offspring to your human friends, And all our sympathy to win For every kit tucked snugly in.

In your familiar garden ground We've raised a tributary mound, And pa.s.sing by it we recite Your merits and your praise aright.

”Here lies,” we say, ”from care released A faithful, furry, friendly beast.

Responsive to the lightest word, About these walks her purr was heard.

Love she received, for much she earned, And much in kindness she returned.

Wherefore her comrades go not by Her little grave without a sigh.”

THE LEAN-TO-SHED

(COMMUNICATED BY AN EIGHT-YEAR-OLD)

I've a palace set in a garden fair, And, oh, but the flowers are rich and rare, Always growing And always blowing Winter or summer--it doesn't matter-- For there's never a wind that dares to scatter The wonderful petals that scent the air About the walls of my palace there.

And the palace itself is very old, And it's built of ivory splashed with gold.

It has silver ceilings and jasper floors And stairs of marble and crystal doors; And whenever I go there, early or late, The two tame dragons who guard the gate And refuse to open the frowning portals To sisters, brothers and other mortals, Get up with a grin And let me in.

And I tickle their ears and pull their tails And pat their heads and polish their scales; And they never attempt to flame or fly, Being quelled by me and my human eye.

Then I pour them drink out of golden flagons, Drink for my two tame trusty dragons...

But John, Who's a terrible fellow for chattering on, John declares They are Teddy-bears; And the palace itself, he has often said, Is only the gardener's lean-to shed.

In the vaulted hall where we have the dances There are suits of armour and swords and lances, Plenty of steel-wrought who's-afraiders, All of them used by real crusaders; Corslets, helmets and s.h.i.+elds and things Fit to be worn by warrior-kings, Glittering rows of them-- Think of the blows of them, Lopping, Chopping, Smas.h.i.+ng And slas.h.i.+ng The Paynim armies at Ascalon...

But, bother the boy, here comes our John Munching a piece of currant cake, Who says the lance is a broken rake, And the sword with its keen Toledo blade Is a hoe, and the dinted s.h.i.+eld a spade, Bent and useless and rusty-red, In the gardener's silly old lean-to shed.

And sometimes, too, when the night comes soon With a great magnificent tea-time moon.

Through the nursery-window I peep and see My palace lit for a revelry; And I think I shall try to go there instead Of going to sleep in my dull small bed.

But who are these In the shade of the trees That creep so slow In a stealthy row?