ONE day, when the blossoming branches strayed, 

All milk-white over the orchard wall, 

And the thrushes were singing a serenade, 

Gyp waited long for his queen to call, 

And when at last she came to the door, 

One birthday gift on her arm she bore; 

Through breezy rustle, and chant, and whirr, 

Poor Gyp, faint-hearted, could hear it purr. 

No growl did he utter, no bark or whine, 

In his eyes more sorrow lurked than blame; 

But he went and he hid all day from the shine 

In a broken shed where no one came. 

If we brood away from the light on our wrongs, 

Maybe they are keener at set of sun: 

Long ere the thrushes had hushed all their songs, 

Gyp had been fain that his life were done. 

The kitten should really have been in bed, 

But off it went to the pond instead: 

One step more down the slippery bank, 

And its silky hair would hang all lank, 

Its eyes would be closed to light and love-- 

Gyp could just see from his shed above. 

He came, and he snatched it from death away, 

And carried it home all lithe and gay: 

See! He carries it back to his friend so dear, 

The hour is won, she may fondle it o'er; 

In his faithful eyes is the story made clear, 

He gambols again—he is jealous no more.


—Little Folks.