BILL, THE CAT.

This is the story of Bill the cat;
A fine dark grey tabby is he;
Sleeps most of the day and all through the night,
And never goes out on the spree.

He came to us, nearly four years ago,
A hungry and starving old cat;
We talked to him kindly, and gave him some food,
And a saucer of milk on the mat.

He was timid and frightened when we took him in,
But soon became friendly and tame,
And sits by the fire on cold winter nights,
And soon learned to answer his name,

He was very content to eat any old scraps,
Stale milk he would greedily mop;
But he now only eats rabbit and won't drink his juice:
Unless there's thick cream on the top.

He understands everything we say to him,
And answers us back in his way;
He asks to be nursed, for his food and his milk,
And often asks us to play,

Sometimes he gets frisky and capers about,
And will play with a soft woolly ball;
He will race up the stairs, jump over the chairs,
And slide on the mats in the hall.

Then all of a sudden his frolics will cease,
He'll become quite a solemn old gent,
But I'm sure he's enjoyed it and thinks it's pleased us,
For he will lie down and purr with content.

We are used to his ways, and know what he means
When he picks at the mat by the door ;
When he sits by his milk the cream's gone,
And we know that the quality's poor,

He's a faithful and friendly and fussy old chap;
We'd miss him if he went away;
But there's no fear of that, he is ours for keeps,
And with us he is happy to stay,

T, Rouse,
Stoke Edith
England.

September 24th, 1945