Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 2.djvu/326

  Kitty—ah, how my heart blesses
    Kitty, my lily, my rose!
  Wary of all my caresses,
    Chary of all she bestows.

  Kitty loves quietest places,
    Whispers sweet sermons to chairs,
  And, with the gravest of faces,
    Teaches old Carlo his prayers.

  Matronly, motherly creature!
    Oh, what a doll she has built—
  Guiltless of figure or feature—
    Out of her own little quilt!

  Nought must come near it to wake it;
    Noise must not give it alarm;
  And when she sleeps, she must take it
    Into her bed, on her arm.

  Kitty is shy of a caller,
    Uttering never a word;
  But when alone in the parlor,
    Talks to herself like a bird.

  Kitty is contrary, rather,
    And, with a comical smile,
  Mutters, "I won't," to her father,—
    Eyeing him slyly the while.

  Loving one more than the other
    Isn't the thing, I confess;
  And I observe that their mother
    Makes no distinction in dress.

  Preference must be improper
    In a relation like this;
  I wouldn't toss up a copper—
    (Kitty, come, give me a kiss!)