Puss in Boots
‘There once was a miller, who lived till he died—
It’s been done by a good many people beside;
But this miller, you see,
In particular—he,
On the brink of the grave—“on the banks of the dee,”
As a Scotchman would say (vide song “Annie Laurie;”
It North-country short is
For articula mortis)—
Made a will, whence arises the whole of my story.
Three sons had this miller,
To whom all his “siller,” *
Stock, business, premises, goodwill, and “wilier”—
A tenure, in short, not to spin out my verse, on all
Things he died “seised” of, both real and personal,
(Exclusive, of course, of the very bad cough
With which he was seized—and which carried him off)
He had to devise—
And, as you would surmise,
Would divide in accordance with ages and size.
But no!—not a bit!
He hadn’t the wit
For such a division—or didn’t see fit;
* Though with terms Caledonian this story is filled,
You ’ll find it, I hope, only scotched, and not killed.
But made a partition
So strange in condition
That to one ’t was a blow—for the others a hit.
It is half after one,
The funeral ’s done,
The reading should now of the will be begun.
The youngest is crying,
The others are trying
To think who’s most colour for praising the dying;
Their loss doesn’t grieve,
Since it does not bereave
Them of all that their father was able to leave.
(Though “where there s a will,” says the proverb, you know,
There’s always a Way”—there’s not always a Woe.)
When the will is recited
They both are delighted,
For it proves their young brother is cruelly slighted.
For joy they with decency scarce can bemean them
When they find that their dad
Every thing that he had
Has left them, the eldest, to own all between them,
Save one thing—and that
Is only the cat,
Which he leaves to the youngest, described as “that brat.”
The youngest, poor lad! didn’t care what he had,
By the loss of a father, not fortune, made sad.
But as silent he sat, nursing his cat,
And quite at a loss what he next should be at,
Each brother, addressing him sternly as Nemesis,
(Who, the Greeks say, less just and more cruel than Themis is,) Said, “Now then, young Lazybones! Clear off the premises!’’
He asked for some bread and some straw for a bed,
And he’d work like a slave for his brothers, he said.
But they both answered, “No! you’d much better go:
We shall have to assist you along if you’re slow!”
So, half broken-hearted, the poor lad departed,
And thus in the world for himself he was started.
’T was a poorish look out,
Of that there’s no doubt;
He’d not an idea what he’d best set about.
So, much to be pitied,
The old mill he quitted.
The door gave a slam—
Not one pang was spared for him—
He sat by the dam,
And that nobody cared for him
He could not help feeling—and what was prepared for him!
Thus he sat, while big tear-drops his eyes were suffusing,
Nor speaking a word,
Till he suddenly heard,
As he was a-musing, his cat, too, a mew sing.
“Ah, Puss,” he said, “you
Are unfortunate too;
I’m inclined to think yours the more serious disaster
In having a penniless wretch for a master.”
Puss, thus addressed, his master caressed,
And then in plain language his feelings expressed.
“Dear master,” said he, “just leave it to me;
You shall see, then, I promise, what then you shall see.
I ’ll at once undertake
Your fortune to make,
And assist you to wreak your revenge on those brutes;
And all that I want is a new pair of boots!”
The notion was funny:
He hadn’t much money,
But as nothing more hopeful appeared to be done, he
Went off to a cobbler, who lived in a stall,
And ordered the boots to be made—rather small.
New boots, too! Not shabby, old, worn-out, and holey ‘uns,
But a spick-and-span pair of resplendent Napoleons.
The boots arrived, the bill was paid,
And Pussy an excursion made.
Some snares he prepares,
To take dozens of hares,
And a wire that will grab its
Quantum of rabbits;
Without burning cartridges,
Catches some partridges
And several pheasants;
And bears them as presents
To the court of the King—I can’t tell you his name,
But history reports he was partial to game.
Day after day the cat brought his prey
In numbers sufficient to load a big dray,
Or the cart which they call in the Crimea an arabah;
And each single thing
He brought to the King
“With the loyal respects of the Marquis of Carabas.”
Said the monarch one day, “Come, tell me, I pray,
Whereabouts is the Marquis’s property, eh?
The cat, as requested, the quarter suggested
Where the lands lay whose fee in the Marquis was vested.
Said the monarch, “Hooray!
I’ll drive over that way:
Tell the Master of Horse just to bring round the chay.”
In a moment at that off went the cat
At what modern slang styles “a terrible bat,”
Faster and faster, till, reaching his master,
He cried, “Of your clothes be at once off a caster,
And jump in the river that runs by the path!”
“In the river—” “Don’t talk, sir, but pray go to bath!”
On the bank Pussy stayed, while his master obeyed;
But the Royal procession so long was delayed
That he felt very cold in the stream, I’m afraid.
At last, “Here they come!” cried Pussy: “now, mum
Is the word!” Said his master, “With cold I am numb,
But, while my teeth chatter so, cannot be dumb.”
Said the cat, “My young friend, to this warning attend;
If you do, it will all turn out well in the end.
You’ve good fortune at hand, and the path’s very quick to it,
So keep a look-out,
Mind what you ‘re about,
And whatever I say, say you likewise—and stick to it!”