An Acatalectic Monody!
A cat I sing, of famous memory,
Though catachrestical my song may be;
In a small garden catacomb she lies,
And cataclysms fill her comrades’ eyes;
Borne on the air, the catacoustic song
Swells with her virtues’ catalogue along;
No cataplasm could lengthen out her years,
Though mourning friends shed cataracts of tears
Once loud and strong her catechist-like voice
It dwindled to a catcall’s squeaking noise;
Most categorical her virtues shone,
By catenation join’d each one to one;—
But a vile catchpoll dog, with cruel bite,
Like catling’s cut, her strength disabled quite;
Her caterwauling pierced the heavy air,
As cataphracts their arms through legions bear;
’Tis vain! as caterpillars drag away
Their lengths, like cattle after busy day,
She ling’ring died, nor left in kit kat the
Embodyment of this catastrophe.
—V. D. L.
“A play on words,” said Mr. Cavil, (who happened to be our guest on this occasion), “a play on words, sir, is a pretty thing in its way; and I’m perfectly well aware that the public expect you to be jocular (as if there were nothing cheerful in seriousness). I know, too, that it’s quite impossible to please everybody. But still, sir—still I think a little gravity now and then, eh?—a little gravity. I don’t conceive that you give your attention sufficiently to science. Something scientific now—”
Mr. Cavil was not allowed to conclude; we had anticipated his want; we had already turned our thoughts that way, and could fortunately plume ourselves upon the presence of one of the illustrissimi of science, who forthwith illumined our humble vehicle by a transcendent and exclusive report of the