So modest she was, and so shy,
Although an inveterate sinner,
She'd nip out her part of the pie
Before it was brought up to dinner.
She held that 'twas folly to ask
For what her own wits would allow her;
And, making her way through the cask,
She helped herself well to the flour.
The candles she scraped to their wicks;
And, mischievous in her invention,
Would do many more naughty tricks,
Which I, as her friend, cannot mention.
Kit, too, had her living to make,
And yet, she was so above toiling,
She'd sooner attack the beef-steak,
When the cook had prepared it for broiling.
And so, near a dish of warm toast,
She often most patiently lingered,
To seize her first chance; yet, could boast
That none ever called her _light-fingered_.
But mending, or minding herself,
She thought would be quite too much labor,
And so peeped about on the shelf,
To spy out the faults of her neighbor.
For Mouse loved to promenade there,
While Kit would watch close to waylay her;
And once, in the midst of her fare,
Up bounded Miss Kitty to slay her!
But this was as luckless a jump
As ever Kit made, with the clatter
Of knife, skimmer, spoon, and a thump,
Which she got, as she threw down the platter.
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