Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats
by T.S. Eliot
Contents
- The Naming of the Cats
- The Old Gumbie Cat
- Growltiger's Last Stand
- The Rum Tum Tugger
- The Song of the Jellicles
- Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer
- Old Deuteronomy
- Of the Awefull battle of the Pekes and the Pollicles
- Mr. Mistoffelees
- Macavity: The Mystery Cat
- Gus: The Theatre Cat
- Bustopher Jones: The Cat about Town
- Skimbleshanks: The Railway Cat
- The Ad-dressing of a Cat
- Cat Morgan Introduces Himself
The Naming of Cats
The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It
isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad
as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT
NAMES.
First of all, there's the name that the family use
daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or
Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey —
All of them sensible everyday
names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some
for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra,
Demeter —
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a
cat needs a name that's particular,
A name that's peculiar, and more
dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread
out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can
give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as
Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-
Names that never belong to more than
one cat.
But above and beyond there's still one name left over,
And
that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human
research can discover —
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never
confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I
tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt
contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his
name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable
singular Name.
The Old Gumbie Cat
I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is
Jennyanydots;
Her coat is of the tabby kind, with tiger stripes and
leopard spots.
All day she sits upon the stair or on the steps or on
the mat;
She sits and sits and sits and sits —and that's what makes a
Gumbie Cat!
But when the day's hustle and bustle is
done,
Then the Gumbie Cat's work is but hardly begun.
And when all
the family's in bed and asleep,
She tucks up her skirts to the basement
to creep.
She is deeply concerned with the ways of the mice —
Their
behaviour's not good and their manners not nice;
So when she has got
them lined up on the matting,
She teachs them music, crocheting and
tatting.
I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is
Jennyanydots;
Her equal would be hard to find, she likes the warm and
sunny spots.
All day she sits beside the hearth or on the bed or on my
hat:
She sits and sits and sits and sits —and that's what makes a
Gumbie Cat!
But when the day's hustle and bustle is done,
Then the
Gumbie Cat's work is but hardly begun.
As she finds that the mice will
not ever keep quiet,
She is sure it is due to irregular diet;
And
believing that nothing is done without trying,
She sets right to work
with her baking and frying.
She makes them a mouse —cake of bread and
dried peas,
And a beautiful fry of lean bacon and cheese.
I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is
Jennyanydots;
The curtain-cord she likes to wind, and tie it into
sailor-knots.
She sits upon the window-sill, or anything that's smooth
and flat:
She sits and sits and sits and sits —
and that's what
makes a Gumbie Cat!
But when the day's hustle and bustle is done,
Then the
Gumbie Cat's work is but hardly begun.
She thinks that the cockroaches
just need employment
To prevent them from idle and wanton
destroyment.
So she's formed, from that lot of disorderly louts,
A
troop of well-disciplined helpful boy-scouts,
With a purpose in life
and a good deed to do —
And she's even created a Beetles' Tattoo.
So for Old Gumbie Cats let us now give three
cheers —
On whom well-ordered households depend, it appears.
Growltiger's Last Stand
GROWLTIGER was a Bravo Cat, who lived upon a barge;
In
fact he was the roughest cat that ever roamed at large.
From Gravesend
up to Oxford he pursued his evil aims,
Rejoicing in his title of "The
Terror of the Thames."
His manners and appearance did not calculate to
please;
His coat was torn and seedy, he was baggy at the knees;
One
ear was somewhat missing, no need to tell you why,
And he scowled upon
a hostile world from one forbidding eye.
The cottagers of Rotherhithe knew something of his
fame,
At Hammersmith and Putney people shuddered at his name.
They
would fortify the hen-house, lock up the silly goose,
When the rumour
ran along the shore: GROWLTIGER'S ON THE LOOSE!
Woe to the weak canary, that fluttered from its
cage;
Woe to the pampered Pekinese, that faced Growltiger's
rage.
Woe to the bristly Bandicoot, that lurks on foreign ships,
And
woe to any Cat with whom Growltiger came to grips!
But most to Cats of foreign race his hatred had been
vowed;
To Cats of foreign name and race no quarter was allowed.
The
Persian and the Siamese regarded him with fear —
Because it was a
Siamese had mauled his missing ear.
Now on a peaceful summer night, all nature seemed at
play,
The tender moon was shining bright, the barge at Molesey
lay.
All in the balmy moonlight it lay rocking on the tide —
And
Growltiger was disposed to show his sentimental side.
His bucko mate, GRUMBUSKIN, long since had
disappeared,
For to the Bell at Hampton he had gone to wet his
beard;
And his bosun, TUMBLEBRUTUS, he too had stol'n away-
In the
yard behind the Lion he was prowling for his prey.
In the forepeak of the vessel Growltiger sate
alone,
Concentrating his attention on the Lady GRIDDLEBONE.
And his
raffish crew were sleeping in their barrels and their bunks —
As the
Siamese came creeping in their sampans and their junks.
Growltiger had no eye or ear for aught but
Griddlebone,
And the Lady seemed enraptured by his manly
baritone,
Disposed to relaxation, and awaiting no surprise —
But the
moonlight shone reflected from a thousand bright blue eyes.
And closer still and closer the sampans circled
round,
And yet from all the enemy there was not heard a sound.
The
lovers sang their last duet, in danger of their lives —
For the foe was
armed with toasting forks and cruel carving knives.
Then GILBERT gave the signal to his fierce Mongolian
horde;
With a frightful burst of fireworks the Chinks they swarmed
aboard.
Abandoning their sampans, and their pullaways and
junks,
They battened down the hatches on the crew within their bunks.
Then Griddlebone she gave a screech, for she was badly
skeered;
I am sorry to admit it, but she quickly disappeared.
She
probably escaped with ease, I'm sure she was not drowned —
But a
serried ring of flashing steel Growltiger did surround.
The ruthless foe pressed forward, in stubborn rank on
rank;
Growltiger to his vast surprise was forced to walk the
plank.
He who a hundred victims had driven to that drop,
At the end
of all his crimes was forced to go ker-flip, ker-flop.
Oh there was joy in Wapping when the news flew through the
land;
At Maidenhead and Henley there was dancing on the strand.
Rats
were roasted whole at Brentford, and at Victoria Dock,
And a day of
celebration was commanded in Bangkok.
The Rum Tum Tugger
The Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat:
If you offer him
pheasant he would rather have grouse.
If you put him in a house he
would much prefer a flat,
If you put him in a flat then he'd rather
have a house.
If you set him on a mouse then he only wants a rat,
If
you set him on a rat then he'd rather chase a mouse.
Yes the Rum Tum
Tugger is a Curious Cat —
And there isn't any call for me to shout
it:
For he will do
As he do do
And there's no doing anything
about it!
The Rum Tum Tugger is a terrible bore:
When you let him
in, then he wants to be out;
He's always on the wrong side of every
door,
And as soon as he's at home, then he'd like to get about.
He
likes to lie in the bureau drawer,
But he makes such a fuss if he can't
get out.
Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat —
And there
isn't any use for you to doubt it:
For he will do
As he do do
And
there's no doing anything about it!
The Rum Tum Tugger is a curious beast:
His disobliging
ways are a matter of habit.
If you offer him fish then he always wants
a feast;
When there isn't any fish then he won't eat rabbit.
If you
offer him cream then he sniffs and sneers,
For he only likes what he
finds for himself;
So you'll catch him in it right up to the ears,
If you
put it away on the larder shelf.
The Rum Tum Tugger is artful and
knowing,
The Rum Tum Tugger doesn't care for a cuddle;
But he'll
leap on your lap in the middle of your sewing,
For there's nothing he
enjoys like a horrible muddle.
Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious
Cat —
And there isn't any need for me to spout it:
For he will
do
As he do do
And theres no doing anything about it!
The Song of the Jellicles
Jellicle Cats come out tonight,
Jellicle
Cats come one come all:
The Jellicle Moon is shining
bright —
Jellicles come to the Jellicle Ball.
Jellicle Cats are black and white,
Jellicle Cats are rather
small;
Jellicle Cats are merry and bright,
And pleasant to hear when
they caterwaul.
Jellicle Cats have cheerful faces,
Jellicle Cats
have bright black eyes;
They like to practise their airs and
graces
And wait for the Jellicle Moon to rise.
Jellicle Cats develop slowly,
Jellicle Cats are not too
big;
Jellicle Cats are roly-poly,
They know how to dance a gavotte
and a jig.
Until the Jellicle Moon appears
They make their toilette
and take their repose:
Jellicles wash behind their ears,
Jellicles
dry between their toes.
Jellicle Cats are white and black,
Jellicle Cats are of
moderate size;
Jellicles jump like a jumping-jack,
Jellicle Cats
have moonlit eyes.
They're quiet enough in the morning
hours,
They're quiet enough in the afternoon,
Reserving their
terpsichorean powers
To dance by the light of the Jellicle Moon.
Jellicle Cats are black and white,
Jellicle Cats (as I
said) are small;
If it happens to be a stormy night
They will
practise a caper or two in the hall.
If it happens the sun is shining
bright
You would say they had nothing to do at all:
They are resting
and saving themselves to be right
For the Jellicle Moon and the
Jellicle Ball.
Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer
Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer were a very notorious couple
of cats.
As knockabout clown, quick-change comedians, tight-rope
walkers and acrobats
They had extensive reputation. They made their
home in Victoria Grove —
That was merely their centre of operation,
for they were incurably given to rove.
They were very well know in
Cornwall Gardens, in
Launceston Place and in Kensington
Square —
They had really a little more reputation than a couple of cats
can very well bear.
If the area window was found ajar
And the basement
looked like a field of war,
If a tile or two came loose on the
roof,
Which presently ceased to be waterproof,
If the drawers were
pulled out from the bedroom chests,
And you couldn't find one of your
winter vests,
Or after supper one of the girls
Suddenly missed her
Woolworth pearls:
Then the family would say: "It's that horrible cat!
It
was Mungojerrie —or Rumpelteazer!" —
And most of the time they left it
at that.
Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer had a very unusual gift of
the gab.
They were highly efficient cat-burglars as well,
and
remarkably smart at smash-and-grab.
They made their home in Victoria
Grove.
They had no regular occupation.
They were plausible fellows,
and liked to engage a friendly policeman in conversation.
When the family assembled for Sunday dinner,
With their
minds made up that they wouldn't get thinner
On Argentine joint,
potatoes and greens,
And the cook would appear from behind the
scenes
And say in a voice that was broken with sorrow:
"I'm afraid
you must wait and have dinner tomorrow!
For the joint has gone from the
oven-like that!"
Then the family would say: "It's that horrible
cat!
It was Mungojerrie —or Rumpelteazer!" —
And most of the time
they left it at that.
Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer had a wonderful way of
working together.
And some of the time you would say it was luck,
and some of the time you would say it was weather.
They would go
through the house like a hurricane,
and no sober person could take his
oath
Was it Mungojerrie —or Rumpelteazer?
or could you have sworn
that it mightn't be both?
And when you heard a dining-room smash
Or up from the
pantry there came a loud crash
Or down from the library came a loud
ping
From a vase which was commonly said to be Ming —
Then the
family would say: "Now which was which cat?
It was Mungojerrie! AND
Rumpelteazer!" —
And there's nothing at all to be done about that!
Old Deuteronomy
Old Deuteronomy's lived a long time;
He's a Cat who has
lived many lives in succession.
He was famous in proverb and famous in
rhyme
A long while before Queen Victoria's accession.
Old
Deuteronomy's buried nine wives
And more —I am tempted to say,
ninety-nine;
And his numerous progeny prospers and thrives
And the
village is proud of him in his decline.
At the sight of that placid and
bland physiognomy,
When he sits in the sun on the vicarage wall,
The
Oldest Inhabitant croaks: "Well, of all . . .
Things. . . Can it be . .
. really! . . . No!. . . Yes!. . .
Ho! hi!
Oh, my eye!
My mind
may be wandering, but I confess
I believe it is Old Deuteronomy!"
Old Deuteronomy sits in the street,
He sits in the High
Street on market day;
The bullocks may bellow, the sheep they may
bleat,
But the dogs and the herdsmen will turn them away.
The cars
and the lorries run over the kerb,
And the villagers put up a notice:
ROAD CLOSED —
So that nothing untoward may chance to
disturb
Deuteronomy's rest when he feels so disposed
Or when he's
engaged in domestic economy:
And the Oldest Inhabitant croaks: "Well,
of all . . .
Things. . . Can it be . . . really! . . . No!. . . Yes!. .
.
Ho! hi!
Oh, my eye!
My sight's unreliable, but I can
guess
That the cause of the trouble is Old Deuteronomy!"
Old Deuteronomy lies on the floor
Of the Fox and French
Horn for his afternoon sleep;
And when the men say: "There's just time
for one more,"
Then the landlady from her back parlour will peep
And
say: "New then, out you go, by the back door,
For Old Deuteronomy
mustn't be woken —
I'll have the police if there's any uproar" —
And out
they all shuffle, without a word spoken.
The digestive repose of that
feline's gastronomy
Must never be broken, whatever befall:
And the
Oldest Inhabitant croaks: "Well, of all . . .
Things. . . Can it be . .
. really! . . . No!. . . Yes!. . .
Ho! hi!
Oh, my eye!
My legs
may be tottery, I must go slow
And be careful of Old Deuteronomy!"
The Pekes and the Pollicles
Of the awefull battle of the Pekes and the
Pollicles:
together with some account of the participation of the Pugs
and the Poms,
and the intervention of the Great Rumpuscat
The Pekes and the Pollicles, everyone knows,
Are proud
and implacable passionate foes;
It is always the same, wherever one
goes.
And the Pugs and the Poms, although most people say
That they
do not like fighting, yet once in a way,
They will now and again join
in to the fray
And they
Bark bark bark bark
Bark bark BARK
BARK
Until you can hear them all over the Park.
Now on the occasion of which I shall speak
Almost
nothing had happened for nearly a week
(And that's a long time for a
Pol or a Peke).
The big Police Dog was away from his beat —
I don't
know the reason, but most people think
He'd slipped into the Wellington
Arms for a drink —
And no one at all was about on the street
When a
Peke and a Pollicle happened to meet.
They did not advance, or exactly
retreat,
But they glared at each other, and scraped their hind
feet,
And they started to
Bark bark bark bark
Bark bark BARK
BARK
Until you can hear them all over the Park.
Now the Peke, although people may say what they
please,
Is no British Dog, but a Heathen Chinese.
And so all the
Pekes, when they heard the uproar,
Some came to the window, some came
to the door;
There were surely a dozen, more likely a score.
And
together they started to grumble and wheeze
In their huffery-snuffery
Heathen Chinese.
But a terrible din is what Pollicles like,
For your
Pollicle Dog is a dour Yorkshire tyke,
And his braw Scottish cousins
are snappers and biters,
And every dog-jack of them notable
fighters;
And so they stepped out, with their pipers in
order,
Playing When the Blue Bonnets Came Over the Border.
Then the
Pugs and the Poms held no longer aloof,
But some from the balcony, some
from the roof,
Joined in
To the din
With a
Bark bark bark
bark
Bark bark BARK BARK
Until you can hear them all over the Park.
Now when these bold heroes together assembled,
That
traffic all stopped, and the Underground trembled,
And some of the
neighbours were so much afraid
That they started to ring up the Fire
Brigade.
When suddenly, up from a small basement flat,
Why who
should stalk out but the GREAT RUMPUSCAT.
His eyes were like fireballs
fearfully blazing,
He gave a great yawn, and his jaws were
amazing;
And when he looked out through the bars of the area,
You
never saw anything fiercer or hairier.
And what with the glare of his
eyes and his yawning,
The Pekes and the Pollicles quickly took
warning.
He looked at the sky and he gave a great leap —
And they
every last one of them scattered like sheep.
And when the Police Dog returned to his beat,
There
wasn't a single one left in the street.
Mr. Mistoffelees
You ought to know Mr. Mistoffelees!
The Original
Conjuring Cat —
(There can be no doubt about that).
Please listen to
me and don't scoff. All his
Inventions are off his own bat.
There's
no such Cat in the metropolis;
He holds all the patent
monopolies
For performing suprising illusions
And creating eccentric
confusions.
At prestidigitation
And at legerdemain
He'll defy
examination
And deceive you again.
The greatest magicians have
something to learn
From Mr. Mistoffelees' Conjuring
Turn.
Presto!
Away we go!
And we all say: OH!
Well I
never!
Was there ever
A Cat so clever
As Magical Mr.
Mistoffelees!
He is quiet and small, he is black
From his ears to the
tip of his tail;
He can creep through the tiniest crack,
He can walk
on the narrowest rail.
He can pick any card from a pack,
He is
equally cunning with dice;
He is always deceiving you into
believing
That he's only hunting for mice.
He can play any trick
with a cork
Or a spoon and a bit of fish-paste;
If you look for a
knife or a fork
And you think it is merely misplaced —
You have seen
it one moment, and then it is gawn!
But you'll find it next week lying
out on the lawn.
And we all say: OH!
Well I never!
Was there
ever
A Cat so clever
As Magical Mr. Mistoffelees!
His manner is vague and aloof,
You would think there
was nobody shyer —
But his voice has been heard on the roof
When he
was curled up by the fire.
And he's sometimes been heard by the
fire
When he was about on the roof —
(At least we all heard that
somebody purred)
Which is incontestable proof
Of his singular
magical powers:
And I have known the family to call
Him in from the
garden for hours,
While he was asleep in the hall.
And not long ago
this phenomenal Cat
Produced seven kittens right out of a hat!
And
we all said: OH!
Well I never!
Did you ever
Know a Cat so
clever
As Magical Mr. Mistoffelees!
Macavity: The Mystery Cat
Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the
Hidden Paw —
For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He's
the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:
For when
they reach the scene of crime —Macavity's not there!
Macavity, Macavity, there's no on like Macavity,
He's
broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of
levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of
crime —Macavity's not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may
look up in the air —
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not
there!
Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;
You
would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is
deeply lined with thought, his head is highly doomed;
His coat is dusty
from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to
side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he's half asleep,
he's always wide awake.
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
For
he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him
in a by-street, you may see him in the square —
But when a crime's
discovered, then Macavity's not there!
He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at
cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland
Yard's.
And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is
rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been
stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past
repair —
Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!
And when the Foreign Office finds a Treaty's gone
astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the
way,
There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair —
But
it's useless of investigate —Macavity's not there!
And when the loss
has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
"It must have been
Macavity!" —but he's a mile away.
You'll be sure to find him resting,
or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long
division sums.
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macacity,
There
never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an
alibit, or one or two to spare:
And whatever time the deed took
place —MACAVITY WASN'T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose
wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might
mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all
the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!
Gus: The Theatre Cat
Gus is the Cat at the Theatre Door.
His name, as I
ought to have told you before,
Is really Asparagus. That's such a
fuss
To pronounce, that we usually call him just Gus.
His coat's
very shabby, he's thin as a rake,
And he suffers from palsy that makes
his paw shake.
Yet he was, in his youth, quite the smartest of
Cats —
But no longer a terror to mice and to rats.
For he isn't the
Cat that he was in his prime;
Though his name was quite famous, he
says, in its time.
And whenever he joins his friends at their
club
(Which takes place at the back of the neighbouring pub)
He
loves to regale them, if someone else pays,
With anecdotes drawn from
his palmiest days.
For he once was a Star of the highest degree —
He
has acted with Irving, he's acted with Tree.
And he likes to relate his
success on the Halls,
Where the Gallery once gave him seven
cat-calls.
But his grandest creation, as he loves to tell,
Was
Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.
"I have played," so he says, "every possible part,
And
I used to know seventy speeches by heart.
I'd extemporize back-chat, I
knew how to gag,
And I knew how to let the cat out of the bag.
I
knew how to act with my back and my tail;
With an hour of rehearsal, I
never could fail.
I'd a voice that would soften the hardest of
hearts,
Whether I took the lead, or in character parts.
I have sat
by the bedside of poor Little Nell;
When the Curfew was rung, then I
swung on the bell.
In the Pantomime season I never fell flat,
And I
once understudied Dick Whittington's Cat.
But my grandest creation, as
history will tell,
Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell."
Then, if someone will give him a toothful of gin,
He
will tell how he once played a part in East Lynne.
At a Shakespeare
performance he once walked on pat,
When some actor suggested the
need for a cat.
He once played a Tiger —could do it again —
Which an
Indian Colonel purused down a drain.
And he thinks that he still can,
much better than most,
Produce blood-curdling noises to bring on the
Ghost.
And he once crossed the stage on a telegraph wire,
To rescue
a child when a house was on fire.
And he says: "Now then kittens, they
do not get trained
As we did in the days when Victoria reigned.
They
never get drilled in a regular troupe,
And they think they are smart,
just to jump through a hoop."
And he'll say, as he scratches himself
with his claws,
"Well, the Theatre's certainly not what it
was.
These modern productions are all very well,
But there's nothing
to equal, from what I hear tell,
That moment of mystery
When I made
history
As Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell."
Bustopher Jones: The Cat about Town
Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones —
In fact, he's
remarkably fat.
He doesn't haunt pubs —he has eight or nine
clubs,
For he's the St. James's Street Cat!
He's the Cat we all
greet as he walks down the street
In his coat of fastidious
black:
No commonplace mousers have such well-cut trousers
Or such an
impreccable back.
In the whole of St. James's the smartest of names
is
The name of this Brummell of Cats;
And we're all of us proud to
be nodded or bowed to
By Bustopher Jones in white spats!
His visits are occasional to the Senior Educational
And
it is against the rules
For any one Cat to belong both to that
And
the Joint Superior Schools.
For a similar reason, when game is in season
He is
found, not at Fox's, but Blimpy's;
He is frequently seen at the gay
Stage and Screen
Which is famous for winkles and shrimps.
In the
season of venison he gives his ben'son
To the Pothunter's succulent
bones;
And just before noon's not a moment too soon
To drop in for a
drink at the Drones.
When he's seen in a hurry there's probably
curry
At the Siamese —or at the Glutton;
If he looks full of gloom
then he's lunched at the Tomb
On cabbage, rice pudding and mutton.
So, much in this way, passes Bustopher's day-
At one
club or another he's found.
It can be no surprise that under our
eyes
He has grown unmistakably round.
He's a twenty-five pounder, or
I am a bounder,
And he's putting on weight every day:
But he's so
well preserved because he's observed
All his life a routine, so he'll
say.
Or, to put it in rhyme: "I shall last out my time"
Is the word
of this stoutest of Cats.
It must and it shall be Spring in Pall
Mall
While Bustopher Jones wears white spats!
Skimbleshanks: The Railway Cat
There's a whisper down the line at 11.39
When the Night
Mail's ready to depart,
Saying "Skimble where is Skimble has he gone to
hunt the thimble?
We must find him or the train can't start."
All
the guards and all the porters and the stationmaster's daughters
They
are searching high and low,
Saying "Skimble where is Skimble for unless
he's very nimble
Then the Night Mail just can't go."
At 11.42 then
the signal's nearly due
And the passengers are frantic to a
man —
Then Skimble will appear and he'll saunter to the rear:
He's
been busy in the luggage van!
He gives one flash of his glass-green eyes
And the
signal goes "All Clear!"
And we're off at last for the northern
part
Of the Northern Hemisphere!
You may say that by and large it is Skimble who's in
charge
Of the Sleeping Car Express.
From the driver and the guards
to the bagmen playing cards
He will supervise them all, more or
less.
Down the corridor he paces and examines all the faces
Of the
travellers in the First and the Third;
He establishes control by a
regular patrol
And he'd know at once if anything occurred.
He will
watch you without winking and he sees what you are thinking
And it's
certain that he doesn't approve
Of hilarity and riot, so the folk are
very quiet
When Skimble is about and on the move.
You can play no
pranks with Skimbleshanks!
He's a Cat that cannot be ignored;
So
nothing goes wrong on the Northern Mail
When Skimbleshanks is aboard.
Oh, it's very pleasant when you have found your little
den
With your name written up on the door.
And the berth is very
neat with a newly folded sheet
And there's not a speck of dust on the
floor.
There is every sort of light-you can make it dark or
bright;
There's a handle that you turn to make a breeze.
There's a
funny little basin you're supposed to wash your face in
And a crank to
shut the window if you sneeze.
Then the guard looks in politely and
will ask you very brightly
"Do you like your morning tea weak or
strong?"
But Skimble's just behind him and was ready to remind
him,
For Skimble won't let anything go wrong.
And when you creep
into your cosy berth
And pull up the counterpane,
You ought to
reflect that it's very nice
To know that you won't be bothered by
mice —
You can leave all that to the Railway Cat,
The Cat of the
Railway Train!
In the watches of the night he is always fresh and
bright;
Every now and then he has a cup of tea
With perhaps a drop
of Scotch while he's keeping on the watch,
Only stopping here and there
to catch a flea.
You were fast asleep at Crewe and so you never
knew
That he was walking up and down the station;
You were sleeping
all the while he was busy at Carlisle,
Where he greets the
stationmaster with elation.
But you saw him at Dumfries, where he
speaks to the police
If there's anything they ought to know
about:
When you get to Gallowgate there you do not have to
wait —
For Skimbleshanks will help you to get out!
He gives you a
wave of his long brown tail
Which says: "I'll see you again!
You'll
meet without fail on the Midnight Mail
The Cat of the Railway Train."
The Ad-dressing of Cats
You've read of several kinds of Cat,
And my opinion now
is that
You should need no interpreter
To understand their
character.
You now have learned enough to see
That Cats are much
like you and me
And other people whom we find
Possessed of various
types of mind.
For some are same and some are mad
And some are good
and some are bad
And some are better, some are worse —
But all may
be described in verse.
You've seen them both at work and games,
And
learnt about their proper names,
Their habits and their
habitat:
But
How would you ad-dress a Cat?
So first, your memory I'll jog,
And say: A CAT IS NOT A
DOG.
And you might now and then supply
Some caviare, or
Strassburg Pie,
Some potted grouse, or salmon paste —
He's sure to
have his personal taste.
(I know a Cat, who makes a habit
Of eating
nothing else but rabbit,
And when he's finished, licks his paws
So's
not to waste the onion sauce.)
A Cat's entitled to expect
These
evidences of respect.
And so in time you reach your aim,
And finally
call him by his NAME.
So this is this, and that is that:
And there's how you
AD-DRESS A CAT.
Cat Morgan Introduces Himself
I once was a Pirate what sailed the 'igh seas —
But now I've retired as a com-mission-aire:
And that's how you find me a-taking' my ease
And keepin' the door in a Bloomsbury Square.
I'm partial to partridges, likewise to grouse,
And I favour that Devonshire cream in a bowl;
But I'm allus content with a drink on the 'ouse
And a bit o' cold fish when I done me patrol.
I ain't got much polish, me manners is gruff,
But I've got a good coat, and I keep meself smart;
And everyone says, and I guess that's enough:
'You can't but like Morgan, 'e's got a kind 'art.'
I got knocked about on the Barbary Coast,
And me voice it ain't no sich melliferous horgan;
But yet I can state, and I'm not one to boast,
That some of the gals is dead keen on old Morgan.
So if you 'ave business with Faber – or Faber –
I'll give you this tip, and it's worth a lot more:
You'll save yourself itme, and you'll spare yourself labour
If jist you make friends with the Cat at the door.
MORGAN.
©Copyright 1939 by T.S. Eliot