She had a name among the children;
But no one loved though someone
Her, locked her out of doors at
And had her kittens duly drowned.
In Spring, nevertheless, this
Ate blackbirds, thrushes, nightingales,
And birds of bright voice and plume and flight,
As well as scraps from neighbours’ pails.
I loathed and hated her for this;
One speckle on a thrush’s
Was worth a million such; and
She lived long, till God gave her rest.
