The time lagged on; some children through his door
Prodded his fur with sticks, the clock struck four.
Now is the time, but Jocko does not care,
When carriers are starting from the Bear;
Fast in his pen, and all his anger gone,
No longer would he live at Clarendon.
Home was his one desire. “At six,” he said,
“My Betsey-Jane is kissed, and goes to bed,
Her bath-tub by the nursery fire will be,
She will come in and look around for me
And sob all night beneath her counterpane
For her lost Jocko—little Betsey-Jane!”