I
The wind comes down the chimney with a sigh,
The kettle sings, chain-swung from grimy hook,
While ticks the clock unseen on mantel high.
The black cat holds the cosiest chimney-nook,
Straight in the blaze his gold-stone eyeballs look,
And children four do pay him flattering court.
The baby brings to him its picture-book,
And shows the way to build a castled fort.
The black cat shares, indeed, their every thought and sport.