Classic Poem

Mr. Mortimer Minnit
Owned the house and all in it,
Among whose far-famed treasures
Be these our present pleasures:

A poor lady daughter
Who was weak as water,
A granddaughter and grandson
And whatever description of fun
They might manage to find
With either matter or mind;
Anne with her bird,
Her bright yellow bird,
And Mortimer III
With a cat that purred.

These children played all mornings; played
But remembered to be afraid
That if their grandfather heard
He might say the sharp word
To stop their running and yelling
And their hurting and telling
And put them to their spelling.

O but he was fierce,
His eyes could pierce.

Whereupon,
In the course of their fun,
They played always very gently
Till one morning — evidently
When the snow came down too whitely
And too thoroughly if politely
Covered the earth and drove them in
And predisposed them unto sin —
They became too rude and naughty,
Not quiet as grown-up folk and haughty,
They made faces, pinched, and balked,
When they might have sat and talked,
And they quarreled,
Not carolled.

Quit touching my bird,
That's my yellow bird,
Quit stroking my cat,
Can't you hear that,
I don't care, I don't care,
Don't you dare, don't you dare.

All that they said we don't repeat
While Anne was stamping on both feet,
Till crimes involved, one after the other,
Bird and Tomcat, sister and brother,
And vile tragedy unrolled
In a progress threefold.

First . Mortimer took his sister's hair,
Which was most beautiful yellow hair,
Grabbed it in both his fists
And turned it with horrible twists,
He pulled it very hard,
The cruel young blackguard,
He gave it such a raking
And he gave her such a shaking
She was aching and aching;
And his little sister Anne
Was still screaming as she ran
For comfort of the pale and sickly
Lady: O Mother, come quickly.

Second . Old Tom was too loyal,
With white whiskers and blood royal,
Eying the yellow bird
That twittered and stirred,
And his master with his hands
In his sister's yellow strands;
He leaped up on the table
As only a cat is able
And swung from the cage
To accomplish an outrage;
Seized that bird in his paws
And with teeth and sharp claws
Made her to sing no more
But to lie upon the floor
With her yellow feathers spattered
And her little pieces scattered.

Third . Mortimer was a proper villain
But young and not completely fallen.
When he saw the bird in slaughter
His eyes oozed with righteous water,
He caught up the hearthbroom
And chased the cat around the room
And through the hall and through the house
Exactly as Tom would chase a mouse,
Running harder and harder
To do a bloody murder
On an unspeakable wretch
Whom he could not catch.

But every quarrel
Must publish its own moral.
Mr. Minnit had an ear,
It could not help itself but hear
So great a noise; and now his roar
Contributed to make it more
Until it made it nothing; all
Must cease from theirs to hear his bawl.
They came listening in the hall,
The boy with broomstick, and his sister,
And his mother with none to assist her,
And climbed dutiful up the stair
To assemble at Mr. Minnit's chair;
Whose face was stern and pale
For all the world to quail.

Mr. Minnit was amazing
With his eyes blazing.

So tightdrawn was his cheek,
His jaws could hardly open and speak
As he heavily and slowly
And with rage and melancholy
Addressed Mortimer III:

What was a cat? what was a bird?
It mattered little as to these,
Their lives and deaths and destinies,
But hang a man as high as Haman
If he abused the smallest woman.
And he had infinitely rather
That both Mortimer and his father
Had not been born, than live till they
Should practise their unchivalry
Upon the slightest yellow hair
Of Anne, or Anne's mother there —
The trembling lady — and must Anne
By the harsh hand of any man
Come to be such another broken
Mouse of a woman, timid-spoken,
And never lift up her poor head
Between the rocking-chair and the bed?
O hideous if the tainted blood
Infect young Mortimer's manhood —
As for his father —

He stopped there
At Mortimer's most wondering stare;
Mortimer twitched and fumed;
Then the old man resumed:

As Mortimer III grew older
He would be both slier and bolder,
He would discover a number of ways
To torment some poor lady's days,
To taunt her with her pain,
To make her salt tears rain
Till the fountain drained itself dry
And scarce amounted to an eye,
And her hands eternally shook
Under the needle or the book,
And she turned color and fled
If a loud word was said,
Hiding herself in the closet
If she should even suppose it;
God help them, there would come no joy
Ever on earth from such a boy!

They expected Mr. Minnit
Would have resources infinite
To use this subject now he was in it.
But the tyrant of the town
Had weakened, and now he broke down;
He was too old to take any courage,
Would they go down and send up his porridge?
His age was on him, his voice not stout,
Would they please just get out?

And it was the first time Mortimer had
Seen the old eyes crying and sad.