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Poem by Eugene Field
Fitte the Third
She whistled gayly to the pup And called him by his name, And presently the guileless thing All unsuspecting came. But when she shut the bath-room door, And caught him as catch-can, And hove him in that odious tub, His sorrows then began. How did that callow, yallow thing Regret that Aprile morn— Alas! how bitterly he rued The day that he was born! Twice and again, but all in vain He lifted up his wail; His voice was all the pup could lift, For thereby hangs this tale. 'Twas by that tail she held him down, And presently she spread The creamy lather on his back, His stomach, and his head. His ears hung down in sorry wise, His eyes were, oh! so sad— He looked as though he just had lost The only friend he had. And higher yet the water rose, The lather still increased, And sadder still the countenance Of that poor martyred beast! Yet all the time his mistress spoke Such artful words of cheer As "Oh, how nice!" and "Oh, how clean!" And "There's a patient dear!" At last the trial had an end, At last the pup was free; She threw aside the bath-room door— "Now get you gone!" quoth she.
Eugene Field's other poems:
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