A Cat
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he had a name among the children;But no one loved though someone ownedHer, locked her out of doors at bedtimeAnd had her kittens duly drowned. In Spring, nevertheless, this catAte 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 breastWas worth a million such; and yetShe lived long, till God gave her rest.
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