Died Nov. 15, 1921

To the venerable cat of a quaint gentleman in His Majesty’s Province of y^e Massachusetts-Bay, who publishes an amateur magazine call’d The Tryout.

The autumn hearth is strangely cold Despite the leaping flame, And all the cheer that shone of old Seems lessen’d, dull’d, and tame. For on the rug where lately doz’d A small and furry form, An empty space is now disclos’d, That no mere blaze can warm. The frosty plain and woodland walk In equal sadness sigh For one who may no longer stalk With sylvan hunter’s eye. And if as olden Grecians tell, Amidst the thickets deep A host of fauns and dryads dwell, I know that they must weep. Must weep when autumn twilight brings Its mem’ries quaint to view, Of all the little playful things That TOM was wont to do. So tho’ the busy world may pass With ne’er a tearful sign The tiny mound of struggling grass Beneath the garden vine, There’s many an eye that fills tonight, And many a pensive strain That sounds for him who stole from sight In the November rain. No sage can trace his soul’s advance, Or say it lives at all, For Death against our curious glance Has rear’d a mighty wall. Yet tender Fancy fain would stray To fair Hesperian bow’rs, Where TOM may always purr and play Amidst the sun and flow’rs.