Sitting by the Fire
on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost's Cat
by Henry Beard
Whose chair this is by now I know. 
He's somewhere in the forest though; 
He will not see me sitting here 
A place I'm not supposed to go. 
He really is a little queer 
To leave his fire's cozy cheer 
And ride out by the frozen lake 
The coldest evening of the year. 
To love the snow it takes a flake; 
The chill that makes your footpads ache, 
The drifts too high to lurk or creep, 
The icicles that drip and break. 
His chair is comfy, soft and deep. 
But I have got an urge to leap, 
And mice to catch before I sleep. 
And mice to catch before I sleep.

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