Sherry Chandler

And so The Great Haggis Hunt of 2007/2008 ends at 3:00 p.m. local time.

To A Mouse

WEE, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
                Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
                Wi’ murd’ring pattle!

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion,
Has broken nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
                Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
                An’ fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
                ’S a sma’ request;
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
                An’ never miss’t!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
                O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
                Baith snell an’ keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
                Thou thought to dwell—
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
                Out thro’ thy cell.

That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
                But house or hald,
To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,
                An’ cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
                Gang aft agley,
An’lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
                For promis’d joy!

Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e’e.
                On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
                I guess an’ fear!

— Robert Burns, text from Poems and Songs. Vol. VI. The Harvard Classics. New York: P.F. Collier & Son, 1909–14; Bartleby.com, 2001.

Grey cat … strolls around the bed at night, choosing her favoured place, not under the sheet now, or on my shoulder, or on my shoulder, but in the angle behind the knees, or against the curve of the feet. Grey cat licks my face, delicately, looks briefly out of the window at the night, acknowledging tree, moon, stars, winds, or the amours of other cats from which she is now infinitely removed, then settles down. In the morning, when she wishes me to wake, she crouches on my chest and pats my face with her paw. Or, if I am on my side, she crouches looking into my face. Soft, soft touches with her paw. I open my eyes, say I don’t want to wake. I close my eyes. Cat gently pats my eyelids. Cat licks my nose. Cat starts purring, two inches from my face. Cat, then, as I lie pretending to be asleep, delicately bites my nose. I laugh and sit up. At which she bounds off my bed and streaks downstairs—to have the back door opened if it is winter, to be fed if it is summer.

— from Doris Lessing, Particularly Cats …and Rufus (Knopf, 1991)