When night came, all worn and tired, As if nothing had transpired, Paul and Peter in their chamber Lay there, wrapt in peaceful slumber, A soft snoring through their noses Shows how tranquilly each dozes. But not so with Plish and Plum! They sit ill-at-ease and glum, Not being lodged to suit their mind, To turn in they too inclined. Plish, the dog's old rule to follow, Turns round thrice, his bed to hollow; Plum, however, shows a mind More affectionately inclined. When we dream of perfect rest Comes full many a troublous guest. "March!" With this harsh word the pets. Turn their outward summersets Coolness wakes activity; Time well-filled glides pleasantly. Means of sport are handy too, Here a stocking – there a shoe. These, before the morning glow, Curious changes undergo. When he comes the boys to wake, And beholds the frightful wreck, Pale the father cries: "This will Be a monstrous heavy bill!" Vengeful claws are in the air; Feigning sleep, the rogues lie there; But the mother begs: "I pray, Fittig dear, thy wrath allay!" And her loving words assuage The stern father's boiling rage. Paul and Peter never care How they look or what they wear. Peter two old slippers gets, Paul his infant pantalets. Plish and Plum, in morals blind, To the dog-house are confined. "This is bad!" says Sly, "he! he! Very bad, but not for me!"
CHAPTER IV
Caught at last in wiry house, Sits that most audacious mouse, Who, with many a nightly antic, Drove poor Mamma Fittig frantic, — Rioting, with paws erratic, From the cellar to the attic. This event to Plish and Plum Was a long-sought gaudium; For the word was: "Stu-boys! take him! Seize the wicked grinder – shake him!" Soft! a refuge mousey reaches In a leg of Peter's breeches. Through the leg-tube Plish pursues him, Plum makes sure he shall not lose him. Nip! the mousey with his tooth Stings the smeller of the youth. Plish essays to pull him clear; Nip! the plague's on Plish's ear. See! they run heels over head, Into neighbor's garden-bed. Kritze-kratze! what will be — Come, sweet flower-plot, of thee? At that moment Madam Mieding, With fresh oil, her lamp is feeding; And her heart comes near to breaking, With those pests her garden wrecking. Indignation lends her wings, And the oil-can, too, she brings. Now, with mingling joy and wrath, She gives each a shower-bath — First to Plish and then to Plum,
