'N
EATH Mistletoe, should chance arise,You may be happy if you're wise!
Though bored you be with Pantomime
And Christmas fare and Christmas rhyme—
One fine old custom don't despise.
If you're a man of enterprise
You'll find, I venture to surmise,
'Tis pleasant then at Christmas-time
'Neath Mistletoe!
You see they scarcely can disguise
The sparkle of their pretty eyes:
And no one thinks it is a crime,
When goes the merry Christmas chime,
A rare old rite to exercise
'Neath Mistletoe!
IDLE SONGS.
MOTHER O' PEARL.
O,
PEARL is the sweetest creationE'er shod with the tiniest boots—
I wish she had ne'er a relation,
I wish I'd a balance with Coutts!
They say Pearl is so like her mother;
Was she like my pet when a girl?
Will pet become just such another
Some day as the Mother o' Pearl?
My Pearl is the prettiest kitten,
She laughs—will she ever grow fat?
Or e'er, with mad jealousy smitten,
Develop the mind of a cat?
Her figure get round as a bubble?
Her hair lose its exquisite curl?
Her chin get undimpled and double,
Like that of the Mother o' Pearl?
Will Pearl become pert and capricious,
And haughty and give herself airs?
(I thought, when she looked so delicious
Last night when we sat on the stairs.)
Will she patronise me in her bounty,
And boast of her uncle the Earl?
Or talk with cold pride of the county,
As often does Mother o' Pearl?
Will Pearl ever sneer at her betters,
Or e'er act the amateur spy?
And try to read other folk's letters,
Or listen at doors on the sly?...
If boy to the man be the father,
Mama to the woman is—girl—
As daughter-in-law I would rather
Not father the Mother o' Pearl!
A LAY OF THE "LION."
At the "Red Lion," Henley-on-Thames, Shenstone scratched the following well-known lines upon the window-pane:
"Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,Where'er his stages may have been,May sigh to think that he has foundHis warmest welcome at an inn!"
'T
IS joyful to run from the turmoil of town,To flee from its worry and bustle;
To put on your flannels and get your hands brown
Is good for the mind and the muscle.
When Goodwood is done and the Season is o'er,
'Tis pleasant the river to ply on,
Or lounge on the lawn, free from worry and bore,
At the "Lion"!
'Tis a finely toned, picturesque, sunshiny place,
Recalling a dozen old stories;
With a rare British, good-natured, ruddy-hued face,
Suggesting old wines and old Tories:
Ah, many's the magnum of rare crusted port,
Of vintage no one could cry fie on,
Has been drunk by good men of the old-fashioned sort
At the "Lion"!
O, sweet is the exquisite lime-scented breeze
Awaft o'er the Remenham reaches!
What lullaby lurks in the music of trees,
The concert of poplars and beeches!
Shall I go for a row, or lounge in a punt,
The stream—half asleep—throw a fly on?
Or watch pretty girls feed the cygnets in front
Of the "Lion"!
I see drifting by such a smart little crew,
Bedight in most delicate colours,
In ivory-white and forget-me-not blue—
A couple of pretty girl-scullers.
A pouting young puss, in the shortest of frocks—
A nice little nautical scion—
The good ship she steers, like a clever young "cox,"
Past the "Lion"!
I lazily muse and I smoke cigarettes,
While rhymes I together am stringing;
I listen and nod to the dreamy duets
The girls on the first-floor are singing.
The sunshine is hot and the summer-breeze sighs,
There's scarcely a cloudlet the sky on—
Ah! were it but cooler, how I'd moralize
At the "Lion"!
But who can be thoughtful, or lecture, or preach,
While Harry is flirting with Ella,
Or the red lips of Rosie pout over a peach,
Half hid by her snowy umbrella?
The Infant is drifting down in her canoe,
The Rector his cob canters by on;
The church clock is chiming a quarter-past two,
Near the "Lion"!
Shall I drop off to sleep, or moon here all day,
And drowsily finish my ballad?
No! "Luncheon is ready," I hear some one say;
"A lobster, a chicken, a salad:"
A cool silver cup of the beadiest ale,
The white table-cloth I descry on—
So clearly 'tis time I concluded my tale
Of the "Lion"!
JENNIE.
SKETCHED BY GAINSBOROUGH.
A
H! thrice happy the crumpled red rose leavesAsleep on her bosom so warm and white!
And the turquoise ribbon half lost to sight,
In the silken tresses it interweaves!
Thrice happy the mortal who once receives,
From her fathomless eyes so brown and bright,
The radiant glances of inner light,
That glitter and gleam 'neath their drooping eaves.
Ah! sweet are those eloquent lips a-pout,
Whose pleadings a stoic could scarce resist,
Now rounded in rapture, now drooped in doubt,
But daintily red as if newly kist.
'Tis joy to believe in the truth that lies
Far down in the depths of those sweet brown eyes!
A FAVOURITE LOUNGE.
T
HE Season is now at its height,And crowded each street and each square;
At nightly receptions we fight,
And pant for a place on the stair!
If you're getting as cross as a bear,
If life you consider a bore,
If not quite the man that you were—
O, toddle down Bond Street at Four!
The scene is bewitching and bright,
The street is beyond all compare;
The shops are all richly bedight,
The jewellers' windows are rare.
If money you've plenty to spare,
And want to buy presents galore,
Or wish to burk trouble and care—
O, toddle down Bond Street at Four!
In Art if you take a delight,
Of pictures you'll find plenty there;
And stalls you may get for to-night,
Or visit your artist in hair.
If dulness you hope to forswear,
And wish to meet friends by the score,
Or revel in sunshine and air—
O, toddle down Bond Street at Four!
If driven by duns to despair,
If snubbed by the girl you adore;
If feeling quite out of repair,
O, toddle down Bond Street at Four!
SPRING CLEANING.
A
LL peace and all pleasure are banished:Abroad now I gladly would roam,
My quiet and comfort have vanished,
A desolate wreck is my home!
The painters are all in possession,
And charwomen come by the score;
The whitewashers troop in procession,
And spatter from ceiling to floor.
I own I must make a confession—
Spring Cleaning's a terrible bore!
They come in the morning at daybreak,
Just when I'm forgetting my cares,
And into my slumbers how they break!
With bustle and tramp on the stairs.
They laugh, and they whistle, and chatter;
They paint, and they varnish, and size;
They thump, and they wrangle, and clatter,
And drive away sleep from my eyes.
They make me as mad as a hatter,
And cause me quite early to rise!
The staircase is all barricaded,
The handle removed from each door;
My own sacred Den is invaded—
My papers all strewn on the floor!
My books and my letters are scattered,
My pens are nowhere to be found;
My blue-and-white china is shattered,
My songs have no space to resound;
My hat with pink priming's bespattered,
My Banjo is crushed on the ground!
I dare not complain, notwithstanding—
I'm faint with the fumes of whitelead;
And trip over pails on the landing,
And paint-pots fall down on my head!
When right through my hall I go stumbling—
I'm sick, and I'm sorry, and sore;
O'er planks and o'er ladders I'm tumbling,
And get my great-coat painted o'er.
To myself I can scarcely help mumbling—
Spring Cleaning's a terrible bore!
TAKEN IN TOW.
How blithely the beauties break into a canter,
And over the sward how their feet pit-a-pat!
The limber young lass in a white Tam o' Shanter,
The pouting young puss in a sailor-boy hat!
O,
PANGBOURNE is pleasant in sweet Summertime,And Streatley and Goring are worthy of rhyme:
The sunshine is hot and the breezes are still,
The River runs swift under Basildon Hill!
To lounge in a skiff is delightful to me,
I'm feeling as lazy as lazy can be;
I don't care to sail and I don't care to row—
Since I'm lucky enough to be taken in tow!
Though battered am I, like the old Teméraire,
My tow-ers are young and my tow-ers are fair:
The one is Eleven, the other Nineteen,
The merriest maidens that ever were seen.
They pull with a will and they keep the line tight,
Dimpled Dolly in blue and sweet Hetty in white;
And though you may think it is not comme il faut,
'Tis awfully nice to be taken in tow.
I loll on the cushions, I smoke and I dream,
And list to the musical song of the stream;
The boat gurgles on by the rushes and weeds,
And, crushing the lilies, scroops over the reeds.
The sky is so blue and the water so clear,
I'm almost too idle to think or to steer!
Let scullers delight in hot toiling, but O!—
Let me have the chance to be taken in tow!
The dragon-fly hums and the skiff glides along,
The leaves whisper low and the stream runneth strong:
But still the two maidens tramp girlfully on,
I'll reward them for this when we get to the "Swan;"
For then shall be rest for my excellent team,
A strawberry banquet, with plenty of cream!—
Believe me, good people, for I ought to know,
'Tis capital fun to be taken in tow!
THROWN!
If letters ne'er were written,
Or never were received!
If postmen were confounded,
And postage stamps impounded,
Throughout the whole of Britain,
What peace would be achieved!
If letters ne'er were written.
Or never were received!
'T
IS the dullest of days,And my heart it is sad,
So I make the logs blaze,
For the weather is bad;
I have half done the Times,
And have quite done my toast;
While I'm reading of crimes
Comes the Ten O'clock post.
There's a merry rat-tat,
And a letter from You;
'Tis so temptingly fat,
That I quickly undo
All its seals in a trice,
And the blossoms release—
It is awfully nice
To have flowers from Nice!
What a dainty perfume
Do your messengers bring,
And they scare away gloom
With their savour of Spring;
There's the violet blue,
The pale lily, the rose—
But a letter from You
They all fail to disclose!
It puzzles me quite,
And I fail to divine
Why you did not just write
Just one brief little line?
While the ponds are all ice,
And East winds never cease—
It is awfully nice
To have flowers from Nice!
Ah! your cheek all a-flush
Most undoubtedly shows
Both the pallor and blush
Of the lily and rose;
And your eyes are as blue
As the sweet violet;
They are trustful and true,
And you never forget—
Ah! I now understand;
Here's your portrait complete,
In a floral short hand
Is your carte de visite!
A most dainty device
Is this charming conceit—
It is awfully nice
To have flowers from Nice!
Stop a moment, for I—
The most luckless of bards—
Neath fleur d'orange spy
Two absurd little cards!
Had I only been wise,
And have finished my Times,
'Twould have opened my eyes,
And have spared you my rhymes!
One can't always depend
On the word of a Rose.
My poem's at an end,
And my life's full of prose!
Here's a handful of rice
For a couple of geese—
Is it awfully nice
To have flowers from Nice?
BAGGAGE ON THE BRAIN.
A LUGGAGERIAL LYRIC.
Sung by a Victim at a Foreign Custom House.
O,
WOULD you know the perplexity of travellingWith ladies and their luggage on a railway train?
Stay while my lay I am rapidly unravelling,
The sad effects of Baggage on the human Brain!
Powerful portmanteaux here, all brazen-bound and leathery,
Porters hate, for in their weight they're anything but feathery;
Bursting bags, so very full, you'll never get to snap at all,
Fat and frequent boxes quite impossible to strap at all.
Stay—what display, both of quantity and quality,
These rummaging douaniers oft bring to light;
Ev'ry description of feminine frivolity,—
They rumple it and crumple it in fiendish spite!
Coloured bows and silken hose, with snowiest of petticoats,
Little loves of tiny gloves, and bugle-broidered jetty coats,
Morning caps and evening wraps, with handkerchiefs and quillery,
Dinner dresses, golden tresses, ribbon, lace, and frillery!
Here you may peer at a galaxy of tiny boots,
Of every kind of cobblery, exposed to view;
Shoes you may choose, and infinity of shiny boots,
And coverings for little feet in bronze and blue;
Bonny little Balmorals, to shoe a fair pedestrian,
Some with furs, and some with spurs, for exercise equestrian;
Slipperettes, with smart rosettes and ornament bombastical,
Snowy kid to lightly trip upon the toe fantastical!
There you may stare, at her brushes backed in ivory,
In dressing-bag—all monogram and silver top,
Combery, and scissory, and tweezery, and knivery,
Enough to stock the window of a cutler's shop!
Ess. Bouquet, and Eau des Fées, and Jockey Club, in handy flask,
Powder-puff, and rouge enough; a silver baby brandy-flask;
Besides a thousand articles a lady's sure to bring about,
I haven't time to put in rhyme, nor leisure now to sing about!
HAYTIME.
B
RIGHT is the sunshine, the breeze is quiescent—Leaves whisper low in the Upper Thames reaches—
Blue is the sky, and the shade mighty pleasant,
Under the beeches:
Midsummer night is, they say, made for dreaming;
Better by far are the visions of daytime—
Pink and white frocks in the meadow are gleaming—
Helping in Haytime!
Sunshine, I'm told, is productive of freckles—
Sweet are the zephyrs, hay-scented and soothful—
Work is, of all things, so says Mr. Eccles,
Good for the youthful!
Here let me lounge, 'neath the beeches umbrageous;
Here let me smoke, let me slumber, or slay time,
Gazing with pleasure on toilers courageous—
Working in Haytime!
Fair little faneuses in pretty pink dresses,
Merry young maidens in saucy sun-bonnets,
Dainty young damsels with hay in their tresses—
Worthy of sonnets!
Lazy the cattle are, red are the rowers,
Making a toil of the sweet summer playtime;
Hot are the hay-makers, weary the towers,
Thirsty in Haytime!
Under the beech, round a flower-decked table,
Pouring the cream out and crushing the berry,
Georgie and Gracie and Milly and Mabel
Gladly make merry!
Laughing young labourers, doubtless judicious,
Come for reward when they fancy it's paytime;
Splendid the cake is, the tea is delicious—
Grateful in Haytime!
PET'S PUNISHMENT.
O,
IF my love offended me,And we had words together,
To show her I would master be,
I'd whip her with a feather!
If then she, like a naughty girl,
Would tyranny declare it,
I'd give my pet a cross of pearl,
And make her always bear it.
If still she tried to sulk and sigh,
And threw away my posies,
I'd catch my darling on the sly,
And smother her with roses!
But should she clench her dimpled fists,
Or contradict her betters,
I'd manacle her tiny wrists
With dainty golden fetters.
And if she dared her lips to pout—
Like many pert young misses—
I'd wind my arm her waist about,
And punish her—with kisses!
THE BABY IN THE TRAIN.
Let babies travel—leave me lonely—
In carriages "For Babies Only"!
H
OW merrily, how cheerily we ride along the rail!We think not of the driving rain, nor care about the gale!
I'm comfortably seated in a snug back corner seat,
With woolly rugs about my knees, and warmers at my feet:
I've all the morning papers in a heap upon my lap,
I read and calmly contemplate, and think about a nap;
A nap indeed? Impossible! You'll find it all in vain,
To have the slightest slumber with the Baby in the Train!
His rule is autocratic, and his language it is terse,
He freely fists his dear Mama, and domineers o'er Nurse!
He wrinkles up his forehead like an ancient chimpanzee's,
And babbles of the "puff-puff," and prattles of "gee-gees:"
He guggles and he struggles, and he will not stand not sit,
But he gives an imitation of an apoplectic fit.
I am not very captious, and I wish not to complain—
But what a crying grievance is the Baby in the Train!
I wish to feign the friendly, but most shrewdly I reflect—
In silly finger-snapping I must lose my self-respect:
Can I crow or can I chuckle with a countenance serene?
Is "kitchee-kitchee" fitted for my gravity of mien?
Can I talk of "doggie-oggies," or prate of "ittle dears"?
Is "peep-bo" fit amusement for a person of my years?
And though I do my very best to try to entertain,
I'm thought a vile impostor by the Baby in the Train!
He knows that I am longing to make faces on the sly,
How spitefully I'd pinch him if no guardians were nigh!
He clutches at my watch-chain, he smiles upon my suit,
He tries to eat my eye-glass, he jumps upon my boot;
He takes away my walking-stick, he crumples up my Punch;
He burrows deep in paper-bags in foraging for lunch;
And cups of milk, at stations oft, how eagerly he'll drain,
With sighs of satisfaction, will this Baby in the Train!
O bold Directors, build a car to take such household pets!
And fit it up with cots and cribs and rocking basinettes,
And lullabies and picture-books and bon-bons, cakes, and toys,
To soothe the savage bosoms of these little girls and boys.
Brim high the cup with caudle then! Let Soothing Syrup flow!
Let roasted mutton deck the board, and milky rice also!
And let all Railway Companies immediately maintain
A separate compartment for the Baby in the Train!
MISS SAILOR-BOY.
I pause and watch the boats pass by,
And paint her portrait on the sly!
H
ER age is twelve; half bold, half coy—Her friends all call her "Sailor-Boy"—
With sweet brown eyes beyond compare,
And close-cropped, curling, sunny hair;
Her smart straw hat you'll notice, and
See "Jennie" broidered on the band,
Her sailor's knot, and lanyard too,
With jersey trim of navy blue;
Her short serge frock distinctly shows
Well shapen legs in sable hose
And symphonies in needlework,
Where dimpled pearly shadows lurk—
Which, as she swings her skirts, you note
Peep out beneath her petticoat.
This sunburnt baby dives and floats,
She manages canoes or boats;
Can steer and scull, can reef or row,
Or punt or paddle, fish or tow.
The lithest lass you e'er could see
In all Short-petticoaterie!
Mapledurham Lock, August.
A PRIVATE NOTE.
PICKED UP ON THE TENNIS LAWN.
I
NEVER can tell you, my dear little Loo—And useless to help me I'm certain my pen is—
Concerning my dress of forget-me-not blue,
I'm taking to Dingle to play at lawn-tennis.
The buttons are silver, of quaint filigree,
The cuffs and the collar quite artfully quilted;
The pouch the most perfect you ever could see,
The skirt is of flannel most cunningly kilted!
The latter is short, and it serves to disclose—
Entre nous I am told that my ankles are killing—
A glimpse of the clocks on cerulean hose,
The slightest suspicion of Honiton frilling!
My hat is cream-white, with a kingfisher's wing—
A dainty device of my special designing—
My smart ulsterette, e'en a poet might sing,
'Tis white corduroy, with a rose-coloured lining!
The daintiest dress! 'Twould exactly suit you—
I think you'll allow it is awfully jolly—
Come over and see it! Till then, my dear Loo,
Believe me to be, yours devotedly, Dolly!
L'INCONNUE.
F
AR, far from the town,I spied drifting down,
Cheeks ruddy and brown—
Eyes so blue—
A sweet sailor-girl,
With hair all a-curl—
In canoe.
She dreams in her boat,
And sweet is the note
That white little throat
Carols through:
She languidly glides,
And skilfully guides—
Her canoe.
'Neath tremulous trees,
She loiters at ease,
And I, if you please,
Wonder who
May be the sweet maid,
Who moons in the shade—
Inconnue.
Pray tell me who can,
Is she Alice or Anne?
Is she Florrie or Fan?
Is she Loo?
The laziest pet,
You ever saw yet—
In canoe.
The river's like glass—
As slowly I pass,
This sweet little lass,
Raises two
Forget-me-not eyes,
In laughing surprise—
From canoe.
And as I float by,
Said I, "Miss, O why?
O why may not I
Drift with you?"
Said she, with a start,
"I've no room in my heart—
Or canoe!"
FALLACIES OF THE FOG.
A London Fog when it arises
All London soon demoralizes!
B
ELIEVE me, I'd shatter the indolent fettersThat long have enchained me and held me too fast;
I'd earnestly try to reply to my letters,
That should have been answered the week before last;
I'd get up betimes, and I ne'er would be surly,
Nor slumber till twelve like an underbred hog;
I wouldn't play pool, and I'd go to bed early—
But can't on account of the Fog!
My mind I'd improve—I would e'en give up smoking—
Grow earnest and useful in all sorts of ways—
I'd soon become staid, never laughing or joking,
Preferring statistics to novels or plays!
No more at the weather would I be a railer;
No longer our climate I'd ceaselessly slog.
I'd settle at once with my hatter and tailor—
But can't on account of the Fog!
I'd go and take part in the dullest of dinners,
The prosiest praters I ne'er try to snub;
And Borewell would find me the best of all grinners
At all the old stories he tells at the Club.
At slow Kettledrums I would often be present,
And talk like a fool or a prim pedagogue;
To rudest relations I'd sometimes be pleasant—
But can't on account of the Fog!
I'd pay all those calls I so long have neglected,
And highest opinions deservedly earn;
And do proper things such as none e'er expected—
That borrowed umbrella at once I'd return.
I'd browse in a pasture of virtuous clover,
I cannot detail all the long catalogue
Of countless new leaves I would gladly turn over—
But can't on account of the Fog!
THE MERRY YOUNG WATER-GIRL.
A NEW SONG TO AN OLD AIR.
I
WAITED last Monday at Medmenham Ferry, well—Anxious for some one to ferry me o'er:
The man was at dinner, and I could tell very well
He would not return for an hour or more.
So I sat me down and smoked so steadily.
What should I do? I could not tell readily.
A maiden rowed by who had soft sunny hair,
Whose dimples and eyes were beyond all compare—
This Water-Girl was so uncommonly fair!
But only to think, as I pondered there wearily,
And gazed at the Abbey, and thought it a bore,
She leant on her sculls, and she offered most cheerily
To row me across to the opposite shore!
I said, "How kind!" She pouted capriciously!
I stepped aboard, and she smiled deliciously!
And rowed off at once with so charming an air,
And feathered her sculls with such neatness and care—
This Water-Girl was so delightfully fair!
For once I'm in luck—there is not the least doubt of it!
Alas that the voyage is concluded so soon!
The skiff's by the shore, and I slowly get out of it,
And wish the fair damsel "a good afternoon."
I raise my hat, and she looks so thrillingly!
I thank her much, and depart unwillingly!
She smiles, and she ripples her soft sunny hair;
And leaves a heart broken beyond all repair!—
This Water-Girl was so surpassingly fair!
A SECULAR SERMON.
As I sit on the shore and gaze at the sea
Where children are wading with infinite glee,
Comes Mama unto Molly—a mischievous imp—
Whose tiny pink toes were coercing a shrimp:
"O Molly, how thoughtless! My darling," said she,
"Be kind to dumb creatures where'er you may be!"
Then I think, as I gaze on the laughing young elf,
From this text, what a sermon I'll preach to myself!
S
PEAK gently to the herring, and kindly to the calf,Be blithesome with the bunny, at barnacles don't laugh!
Give nuts unto the monkey, and buns unto the bear,
Ne'er hint at currant jelly if you chance to see a hare!
O, little girls, pray hide your combs, when tortoises draw nigh,
And never in the hearing of a pigeon whisper Pie!
But give the stranded jelly-fish a shove into the sea—
Be always kind to animals wherever you may be!
Be lenient with lobsters, and ne'er be cross with crabs,
And be not disrespectful to cuttle-fish or dabs;
Chase not the cochin-china, chaff not the ox obese,
And babble not of feather-beds in company with geese!
O, never gape at dormice, with crickets ne'er be bold,
Don't overtax the mussel, or let your eels be sold:
When talking to a turtle don't mention calipee—
Be always kind to animals wherever you may be!
O, make not game of sparrows, nor faces at the ram,
And ne'er allude to mint sauce when calling on a lamb!
Don't beard the thoughtful oyster, don't dare the cod to crimp,
Don't cheat the pike or ever try to pot the playful shrimp.
Tread lightly on the turning worm, don't braise the butterfly,
Don't ridicule the wry-neck, nor sneer at salmon-fry;
O, ne'er delight to make dogs fight, nor bantams disagree—
Be always kind to animals wherever you may be!
Be patient with black-beetles, be courteous to cats,
And be not harsh with haddocks, nor rigorous with rats;
Don't speak of "blind-man's holiday," if e'er you meet a mole;
And if you have a frying-pan, don't show it to a sole!
O, chirrup with the grasshopper, be merry with the grig,
But never quote from Bacon in the presence of a pig!
Don't hurry up the slothful snail, let flies drop in to tea—
Be always kind to animals wherever you may be!
ON THE FRENCH COAST.
T
ALK about lazy time!—Come to this sunny clime—
Life is a flowing rhyme—
Pleasant its cadence!
Zephyrs are blowing free
Over the summer sea,
Sprinkling deliciously
Merry Mermaidens!
Despite the torrid heat,
Toilettes are quite complete;
White are the little feet,
Fair are the tresses:
Maidens here swim or sink,
Clad in blue serge—I think
Some are in mauve or pink—
Gay are the dresses!
If you know Etretât,
You will know M'sieu là—
O, such a strong papa!—
Ever out boating.
You'll know his babies too,
Toto and Lolalou,
All the long morning through
Diving and floating.
Look at that merry crew!
Fresh from the water blue,
Rosy and laughing too—
Daring and dripping!
Notice each merry mite,
Held up a dizzy height,
Laughing from sheer delight—
Fearless of slipping!
He hath a figure grand—
Note, as he takes his stand,
Poised upon either hand,
Merry young mer-pets:
Drop them! You strong papa,
Swim back to Etretât!
Here comes their dear Mama,
Seeking for her pets!