From the Rock Island Argus, October 8, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. Oft in the stilly night When the cats begin to fight On the fence behind the lot Then I form a little plot As the window wide I throw And the yard I knee-deep sow With lots of bric-a-brac That was resting on the rack. Do the cats in wild alarm Run lest I should do them harm? Do they let the concert slide And proceed in haste to hide? No; they do not seem to know As I throw and throw and throw That a single thing is wrong With their piercing midnight song. Then I heave a pair of shoes That I wouldn’t care to lose, And I throw a kitchen chair, Followed by my wife’s false hair, Books and tables, sofa, rugs, Pots and kettles, pans and mugs, Writing pads, my rubber stamp, The piano and the lamp. Then the bedding and the bed From the tail piece to the head All are hurled into the gloom Till there’s nothing in the room. But the cats are good as new On the job when I am through. Nor do they a moment pause. They regard it as applause.