The Housekeeper

THE FRUGAL snail, with forecast of repose,

Carries his house with him where’er he goes;

Peeps out—and if there comes a shower of rain,

Retreats to his small domicile again.

Touch but a tip of him, a horn—’tis well—

He curls up in his sanctuary shell.

He’s his own landlord, his own tenant; stay

Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day.

Himself he boards and lodges; both invites

And feasts himself; sleeps with himself o’ nights.

He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure

Chattels; himself is his own furniture,

And his sole riches. Whereso’er he roam—

Knock when you will—he’s sure to be at home.