One Sunday in springtime, Micawber arose

From his Central Park Carousel nest.

He straightened his whiskers and polished his nose

And set off for the place he loved best.

He scampered past pigeons and poodles and geese,

Past boathouse and band shell and zoo,

Past joggers and skaters and mounted police

To a palace on Fifth Avenue.

            For inside was a splendid

        collection of art,

    A sight for a squirrel to treasure.

A feast every week for his eyes and his heart,

Which Micawber could savor at leisure.

Through the windows he'd gaze at Van Dyck

    and van Gogh,

Appraise every Rembrandt and Titian.

He would scrutinize Rubens, peruse each Rousseau,

Inspect each Lautrec and Cassatt and Miró.

He would find a new favorite each time he

    would go,

And nobody charged him admission.

But a stranger appeared this particular day

As Micawber peered down through a skylight.

She stood at an easel beneath a Monet

That depicted a haystack at twilight.

Micawber observed her for hours on end

As she copied each texture and shade.

He noted the stroke of each brush she'd extend,

The rare concentration and care she'd expend.

She'd become his unwitting and unknowing friend

By the time the day started to fade.

So he hid in the box where her paints were all

    stowed

While she bicycled home unawares.

Then he sneaked himself into her modest abode

As she hauled her equipment upstairs.

From the box after midnight the stowaway crept,

Stretched his limbs and adjusted his eyes.

And while his beguiler contentedly slept,

He rifled through all her supplies.

Micawber's dull life, with its tedious toils,

All at once seemed a hundred times duller,

As he straddled a palette and squeezed out

    some oils

And discovered the wonders of COLOR!

He daubed at a canvas with cadmium green,

Employing his tail as a brush.

Then magenta, vermilion, ultramarine,

Alizarin crimson, and bright tangerine;

Such a radiant rainbow he never had seen--

So splashy and lavish and lush!

By morning Micawber was finally done

And so proud that he practically fainted.

He'd been looking at paintings from day

    number one,

But never a painting he'd painted.