Chapter II: The Tramp Cat (1)

Poor little beggar cat, hollow-eyed and gaunt,
Creeping down the alley-way like a ghost of want,
Kicked and beat by thoughtless boys, bent on cruel play,
What a sorry life you lead, whether night or day.

Hunting after crusts and crumbs, gnawing meatless bones,
Trembling at a human step, fearing bricks and stones,
Shrinking at an outstretched hand, knowing only blows,
Wretched little beggar cat, born to suffer woes.

Stealing to an open door, craving food and heat,
Frightened off with angry cries and broomed into the street,
Tortured, teased and chased by dogs, through the lonely night,
Homeless little beggar cat, sorrow is your plight.

Sleeping anywhere you can, in the rain and snow,
Waking in the cold, gray dawn, wondering where to go,
Dying in the street at last, starved to death at that,
Picked up by the scavenger—poor tramp cat.

MATILDA MARTHA MAY.

FANNIE ROGERS WHITE.

Matilda Martha May
Played the livelong day.
When supper time came
This little dame
Was too sleepy to eat her whey.

Her head would go up and down,
Bobbing around and round,
While kitty puss sat
Just waiting for that,
Then up on the table she’d bound.

She’d eat all the whey in sight;
Now do you think that was right?
While this little yum yum
With an empty tum tum
Spent a very restless night.

AN OBJECT OF LOVE.

MARY E. WILKINS.

A tiny white-painted house, with a door and one window in front, and a little piazza, over which the roof jutted, and on which the kitchen door opened, on the rear corner. Squashes were piled up on this piazza in a great yellow and green heap.

Ann Millet, her shawl pinned closely over her hair and ears, the small oval of her solemn, delicate old face showing almost uncanny beneath it, stood in the door, surveying the sky outside.

“There’s goin’ to be a heavy frost, sure enough,” she said. “I’ll hev to git the squashes in. Thar’s Mis’ Stone comin’. Hope to goodness she won’t stop an’ hinder me! Lor’ sakes! I’d orter hev more patience.”

A tall, stooping figure came up the street, and paused at the gate hesitatingly.

“Good-evenin’, Ann.”

“Good-evenin’, Mis’ Stone.”

“Gettin’ in your squashes, ain’t you?” Mrs. Stone spoke in a very high pitched tone. Ann was somewhat deaf.

“Yes. I didn’t dare resk ’em out to-night, it’s so cold.”

“Well, it’s a good deal colder than I hed any idea of when I come out. Yes, I’d take ’em in. We got ourn in last week. We ain’t got more’n half as many as you hev. I shouldn’t think you could use ’em all, Ann.”

“Well, I do. I allers liked squashes, an’ Willy likes ’em, too. You’d orter see him brush round me, a-roundin’ up his back an’ purrin’ when I’m a scrapin’ of ’em out of the shell. He likes ’em better’n fresh meat.”

“Seems queer for a cat to like sech things. Ourn won’t touch ’em. How nice an’ big your cat looks a-settin’ thar in the window!”

“He’s a-watchin’ of me. He jumped up thar jest the minute I come out!”

“He’s a good deal of company for you, ain’t he?”

“Yes, he is. What on airth I should do this long winter that’s comin’, without him, I don’t know. Everybody wants somethin’ that’s alive in the house.”

“That’s so. It must be pretty lonesome for you anyway.”

“Well, I don’t mean to complain. I’d orter be thankful. I’ve got my Bible an’ Willy, an’ a roof over my head, an’ enough to eat an’ wear; an’ p’rhaps some other woman ain’t lonesome because I am, an’ maybe she’d be one of the kind that didn’t like cats, an’ wouldn’t hev got along half as well as me. No, I never orter complain.”

“Well, if all of us looked at our mercies more’n our trials, we’d be a good deal happier. But, sakes! I must be goin’. Good-night, Ann.”

“Good-night, Mis’ Stone.”

Mrs. Stone hitched rapidly down the street to her own home, and Ann went on tugging in her squashes. She was a little woman and had to carry them in one at a time. After they were all in she took off her shawl and hung it on a nail behind the kitchen door. Then she gave her cat his saucer of warm milk in a snug corner by the stove and sat down contentedly to her own supper. The cat was a beautiful little animal, with a handsome dark striped coat on his back, and white paws and face.

When he had finished lapping his milk, he came and stood beside his mistress’s chair while she ate, and purred, and she gave him bits of bread from her plate now and then. She talked to him.

“Nice Willy! nice cat. Got up on the window to see me bring in the squashes, didn’t he? There’s a beautiful lot of ’em, an’ he shall hev some stewed for his dinner to-morrow, so he shall.”

And the cat would purr, and rub his soft coat against her, and look as if he knew just what she meant.

There was a prayer-meeting that evening, and Ann Millet went. She never missed one. The minister, when he entered, always found her sitting in the same place. She had a pretty voice when she was young, people said, and she sang now in a sweet thin quaver the hymns which the minister gave out. She listened in solemn enjoyment to the stereotyped prayers and the speaker’s remarks.

After meeting Ann always went up and told him how much she had enjoyed his remarks, and inquired after his wife and children. To her a minister was an unpublished apostle, and his wife and family were set apart on the earth.

When she had reached home and lighted her lamp, she called her cat. She had expected to find him waiting to be let in, but he was not. She stood out on her little piazza, and called, “Willy! Willy! Willy!”

She thought every minute she would see him bounding around the corner, but she did not. She called over and over, “Willy! Willy! Kitty! Kitty! Kitty!”

Finally she went into the house and waited awhile, crouching, shivering with cold and nervousness, over the kitchen stove. Then she went outside and called again, “Willy!” over and over, waiting between the calls trembling, her dull old ears alert, her dim old eyes strained. She ran out to the road, and looked and called. Once her heart leaped; she thought she saw Willy coming; but it was only a black cat which belonged to one of the neighbors. Over and over all night long she called the poor little creature which was everything earthly she had to keep her company in the great universe in which she herself was so small.

In the morning she went over to Mrs. Stone’s, her small old face wild and wan.

“Hev you seen anything of Willy?” she asked. “He’s been out all night, an’ I’m afraid somethin’s happened to him. I never knowed him to stay out so before.”

When they told her they had not seen him, she went on to the next neighbors to inquire. But no one had seen anything of the cat. All that day and night, at intervals, people heard her plaintive, inquiring call, “Willy! Willy! Willy!”

The next Sunday, Ann was not out at church. Mrs. Stone went over to see what was the matter.

“Why, Ann Millet, are you sick?” she asked.

“No, I ain’t sick.”

“You wa’n’t out to meetin’, an’ I didn’t know——”

“I ain’t never goin’ to meetin’ agin.”

“Why, what do you mean?”

“I mean jest what I say. I ain’t never goin’ to meetin’ agin. Folks go to meetin’ to thank the Lord for blessin’s, I s’pose. I’ve lost mine, an’ I ain’t goin’.”

“What hev you lost, Ann?”

“Ain’t I lost Willy?”

“You don’t mean to say you’re makin’ such a fuss as this over a cat?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, I aint nothin’ agin cats, but I must say I’m beat. Why, Ann Millet, it’s downright sinful for you to feel so. Of course, you set a good deal by Willy; but it ain’t as ef he was a human creature. Cats is cats. For my part, I never thought it was right to set by animals as ef they was babies.”

“I can’t hear what you say.”

“I never thought it was right to set by animals as ef they was babies.”

“I don’t keer. It’s comfortin’ to have live creatures about you, an’ I ain’t never hed anything like other women. I ain’t hed no folks of my own sense I kin remember. I’ve worked hard all my life, an’ hed nothin’ at all to love, an’ I’ve thought I’d orter be thankful all the same. But I did want as much as a cat.”

“Well, as I said before, I’ve nothin’ agin cats. But I don’t understand any human bein’ with an immortal soul a-settin’ so much by one.”

“I can’t hear what you say.”

“I don’t understand any human bein’ with an immortal soul a-settin’ so much by a cat.”

“You’ve got folks, Mis’ Stone.”

“I know I hev; but folks is trials sometimes. But, Ann Millet, I didn’t think you was one to sink down so under any trial. I thought the Lord would be a comfort to you.”

“I know all that, Mis’ Stone. But when it comes to it, I’m here an’ I ain’t thar; an’ I’ve got hands, an’ I want somethin’ I kin touch.”

Then the poor soul broke down, and sobbed out loud like a baby.

“I ain’t—never felt as ef I orter begrutch other—women their homes an’ their folks. I thought—p’raps—I could git along better without ’em than—some; an’ the Lord knowed it, an’ seein’ thar wa’n’t enough to go round, he gave ’em to them that needed ’em most. I ain’t—never—felt—as ef I’d orter complain. But—thar—was—cats—enough. I might a hed—that—much.”

“You kin git another cat, Ann. Mis’ Maxwell’s got some real smart kittens.”

“I don’t want any of Mis’ Maxwell’s kittens; I don’t never want any other cat.”

“P’rhaps yourn will come back.”

“No, he won’t. I’ll never see him agin. I’ve felt jest that way about it from the first.”

“Hark! I declar’ I thought I heard a cat mew somewhar! But I guess I didn’t. Well, I’m sorry, Ann. Why, Ann Millet, whar’s your squashes?”

“I throwed ’em away out in the field. Willy can’t hev none of ’em now, an’ I don’t keer about ’em myself.”

Mrs. Stone looked at her in horror. When she got home she told her daughter that Ann Millet was in a dreadful state of mind, and she thought the minister ought to see her.

The next day the minister called on her. He did not find her so outspoken; her awe of him restrained her. Still, Ann Millet was for the time a wicked, rebellious old woman.

In the course of the call a rap came at the kitchen door.

“Nothin’ but a little gal with a Malty cat,” said she. “The children hev got wind of my losin’ Willy, an’ they mean it all right, but it seem as ef I should fly! They keep comin’ and bringin’ cats. They’ll find a cat that they think mebbe is Willy, an’ so they bring him to show me. They’ve brought Malty and white cats, an’ cats all Malty. They’ve brought yaller cats, an’ black, an’ there wa’n’t one of ’em looked like Willy. Then they’ve brought kittens that they knowed wa’n’t Willy, but they thought mebbe I’d like ’em instead of him. They mean all right, I know; they’re real tender-hearted; but it ’most kills me. Why, they brought me two little kittens that hain’t got their eyes open jest before you came. They was striped and white, an’ they said they thought they’d grow up to look like Willy.”

He went away without saying much of anything; he was so afraid that what he said might be out of proportion to the demands of the case.

Going out the door, he stopped and listened a minute; he thought he heard a cat mew. Then he concluded he was mistaken, and went on. He watched eagerly for Ann the next meeting night, but she did not come.

The day after the meeting, she had occasion to go down cellar for something. The cellar stairs led up to the front part of the house. Ann went through her chilly sitting-room, and opened the cellar door, which was in the front entry. There was a quick rush from the gloom below, and Willy flew up the cellar stairs.

“Lor’ sakes!” said Ann, with a white shocked face. “He has been down there all the while. Now I remember. He followed me when I came through here to git my cloak that meetin’ night, an’ he wanted to go down cellar, an’ I let him. Lor’ sakes!”

She went back into the kitchen, her knees trembling. She poured out a saucer of milk, and watched Willy hungrily lapping. He did not look as if he had suffered, though he had been in the cellar a week.

Ann watched him, the white, awed look still on her face.

“I s’pose he mewed an’ I didn’t hear him. Thar he was all the time, jest whar I put him; an’ me a-blamin’ of the Lord an’ puttin’ of it on him. I’ve been an awful wicked woman. I ain’t been to meetin’, an’ I’ve talked, an’—them squashes I threw away. It’s been so warm they ain’t froze, an’ I don’t deserve it. I hadn’t orter hev one of ’em; I hadn’t orter hev anything. I’d orter offer up Willy. Lor’ sakes, think of me a-sayin’ what I did, an’ him down cellar!”

That afternoon Mrs. Stone saw Ann slowly and painfully bringing in squashes one at a time. The next meeting night Ann was in her place. After meeting, the minister hurried out of his desk to speak to her. When she looked up at him, her old cheeks were flushing.

“The cat has come back,” said Ann.

A HAPPY MOTHER.]

THE KITTENS’ FRIGHT.

_Action Poem._

Little Kitty Cotton-tail
[1]Rubbed her sleepy eyes;
[2]Went out for a morning walk—
[3]Stared in wild surprise!

“_Meaow!_” cried Kitty Cotton-tail,
To her sister calling;
[4]“Poppy, Poppy, let us hide!
[5]See, the sky is falling!”

[6]Cotton-tail and Poppy ran
Down the yard together;
Baby Jimbo met, and stopped
To talk about the weather.

“_Meaow!_” said Kitty Cotton-tail;
“_Meaow!_” said Baby Jimbo;
[7]So they all ran on again,
With their arms akimbo.

[8]Mother Tortoise-shell they met:
“What means this?” she cried.
[9]“Skies are falling,” answered they;
[10]“Come with us and hide!”

[11]Mother Tortoise-shell was wise,
And her speech was slow;
[12]“Foolish little cats!” she said—
“_That_ is only snow!”

DIRECTIONS.

[Footnote 1: Pass hands over eyes as if just awakening.]

[Footnote 2: Extend hands at right angles to chest, and move them to and fro.]

[Footnote 3: Hand by side, head erect, and look straight in front, as if astonished at something.]

[Footnote 4: Beckon with finger, and nod head, as if calling in haste.]

[Footnote 5: Raise hands and arms vertically, and then, with hands at right angles to arms, lower them quickly.]

[Footnote 6: Move hands quickly to right.]

[Footnote 7: Point as if directing attention to the three kittens running to right.]

[Footnote 8: Raise forefinger of right hand, and gesticulate as if to emphasize.]

[Footnote 9: Imitate action 5.]

[Footnote 10: Imitate action 4.]

[Footnote 11: Imitate action 8.]

[Footnote 12: Shake head, and speak very deliberately.]

THE WARNING

[Music:

Good morning, Mister Mouse;
We’ve nothing for you here.
You’d better run away,
For Kitty Cat is near!
Run! run! run! run!]

MY CAT.

CHARLES BAUDELAIRE.

My pretty cat to my heart I hold,
My heart ever warm to her;
Let me look in thine eyes of agate and gold;
Thy claws keep sheathed in fur.

My finger strokes thy head, and thrills
Thy back that arches higher;
My touch with quivering rapture fills
Thy veins’ electric fire.

I dream of my love; her eyes like thine,
Profound and cold, sweet cat of mine,
My soul like dart-wounds fret.

A subtle air, a deadly sweet
Breathes round her, and from head to feet
Envelopes my brunette.

CAT-EGORICAL COURTSHIP.

I sat one night beside a blue-eyed girl—
The fire was out, and so, too, was her mother;
A feeble flame around the lamp did curl
Making faint shadows, blending in each other.
’Twas nearly twelve o’clock, too, in November.
She had a shawl on also, I remember.
Well, I had been to see her every night
For thirteen days, and had a sneaking notion
To pop the question, thinking all was right,
And once or twice had made an awkward motion
To take her hand, and stammered, coughed, and stuttered,
But somehow nothing to the point had uttered.
I thought this chance too good now to be lost;
I hitched my chair up pretty close beside her,
Drew a long breath, and then my legs I crossed,
Bent over, sighed, and for five minutes eyed her.
She looked as if she knew what next was coming,
And with her foot upon the floor was drumming.
I didn’t know how to begin or where—
I couldn’t speak; the words were always choking,
I scarce could move—I seemed tied in my chair—
I hardly breathed—’twas awful provoking;
The perspiration from each pore was oozing,
My heart and brain and limbs their power seemed losing.
At length I saw a brindled tabby-cat
Walk purring up, inviting me to pat her;
An idea came, electric-like at that—
My doubts, like summer clouds, began to scatter;
I seized on tabby, though a scratch she gave me,
And said, “Come, Puss, ask Mary if she’ll have me?”
’Twas done at once—the murder now was out;
The thing was all explained in half a minute;
She blushed, and, turning pussy round about,
Said, “Pussy, tell him, yes!” Her foot was in it!
The cat had thus saved me my category.
And here’s the catastrophe of my story.

TOMMIE.

The elephant has greatness,
The little pug has fame,
The cat they call just Tommie,
But he gets there just the same.

HODGE, THE CAT.

SUSAN COOLIDGE.

Burly and big his books among
Good Samuel Johnson sat,
With frowning brows and wig askew,
His snuff-strewn waistcoat far from new;
So stern and menacing his air
That neither “Black Sam” nor the maid
To knock or interrupt him dare—
Yet close beside him, unafraid,
Sat Hodge, the cat.

“This participle,” the Doctor wrote,
“The modern scholar cavils at,
But”—even as he penned the word
A soft protesting note was heard.
The Doctor fumbled with his pen,
The dawning thought took wings and flew,
The sound repeated came again—
It was a faint reminding “Mew!”
From Hodge, the cat.

“Poor pussy!” said the learned man,
Giving the glossy fur a pat,
“It is your dinner time, I know,
And, well, perhaps I ought to go;
For if Sam every day were sent
Off from his work your fish to buy,
Why—men are men—he might resent,
And starve or kick you on the sly—
Eh! Hodge, my cat?”

The dictionary was laid down—
The Doctor tied his vast cravat,
And down the buzzing street he strode,
Taking an often-trodden road,
And halted at a well-known stall;
“Fishmonger,” spoke the Doctor, gruff,
“Give me six oysters—that is all;
Hodge knows when he has had enough—
Hodge is my cat.”

Then home; Puss dined, and while in sleep
He chased a visionary rat,
His master sat him down again,
Rewrote his page, renibbed his pen;
Each I was dotted, each T was crossed;
He labored on for all to read,
Nor deemed that time was waste or lost
Spent in supplying the small need
Of Hodge, the cat.

That dear old Doctor! Fierce of mien,
Untidy, arbitrary, fat,
What gentle thoughts his name enfold!
So generous of his scanty gold,
So quick to love, so hot to scorn,
Kind to all sufferers under heaven—
A tenderer despot ne’er was born;
His big heart held a corner even
For Hodge, the cat.

PUSSY AND THE MICE.

Some little mice sat in a barn to spin;
Pussy came by and popped his head within;
“Shall I come in, and bite your threads right off?”
“Oh, no! kind sir, you’ll snap, instead, our heads all off!”

BAD PETER, BAD JOE.

I suppose you’ve heard tell of those frolicsome kittens
Who covered their paws with some bright woolen mittens,
And behaved so politely in every way.
Well, we’ll never mind them, for they died long ago.
And I now want to tell you of Peter and Joe,
Two troublesome kittens who live at Herne Bay!

They are always in mischief, and leave nothing alone!
Run away with my knitting or dear doggie’s bone!
Roll over and over the clean kitchen table,
Climb up to the very tip top of the stairs,
Then race to the bottom as mad as wild hares,
Rush out to the garden and hide in the stable.

You never can catch them unless they are sleeping,
And e’en when they scratch you they don’t mind your weeping;
But stare at you boldly and stiffen their tails,
These very sad kittens, bad Peter! bad Joe!
And the worst of it is, one never can know
Any way to improve them, for every plan fails!

There are two little boys just like Peter and Joe,
For they’re always in mischief wherever they go.
Till the people say, “O what a bother they are!”
No! I won’t print their names, for perhaps they’ll be good;
Perhaps behave, for the future, as gentlemen should;
So instead of their names, why, I’ll put a big X.

Yes! and if very soon they’re behaving no better,
Why, their names _must_ be printed—every letter.

* * * * *

What is it that looks like a cat, walks like a cat, but isn’t a cat? _A kitten._

THE KIND BOY.

MRS. FREDERICK W. PENDER.

_Written especially for this book._

The boy who strives
To honest be,
And shows a dog
Or cat that he
Will be their friend,
In want or woe,
Why _that’s_ the boy
I honor so.

He never tries
By act to do
What oft will make
Some kitten mew;
But he defends
Her with his might
And takes a stand
That’s brave and right.

To see a creature
Suffer much
From some rude hand
His heart will touch;
And he will shun
A wicked mate
Who tortures pets
For pleasures’ sake.

In all this land,
How grand ’twould be
A mighty band
Of boys to see
Who make a point
At home or play
To treat all pets
In kindly way.

A bird or dog
A horse or cat,
Will grateful be
For kindly pat
In friendly way;
And thus you’ll do
Some good each day,
I know ’tis true.

Then, too, a boy
With heart so warm
Will nobler grow
As years roll on;
And his strong arm
Will oft be sought
To check some wrong
That mischief wrought.

LITTLE PUSSY.

TAYLOR.

I like little pussy, her coat is so warm,
And if I don’t hurt her she’ll do me no harm;
So I’ll not pull her tail, nor drive her away,
But pussy and I very gently will play.

THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVES.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

See the kitten on the wall,[1]
Sporting with the leaves that fall[2]
Withered leaves—one, two and three—[3]
From the lofty elder-tree![4]

Through the calm and frosty air
Of this morning bright and fair,[5]
Eddying round and round, they sink[6]
Softly, softly. One might think,
From the motions that are made,[6]
Every little leaf conveyed
Sylph or fairy hither tending,[7]
To this lower world descending,[8]
Each invisible and mute,[9]
In his wavering parachute.[10]

But the kitten, how she starts,[1]
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts![11]
First at one and then its fellow,[12]
Just as light and just as yellow:
There are many now—now one;[13]
Now they stop, and there are none.[14]

What intenseness of desire
In her upward eye of fire![15]
With a tiger-leap half-way
Now she meets the coming prey,[16]
Lets it go as fast,[17] and then
Has it in her power again;[16]
Now she works with three or four,[18]
Like an Indian conjurer;
Quick as he in feats of art,[19]
Far beyond in joy of heart.[20]
Were her antics played in the eye
Of a thousand standers-by,[21]
Clapping hands with shout and stare,[22]
What would little Tabby care[1]
For the plaudits of the crowd,[22]
Over-happy to be proud,
Over-wealthy in the treasure[23]
Of her own exceeding pleasure![20]

DIRECTIONS.

BY BERTHA L. COLBURN.

[From “Graded Physical Exercises,” by permission of the Publishers.]

[Imagine that you really see the kitten playing with the falling leaves; then, as you point to her and illustrate her movements, your gestures will be natural and expressive instead of awkward and mechanical.]

[Footnote 1: Point to right.]

[Footnote 2: Same, with circular movement of hand.]

[Footnote 3: Point to three leaves in same direction but slightly different places.]

[Footnote 4: Point higher.]

[Footnote 5: Raise arms front to shoulder level and carry outward to half sides, turning palms upward.]

[Footnote 6: Turn palms down, and move arms in circles, lowering slowly.]

[Footnote 7: Arms extended at front shoulder level, palms up.]

[Footnote 8: Turn palms, and lower to low front.]

[Footnote 9: Peer forward.]

[Footnote 10: Extend arms at front shoulder level, palms down, and wave hands slightly to sides.]

[Footnote 11: Bend forward; extend arms; move hands downward, and give leaping movement with arms.]

[Footnote 12: Point left, then right.]

[Footnote 13: Point outward with both hands; lower right.]

[Footnote 14: Lower left.]

[Footnote 15: Look up eagerly.]

[Footnote 16: Give leaping movement with arms, and close hands.]

[Footnote 17: Open hands.]

[Footnote 18: Movement of leaping and catching leaves.]

[Footnote 19: Carry left arm out to half side mid line, palm up.]

[Footnote 20: Clasp hands joyously.]

[Footnote 21: Carry both arms out to mid line at half sides, palms up.]

[Footnote 22: Clap hands.]

[Footnote 23: Lift forearms to mid line at half sides, palms up.]

* * * * *

What does a cat have that no other animal has? _Kittens._

DE BLACK CAT CROSSED HIS LUCK.

J.D. CORROTHERS.

[From “The Black Cat Club,” by special permission.]

O de Black Cat cotch ole Sambo Lee,
As he come home f’om a jamboree!
De cat sot up in a juniper tree,
Shakin’ ob his sides wid glee.
De moon was sailin’ oberhead—
Sam’s h’aht felt lak a lump o’ lead.
Black Cat grinned an’ wonk one eye,
Licked his paws an’ gib a sigh,
An’ den he cried: “Me-ow, me-ow—
Upon ma soul ah’m got you now!
Fall down an’ pray, po’ cullud man,
Foh de ole Black Cat done call yo’ han’.”

Sam los’ his job de very nex’ day;
An’ when he went to git his pay,
Got bit by a po’ man’s dog—
Policeman beat him wid his log—
Got arrested, put in jail—
Had to hustle hahd foh bail—
Lost his lawsuit, sprained his jaw
Wranglin’ wid his mother-in-law—
Lost his best ob lady lubs—
Got knocked out wid de boxin’-glubs—
Got hel’ up an’ lost his roll—
Robber almose took his soul!
Sam went to de hospital—
Three weeks passed ’fo’ he got well.
Played de races—got broke flat;
An’ all because ob dat Black Cat!

Den to de cunjah-man Sam sped,
An’ dis am whut de cunjah-man said:
“Black Cat am a pow’ful man;
Ruinin’ mo’tals am his plan.
Ole Satan an’ de ’Riginal Sin
Am de daddy an’ mammy o’ him.
He’s got nine hundred an’ ninety-nine libes—
Nineteen thousan’ an’ ninety-nine wibes—
He’s kin to cholera an’ allied
To smallpox on de mammy’s side;
An’ all de ebils on de earf
Stahted at de Black Cat’s birf!—
Jes’ stop an’ die right whah you’s at,
Ef yo’ luck bin crossed by de ole Black Cat!”

An’ den Sam read in history
Dat a cat crossed Pharaoh by de see,
An’ burried him, as sho’s you bo’n,
Too deep to heah ole Gabriel’s ho’n!
An’ dat de cat crossed Jonah once,
An’ made him ack a regular dunce.
Crossed Bonaparte at Waterloo,
An’ got Jeems Blaine defeated, too.
“Oh, Laud a-mussy now on me!”
Cried Sam, “an’ on his history!”
An’ den Sam went an’ killed de cat—
Swo’e he’d make an end o’ dat:—
Burried him in de light o’ de moon,
Wid a rabbit’s-foot an’ a silver spoon.
But de Black Cat riz, an’ swallered him whole—
Bu’nt his house an’ took his soul!

* * * * *

“I know where there is a catbird’s nest,” said Jack, as he came in to dinner, “and it’s full of young ones.”

“Let me see,” shouted wee Bessie. “I want to see the kitty birds.”

BARON GRIMALKIN’S DEATH.

_A Parody._

WILL M. CARLTON.

O’er a low barn, the setting sun
Had thrown its latest ray,
Where, in his last strong agony,
A dying tom-cat lay.
One who had caught full many a mouse,
By pantry, barn, and shelf,
But now, by unrelenting Death,
At last was caught himself.

“They come around me here, and say
My days of life are o’er!
That I shall snoop in pans of milk,
And scratch and fight no more.
They come, and to my whiskers dare
Tell me now, that I,
The oldest tom-cat on the place!
That I? y-o-w! y-o-w! must die.

“And what is death? I’ve braved him oft,
Before the poker’s thrust;
I’ve fought full many a cat and dog,
For many a bone and crust;
I’ve met him, faced him, scorned him,
When the fight was raging hot!
If he comes here I’ll scratch his eyes,
Defy and fear him not.

“Ho! sound the signal from the barn,
And raise a mighty din!
Go round to every house and farm,
And call each tom-cat in;
Away, and do my bidding, now,
My every order mind!
Bring hither every rat and mouse
That you can catch or find!”

A hundred cats were busy then;
A feast of rats was spread;
And everything was done in haste
As the old cat had said;
While, through a crack, the rising moon
Lit up the novel scene,
And shone on poor old Thomas cat
Of sad but gritty mien.

Soon hurrying through the great barn door
The neighboring pussies came;
Some black, some white, some grizzly gray
Some wild, and others tame.
They gathered quickly round the feast,
Each sitting firm and straight;
While, at their head, the dying cat,
With tail curled round him, sat.

“Let every one be filled, my cats;
Eat all you can, to-night!
And then, when we have done our feast,
We’ll have a glorious fight!
Are ye all there, my Thomas cats;
Mine eyes are waxing dim;
Now, wash your faces, bristle up,
And get in fighting trim.

“Ye’re there, and yet I see ye not—
Come, clinch together, now,
And let me hear you scratch and fight;
We’ll have a glorious row!
I hear it faintly; louder yet!
What clogs my breath, I say?
Up, all, and scratch, and fight and yawl,
And scare grim Death away!”

Teeth bit with teeth, cat fought with cat,
And rose a deafening yawl,
And scared the horses in that barn,
And made the cattle bawl!
“Ho! cravens, do ye fear him?
Slaves, traitors, have ye flown?
Ho, tom-cats, have ye left me,
To meet him here alone?

“But I defy him! Let him come!”
Down came his sharp, old claws;
And rage and fury grimly clashed,
Within his teeth and jaws;
And with his staring, yellow eyes
Protruding from his head,
There, on a bunch of barley straw,
Lay the old rascal, dead!

LITTLE KITTY.

_Action Poem._

[1]What does little Kitty say?
“Please give [2]me a [3]taste to-day!
[4]Bread and [5]milk so nice, I see,
Leave a [6]little, please, for [7]me.”

DIRECTIONS.

[Footnote 1: Move right forefinger.]

[Footnote 2: Point to self.]

[Footnote 3: Raise hand to mouth.]

[Footnote 4: Spread hand out to right.]

[Footnote 5: Spread hand out to left.]

[Footnote 6: Show first two fingers of left hand, and cross them with first finger of right hand.]

[Footnote 7: Point to self.]

A MUSICAL BASKET.]

A FELINE FATE.

ANNA ROBESON BROWN.

Because the night was bitterly cold, Dick Eaton put on his heavy overcoat, in which everything was furlined, even to the pockets, before starting for Mrs. Leighton’s dinner.

He was, in general, a happy-hearted fellow, but when one has just received a severe snub from one’s lady love, one does not contemplate a dinner with much satisfaction.

Dick was in love with a girl of wit as well as of beauty; a young lady who could afford to pick and choose.

Dick’s friends sang his praises all day long, much to Miss Girton’s astonishment.

“I can not understand,” she said, “what it is that makes that young Eaton fellow so popular. He hasn’t an ounce of brains.”

So it happened that on this particular evening he was discouraged.

The wind blew the sleet in his face. He stumped along, growing less inclined for the chilly formality of a dinner at every step. Half the distance had been traversed when he felt something brush against his foot.

It was a kitten—a very weak, very wet, and very miserable kitten.

“Hello, old man,” said Dick. “Whom do you belong to?”

The kitten continued to blink at Dick and to shiver helplessly.

It was so very small that it staggered and slid about when it tried to stand.

“Well, I’m awfully sorry, but I can’t help it, you know. Run home to your mamma. You’re far too little to be out alone.”

He started to move away, but the kitten sprang feebly up his leg, and clung there. Dick was fond of cats. He lifted it, and rubbed the rough fur for dryness; the kitten sat on his arm and held its head first to one side and then to the other. “Well, you are cool; but I say, old man, what am I to do with you, you know?”

The kitten purred. The purr settled it.

“Well, I suppose you have got to come; only, old man, I must say I wish you had chosen to favor me on my way home.”

And the kitten gave a jubilant burst of purr which sounded apologetic.

Dick transferred it to his pocket, which, as it was a very small kitten, was roomy quarters. Dick walked briskly on, chuckling to himself, yet reflecting on his situation with some anxiety.

He simply could not produce the beast upon entering Mrs. Leighton’s parlors. If the animal would stay quietly in his pocket it might not be so hard to conceal it during the meal, and he would excuse himself as early as possible.

“Now, old man,” he said to the kitten, as they stood on the door-step, “I have done you a good turn, you know, so I expect you to do me another by lying low and keeping dark. Don’t give yourself away, if you love me.”

Never was a dinner so long. They had allotted him to a little girl in her first season, and he was far away from Miss Girton’s end of the table.

With the third course came a new torment. That kitten was starving, Dick had no doubt of it. He looked about him for something to slip into his pocket. Chicken with truffles, or Roman punch was hardly the diet any self-respecting cat would select for her offspring. Dick passed three courses endeavoring to manufacture some excuse for leaving the table, but finally gave up in despair, resolving to wait until the ladies retired to the drawing-room.

When the cigars had been lighted and chairs pushed back, he felt his hour had come.

“Leighton,” he said, addressing his host, “would you—could I—ah, that is—would it be too much trouble to get me a glass of milk?”

An amazed silence fell upon the party.

“Milk!” said the host.

“Well, you see, the doctor ordered me after every meal——”

“Oh, of course, if you like,” and the butler brought a large tumbler of milk and placed it solemnly before Dick, during a rather chilly silence. He was forced to gulp down at least half the glass. Meanwhile, how to get away?

“Leighton,” he said, “did I hear you say that Gladstone had been criticized in the ‘Times’ for that last speech of his?”

“Yes,” said Leighton, “and of all the unwarrantable——”

The men pushed the bottles into the center of the table, squared their elbows, and in ten minutes, as Dick had anticipated, were far too deep in politics to observe his movements. With the half-finished glass of milk in his hand, he rose and wandered out of the door and down the hall to where his overcoat hung.

The kitten was awake and restless. Dick felt that he was just in time. He held it under one arm, and carefully tilted the glass for it until every drop was gone.

“There, old man, you feel better, don’t you? Have a cigar after you drink?” The sound of chairs being pushed about in the dining-room struck him with sudden panic. He spilled the kitten hastily into his pocket again and sped back with the empty glass.

In the drawing-room Miss Girton was in her element, and Dick eyed her from afar with a heavy heart.

Soon the people wandered out by twos and three, a few into the softly lighted hall. Miss Girton was one of these, and Dick as a matter of course joined the group of men gathered around her. The ribbon of her bouquet had become untied, and she rolled it in her fingers, and trailed it to and fro over the shining wood floor as she talked.

Suddenly there was a stir among the overcoats and two bright spots met Dick’s eyes—two sparks of topaz fire. Oh, that fascinating blue ribbon! How it curved and trailed about! What kitten could have resisted the temptation?

Dick made a sudden plunge.

“Your ribbon is untied,” he said, offering it to Miss Girton, with nervous politeness.

“Thank you,” she said. She let it dangle from her hand for a minute, and then shook it out in a long curved line. No mortal kitten could withstand that.

There was a bound and a rush and the scamper of four soft little paws, and Dick’s unfortunate waif lay on its back under Miss Girton’s very feet, kicking and clawing at the ribbon in an ecstacy of playful excitement.

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Miss Girton. “Where did that come from?”

“It’s a cat, by Jove!” said somebody.

Then Dick, feeling cold and weak all over, made a step forward.

“It’s mine; I picked it up. It was so cold and wet, you know——”

“Did you find it?”—“Was it here all the time?”—“Where did it come from?” Everybody crowded around, while the kitten made short charges at the ribbon, batted at it with its paws, and kicked at it frantically with its hind legs.

Dick told the story with a sinking heart. What would she think of him? What would she say? She did not say anything, but nearly everybody else did.

“Come, Eaton,” cried the host, laughing. “That milk——”

“Yes,” said Dick, scarlet, but sturdy, “it was for the kitten.”

There was a roar of laughter from the men, and then the joke had to be explained to the ladies.

“And why did you not produce the beast right away,” said Leighton. “By the way, there’s a smart fox-terrier of mine upstairs. Let’s introduce them and have some fun.”

Dick made a dash for his protege.

“No, you don’t. This little beast’s had quite enough of that sort of thing, I fancy. I’m going to take it home and make it comfortable. You don’t mind living with me, old man? We’ll be pretty good chums so long as you don’t smoke bad tobacco.”

He got on his overcoat and said good-bye to his hostess amid a fire of good-natured chaff. Then he looked around for Miss Girton. She was standing alone, and her face wore a curious expression. Dick, with his prize cuddled up in his arms, came over to her.

“All that for a kitten?” she said. “Why was it?”

“Oh, well, it liked me, and it was so beastly wet, you know.”

She gave him her hand with a sudden dazzling smile.

“Won’t you come and see me to-morrow? I shall be quite alone all the afternoon, and I do so want to hear about—about the kitten.”

THE DISHONEST CAT.

MRS. FREDERICK W. PENDER.

_Written expressly for this book._

A cat whose name, I’ve heard, was Tab,
Was known for being very bad.
Her home was good, her mistress kind,
But thieving seemed to fill her mind.

Her looks were rough, she was not neat,
From tip of nose to dirty feet;
And all her ways, they were so sly,
One could not bear to have her nigh.

Her greatest crime was from some dish
To steal the meat, or often fish;
And milk, if left in pan to cream,
If Tab was ’round she’d skim it clean.

One time she got herself in plight,
This naughty cat (it serv’d her right!)
She stuck her nose in soup so hot,
She ran out doors like she was shot.

And from the house, she stayed for days,
Though never mended her bad ways.
For she did steal from neighbors’ cats,
Their food left out upon the mat.

And often was she in disgrace,
And couldn’t look you in the face,
And came to grief at last, I’m told,
For thieving and from being bold.

MORAL.

Now boys and girls, a lesson learn,
From your nice ways, oh, never turn;
For if you do, perhaps like Tab,
Your fate may be—why, twice as bad.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR’S FAVORITE CAT, CHINCHINILLO.

_Addressed to His Child, Carlino._

Does Chinchinillo follow thee about?
Inverting one swart foot suspensively
And wagging his dread jaw at every chirp
Of bird above him on the olive branch?
Frighten him then away! ’Twas he who slew
Our pigeons, our white pigeons peacock-tailed,
That feared not you and me—alas nor him!
I flattened his striped sides along my knee,
And reasoned with him on his bloody mind,
Till he looked blandly and half-closed eyes
To ponder on my lecture in the shade.
I doubt his memory much, his heart a little,
And in some minor matters (may I say it?)
Could wish him rather sager.

HOMELESS KITTEN.

JANE CAMPBELL.

[Music:

1. A homeless little kitten
Came to the door one day,
“I’m cold and starved, oh, let me in!”
Its sad cries seemed to say.
I took it up and shut the door
Upon the bitter storm,
And put the little shiv’ring thing
Before the fire to warm.

2. I gave it milk to drink, and smoothed
Its pretty, soft grey fur,
“Poor pussy, stay with me,” I said,
It answered with a purr.
And ever since that winter day
I have so happy been;
I gained a merry playmate when
I let my pussy in.]

MY OLD GRAY CAT AND I.

JOE LINCOLN.

The wind blows shrill and the night is chill
And the black clouds hide the moon,
And the raindrops splash on the window sash
In a lazy, lonesome tune;
But the fire burns low, with a rosy glow,
As the sifting cinders die,
And we sit and dream in its cosy gleam,—
My old gray cat and I.

The smoke-wreaths curl from my pipe and whirl
Aloft in the dusky gloom,
And the buzzing burr of the cat’s soft purr
Hums low through the raftered room;
And the raging rout of the storm, without,
May scream in the chimney, high,
We’re blithe to-night, by the fire’s warm light,—
My old gray cat and I.

The squire may stand by his hearth so grand,
In his palace rich and old,
But his haughty breast has a deep unrest,
For he fears for his bonds and gold;
No wealth have we, so our hearts are free,
And our cot is warm and dry,
We feel no care, in our easy chair,—
My old gray cat and I.

From its well-worn hook, in the chimney’s nook,
I take my fiddle down,
And snugly in, ’neath my grizzled chin,
I cuddle its breast of brown;
And the strain that rings from the crooning strings,
Bids grief to the four winds fly,
While the sweet notes swell, we know so well,—
My old gray cat and I.

For Puss, old chum, whate’er may come,
You’re still a comrade true,
Through shine or rain you ne’er complain,
So here’s good health to you:
The best of luck, my ancient buck,
While old Time hurries by;
Till this world ends we’ll be fast friends,—
My old gray cat and I.

CAT AND FOX.

_A Fable._

A cat once met a fox in a forest. The fox bragged so much about the many tricks he could do that the cat felt she must, in some way, reply.

Finally, she said, very modestly: “Well, I only know how to do one thing. It’s my only trick.”

“You don’t say so!” replied the fox, patronizingly. “Why, I can do no end of tricks.”

The cat stared at the fox, enviously, and was suddenly aroused by hearing the horns of the king’s hunters and the barking of the dogs. The cat ran up the tree and, sitting on a branch, watched the approach of the cavalcade, with serenity.

“I thought you could do only one thing,” cried out the distracted fox as he ran away.

“I can,” the cat answered. “But this happens to be my trick.”

Then the cat had the satisfaction to see the dogs, after barking about the foot of the tree, run after the fox.

MISS EDITH’S MODEST REQUEST.

BRET HARTE.

My papa knows you, and he says you’re a man who makes reading
for books;
But I never read nothing you wrote, nor did papa—I know by his looks;
So I guess you’re like me when I talk, and I talk and I talk
all the day,
And they only say, “Do stop that child!” or, “Nurse, take
Miss Edith away!”

But papa said if I was good, I could ask you—alone by myself—
If _you_ wouldn’t write me a book like that little one up on the shelf.
I don’t mean the pictures, of course, for to make _them_ you’ve got
to be smart;
But the reading that runs all around them, you know—just the
easiest part.

You needn’t mind what it’s about, for no one will see it but me
And Jane—that’s my nurse—and John—he’s the coachman—just only us three.
You’re to write of a bad little girl, that was wicked and bold,
and all that;
And then you are to write, if you please, something good—very
good—of a cat!

This cat she was virtuous and meek, and kind to her parents, and mild,
And careful and neat in her ways, though her mistress was such
a bad child;
And hours she would sit and would gaze when her mistress—that’s
me—was so bad,
And blink, just as if she would say, “O Edith! you make my heart sad.”

And yet, you would scarcely believe it, that beautiful, angelic cat
Was blamed by the servants for stealing whatever, they said,
she’d get at,
And when John drank my milk—don’t you tell me! I know just the way
it was done—
They said ’twas the cat—and she sitting and washing her face
in the sun!

And then there was Dick, my canary. When I left the cage open, one day,
They all made believe that she ate it, though I know that the bird
flew away.
And why? Just because she was playing with a feather she found
on the floor.
As if cats couldn’t play with a feather without people thinking
’twas more.

Why, once we were romping together, when I knocked down a vase
from the shelf;
That cat was as grieved and distressed as if she had done it herself;
And she walked away sadly and hid herself, and never came out
until tea—
So they say, for they sent _me_ to bed, and she never came even to me.

No matter whatever happened, it was laid at the door of that cat.
Why, once, when I tore my apron—she was wrapped in it,
and I called “Rat!”—
Why, they blamed that on _her_. I shall never—no, not to my dying day—
Forget the pained look that she gave me when they slapped _me_ and
took me away.

Of course, you know just what comes next when a child is as lovely
as that.
She wasted quite slowly away—it was goodness was killing that cat.
I know it was nothing she ate, for her taste was exceedingly nice;
But they said she stole Bobby’s ice-cream, and caught a bad cold
from the ice.

And you’ll promise to make me a book like that little one up
on the shelf.
And you’ll call her “Naomi,” because it’s a name that she just
gave herself;
For she’d scratch my door in the morning, and whenever I’d call out
“Who’s there?”—
She would answer, “Naomi! Naomi!” like a Christian, I vow and declare.

And you’ll put me and her in a book. And, mind, you’re to say
I was bad;
And I might have been badder than that but for the example I had.
And you’ll say that she was a Maltese—And what’s that you asked?
“Is she dead?”
Why, please sir, _there ain’t any cat_! You’re to make one up out
of your head!

MISS KITTY MANX TO SIR THOMAS ANGORA.

MARY S. BOYD.

Sir Thomas, pardon me I pray,
But I would like to know
If you could not direct me to
The swamp where cat-tails grow?

A PRINCE OF NEWFOUNDLAND; OR, ONLY A DOG AND A KITTEN.

CELIA THAXTER.

The shower had ceased, but the city street
Was flooded still with drenching rain,
Though men and horses with hurrying feet
Swept on their busy ways again.

The gutter ran like a river deep;
By the clean-washed pavement fast it rushed,
As out of the spouts with a dash and a leap
The singing, sparkling water gushed.

A little kitten with ribbon blue
Crossed over the way to the gutter’s brink;
With many a wistful, plaintive mew,
She seemed at the edge to shudder and shrink.

And there she stood while her piteous cries
Were all unheard by the heedless throng,
Looking across with such longing eyes;
But the torrent was all too swift and strong.

Up the streets, o’er the pavements wide,
Wandered our Prince from Newfoundland,
Stately and careless and dignified,
Gazing about him on either hand.

The sun shone out on his glossy coat,
And his beautiful eyes, soft and brown,
With quiet, observant glance took note
Of all that was passing him, up and down.

He heard the kitten that wailed and mewed,
Stopped to look and investigate,
The whole situation understood,
And went at once to the rescue straight.

Calmly out into the street walked he,
Up to the poor little trembling waif,
Lifted her gently and carefully,
And carried her over the water safe.

And set her down on the longed-for shore,
Licked her soft coat with a kind caress,
Left her and went on his way once more,
The picture of noble thoughtfulness.

Only a dog and a cat, you say?
Could a human being understand
And be more kind in a human way
Than this fine old Prince of Newfoundland?

O children dear, ’tis a lesson sweet:
If a poor dumb dog so wise can be,
We should be gentle enough to treat
All creatures with kindness and courtesy.

For surely among us there is not one
Who such an example could withstand;
Who would wish in goodness to be outdone
By a princely dog from Newfoundland.

* * * * *

_Ques._—What kind of a cat do we usually find in a large library?

_Ans._—Catalogue.

_Ques._—Why are cats like unskillful surgeons?

_Ans._—Because they mew-till-late and destroy patience (patients).

THE DUEL.

EUGENE FIELD.

The gingham dog and the calico cat
Side by side on the table sat,
’Twas half past twelve, and what do you think,
Neither of them had slept a wink!
And the old Dutch clock and Chinese plate
Seemed to know, as sure as fate,
There was going to be an awful spat.

(I wasn’t there—I simply state
What was told to me by the Chinese plate.)

The gingham dog went “Bow-wow-wow!”
And the calico cat replied “Me-ow!”
And the air was streaked for an hour or so
With fragments of gingham and calico,
While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place
Up with its hands before its face,
For it always dreaded a family row!

(Now, mind, I’m simply telling you
What the old Dutch clock declares is true.)

The Chinese plate looked very blue
And wailed: “Oh, dear, what shall we do!”
But the gingham dog and the calico cat
Wallowed this way and tumbled that,
And utilized every tooth and claw
In the awfulest way you ever saw—
And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!

(Don’t think that I exaggerate—
I got my news from the Chinese plate.)