Chapter II: The Tramp Cat (3)

The shouts of the boys grew fainter and fainter, and finally ceased altogether. It was then that she stopped, and tugged and bit at the knotted cord until at last she could switch her tail from side to side—free from its hated burden.

“Me-ow-w!”

“Whew! little cat, is it so bad as all that?”

He was tall, wore a soft black hat, and carried a cane, which he playfully twirled over the kitten’s head as he spoke.

The kitten’s tail came upright instantly, waving an appreciative welcome to the kindly tones.

Two blocks down the street, the man ran up the steps of a house. His latch-key was in his hand before he spied the kitten. She had sprung lightly to the topmost step and was now facing him.

“Why—pussy!”

“Meow!”

Mechanically the man obeyed the obvious command, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. The kitten was inside the hall with a bound.

“Oh, what a beauty, Mr. Heywood! Where did you get it?” asked the landlady.

“That’s just the trouble, Mrs. Merriam; I didn’t get it at all—it came!”

“Came to you? How perfectly lovely! The very best sign of good luck that you could possibly have! There’s not a bit of doubt now, Mr. Heywood—your picture will be a certain success.”

“But what am I going to do with it?” asked Heywood.

“Do with it? Why, you’re going to keep it.”

The kitten had arrived with a bedraggled ribbon of what had once been lustrous white satin around her neck. This forlorn bit of finery Heywood at once consigned to the wastebasket, substituting a band of blue cut from a roll of ribbon, after scrutiny of his guest’s eyes to obtain just the proper shade; but the roll of ribbon soon began to show signs of a rapid disappearance, so frequently was the necklet renewed. This was owing to the fact that the kitten’s usual companions, during her waking hours, were Heywood’s tubes of paints.

The first time she had jumped upon his low stand and poked her inquisitive nose into his paint-box, he had looked on in dumb dismay. A skirmish, a sweep of a yellow paw—and a tube of Rose Madder leaped from the box and scurried across the floor with the kitten in full pursuit.

It was then that Heywood had caught up his crayon and drawn hurried lines on the canvas before him; and it was that rough sketch that became the first study for his famous picture “The Kittens’ Playground.”

After that he used every device in his power to interest the kitten in that paint-box.

From the very first the little stranger had not lacked for a name. She was always referred to as “Her Majesty,” and right royally she ruled the household. It was two weeks before Her Majesty’s new surroundings palled upon her and she longed for other worlds to conquer. Coincident with this longing came the open back-yard gate. A wild scamper, and she was free—out in the wide, wide world! Through the alley and across the lot another open gate tempted her. Up the steps, through the kitchen door and on into the dining-room pattered the little yellow feet.

“Why, Queenie!—you darling!” and she was in Miss Dorothy’s arms.

“Where have you been? You little dear—you’re as plump as a partridge, anyway! Some one has appreciated you. But they’ve taken off your pretty white ribbon and put on a horrid blue one. We’ll go and change it, sweetheart. I never did like blue!”

Meanwhile on the other side of the square consternation reigned.

“Where’s Her Majesty?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll hunt her up,” responded Mrs. Merriam.

Perhaps the kitten missed her box of pigment playthings, or perhaps she longed for the masculine homage she did not find at home; at any rate, three days later, when she heard a familiar call from across the open lot, she slipped through the back-yard gate, and hurried in the direction of Mrs. Merriam’s voice.

“I’ve got her,” she announced breathlessly, “but I guess she’s found her home, Mr. Heywood. I don’t know’s we ought to keep her—you see her ribbon’s changed.”

“Yes, I see it is. But that’s easily remedied. I shan’t paint her in a white one.”

“But—shall we keep her?” asked Mrs. Merriam timidly.

“We’ll try to—until the picture is done, anyway.”

When the kitten had first come to the house, Heywood had been engaged upon an elaborate landscape, which he had intended to finish and present to the judges of a forthcoming Art Exhibition. But since the first study of “Her Majesty,” his interest in the landscape had waned. Abandoning his original plan, he was now hard at work on “The Kittens’ Playground,” determined to exhibit that or nothing. For a week Her Majesty was closely guarded and the picture grew apace; then one day she disappeared. High and low they searched, but all in vain.

Across the square Miss Dorothy was tenderly caressing an animated ball of yellow fur.

“Queenie, Queenie, what does this mean? What am I to think when you run away from me so? Who are your new friends that insist on tying on these odious blue ribbons around your neck? Here, just let me take off the horrid thing and—why, what is this!” she exclaimed, interrupting herself in amazement as a tiny crumpled paper dropped into her hand.

“Kindly leave the blue ribbon on. I like it better—it’s more artistic,” she read.

“Well, really—impertinent creature!” Then she laughed, caught up a pencil, and wrote on the back of the paper:

“So sorry, but I prefer white!”

When the small yellow cat and the big white bow appeared before Heywood that night, he laughed outright. With careful fingers he undid the knot, and then he laughed again.

“As I expected—graceful, in spite of disadvantages.”

When the blue again adorned the kitten’s neck, it bore with it this message:

“I regret to be obliged a second time to call your attention to the fact that blue is the only possible ribbon for this cat. Look at her eyes!”

The picture was nearly done now. Her Majesty came and went much at her own sweet will, and it was not two days before another huge white bow appeared on her neck to mock Heywood’s gaze. His fingers shook a little as he untied the knot and freed the tiny crumpled paper.

“I regret to be obliged a second time to call your attention to the fact that I prefer white. Look at her—whiskers!” he read.

The time of the Exhibition arrived and Heywood had thoughts for but one thing. At last his picture was hung, and so attractive did it prove to be that it bid fair to realize his dearest hopes.

It represented the interior of an artist’s studio. The whole was but the setting for four yellow kittens—the cleverest, most fascinating yellow kittens in the world, peeping from behind curtains, tumbling among rugs, rolling over tubes of paint—life-like, bewitching, and altogether perfection.

It was on the third day of the Exhibition that a tall girl in drooping feathers and rich furs stopped before the picture with an exclamation of delight.

“It’s Queenie!—why, it’s Queenie to the very life!” “C.R. Heywood. Not for sale,” she read disappointingly from her catalogue; then she sought the manager.

“‘The Kittens’ Playground’—it is not for sale,” she asked.

“No, madam.”

“But the artist, Heywood—does he live in the city? Can you give me his address?”

“Thirty-four Union Avenue, madam,” replied the man, consulting his book.

Dorothy Marsh was not a young woman who dallied. Once determined on a course, action quickly followed. Her mother, always gentle and pleasantly acquiescent, was hurried into the carriage and the order, “Thirty-four Union Avenue,” given to the coachman.

Upon their arrival at the house, the two ladies were shown into the studio, and in a moment Heywood appeared.

The girl was in the middle of the floor, turning round and round in amazement.

“Why, they’re all Queenies, every one of them!” she exclaimed.

The man bowed, and a peculiar smile flickered across his face.

“They are, indeed, all—‘Her Majesty’s.’”

He had not time to say more, for at the first tones of the girl’s voice, there was the crash of a falling vase and the scampering of little feet from an inner room. Then with a spring and a bound a small yellow kitten landed in Miss Dorothy’s outstretched arms.

There was a moment’s awkward silence. Mrs. Marsh unconsciously came to the rescue.

“Why, it is our kitten, isn’t it? This must be where she goes so often, daughter.”

The color deepened in the girl’s cheeks and she threw a quick glance at Heywood.

“It evidently is, mother,” she laughed.

Mrs. Marsh turned to the artist.

“My daughter has taken a great fancy to your kitten picture at the Exhibition, Mr. Heywood. We—er—I see that the catalogue states that it is not for sale.”

“Indeed, madam, it _was_ my intention to keep the picture,” he began, speaking to the mother, though looking at the daughter, “but—”—the kitten jumped from the girl’s arms to the floor and began playing with a tube of paint—“Well, there are circumstances,” he continued, then paused again.

“Yes, there are circumstances,” repeated the girl softly, her eyes on the kitten.

“Yes, circumstances which—which alter determinations,” he suddenly concluded, following her gaze with his eyes.

Dorothy was strangely silent through the rest of the interview.

It was when the ladies were leaving that the artist placed Her Majesty into Dorothy’s arms. His hand rested in a momentary caress on the round yellow head, then his fingers just touched the white bow at the neck.

“The ribbon in the picture, Miss Marsh,” he began, closely studying the girl’s face, “shall I change it to—er—white?”

“Thank you, no. I—I prefer the blue,” she answered, with a sudden flash from her eyes and a dazzling smile.

Her Majesty is older now. She is plump, sleek, and of stately dignity, and her eyes—once turquoise—gleam with shifting amber lights. Her present realm is a certain mansion. Incidentally, it is also the home of the artist, Heywood, and of his wife, Dorothy.

“Witness my act and deed.”]

(See page 135.)

HOMELESS KITTEN.]

* * * * *

_Ques._—When is a tea-pot like a kitten?

_Ans._—When you’re teasin’ it (tea’s in it).

DIRTY KITTY-CAT.

STANLEY SCHELL.

_Written expressly for this book_.

You surely have heard of the bad kitty-cat,
A source of great grief to her mother,
I’m sorry to say if you search round about,
You’ll doubtless find many another.
She did love dirt, and she did not love soap,
And she certainly hated a tubbing,
And her mother declared if she did not keep clean,
She’d give her a thorough good scrubbing.

She won’t be happy when she gets it,
No, she won’t be happy when she gets it,
Now, just take my word,
’Tis the truth you have heard,
She won’t be happy when she gets it.

Kitty cared not a bit for her dear mother’s threat,
Too often she’d heard the same story,
Till one fated day to her home she returned,
All muddy, and dirty, and gory.
She’d just had a fall, she smilingly said,
When mother remarked her condition;
Then she walked to her rug and curled down for a nap,
And did nothing to show her contrition.

Oh, she’ll be happy when she gets it,
Now, won’t she be happy when she gets it?
For I saw her mother’s eye,
As kitty gaily passed her by,
And I know she’ll be happy when she gets it.

That mud and dirt and gore
Were really the last straw to break the camel’s back,
That mother watched that kit, then looked about her quick,
And decided that the time was very ripe for her to act.
She seized that little kit by the back of the neck,
And dragged her to a fast-running stream,
All in vain were her screams,
For into that stream was she hastily and speedily tossed.

Oh, wasn’t she happy when she got it!
I told you that she’d be so;
But she swam for her dear life,
To the shore where mother stood,
And promised ever more to be good,
For she wasn’t a bit happy when she got it.

DICKENS AND HIS KITTEN.

Charles Dickens was particularly fond of cats. One little deaf kitten had the liberty of her master’s study. She followed him about like a dog and sat beside him while he wrote.

One evening Dickens was reading by a small table upon which stood a lighted candle. As usual, the cat was at his elbow. Suddenly the light went out.

Dickens was deeply interested in his book, and he proceeded to relight the candle, stroking the cat while he did so. Afterward he remembered that puss had looked at him somewhat reproachfully while she received the caress. It was only when the light again became dim that the reason of her melancholy suddenly dawned upon him.

Turning quickly, he found her deliberately putting out the candle with her paw, and again she looked at him appealingly. She was lonesome; she wanted to be petted, and this was her device for gaining her end.

LINCOLN’S MOTHERLESS KITTENS.

MRS. FREDERICK W. PENDER.

_Written expressly for this book_.

[During one of President Lincoln’s visits to the Army of
the Potomac three tiny kittens were crawling about the
tent. The mother had died, and the little wanderers were
expressing their grief by mewing piteously. Mr. Lincoln
took them on his lap, stroked their soft fur, and murmured,
“Poor little creatures! Don’t cry; you’ll be taken good
care of;” and, turning to an officer, said: “Colonel, I
hope you will see that these poor, little, motherless waifs
are given plenty of milk and treated kindly.” The Colonel
replied: “I will see, Mr. President, that they are taken
in charge by the cook of our mess, and are well cared
for.” Several times during his stay, Mr. Lincoln was found
fondling these kittens. He would wipe their eyes tenderly
with his handkerchief, stroke them, and listen to them
purring their gratitude to him. It was a curious sight at
an army headquarters, upon the eve of a great military
crisis in the nation’s history, to see the hand that had
signed the Emancipation Proclamation tenderly caressing
these stray kittens.]

A mother cat with kittens three,
Was such a pretty sight to see;
All curled around her, soft and warm,
Those babies knew no fear or harm.

Their noses were a rosy pink;
Their tiny eyes, they tried to blink;
While pussy sang, as mothers do,
And babies tried to join her, too.

And, then, they were so happy there
All in a tent, without a care;
And oft the mother purred with pride,
When those wee mites were by her side.

She washed their faces and their feet,
With velvet paw, for she was neat;
And taught them how to run and play,
And they grew cunning ev’ry day.

But, oh! this good old pussy died,
And those wee babies cried and cried!
They did not know that she was dead,
And sorely begged they to be fed.

They crawled around both day and night,
No mother there, how sad their plight,
And how their little hearts did beat
At ev’ry sound of coming feet.

A man was passing by the tent,
He paused, then quickly in he went.
He saw those waifs, he picked them up
And called for milk for them to sup.

Then softly murmured “not to cry,”
A friend you have now I am nigh.
He stroked their fur, and soothed their fears,
And even wiped away their tears.

Those grateful babies purred and purred,
At kindly touch and gentle word;
For Lincoln was their friend in need,
And love shown in his ev’ry deed.

And he whose pen had freed a race,
Thought petting kittens no disgrace,
Nor stooping to a thing so small,
For God had made them, one and all.

His great heart beat for them, indeed,
As much as for the race he freed;
And in the years that faster come,
All love to think of this deed done.

* * * * *

_Ques._—Why is the world like a cat’s tail?

_Ans._—Because it is fur to the end of it.

MY OL’ BLACK CAT.

FLAVIA ROSSER.

You jes’ orter to see my ol’ black cat;
’E’s soft like a cushion, but nicer’n that.
’E’s made out o’ velvet, an’ stuffed ’ith springs,
An’ ther’s sumpin’ in ’im wot whizzes an’ sings.
’Is eyes ’r round ’s marbles, an’ bigger’n any o’ mine;
They’re jes’ chock full o’ meanness, an’ wink, an’ blink, an’ shine.
We ketch ’im an’ hol’ ’im in th’ dark, an’ rub ’im—my pa an’ I,
’N’ you orter to see them ’lectric sparks wot crackle, an’ snap,
an’ fly.
Sometimes my pa’ll take that cat an’ touch ’is nose to ’is——
I wouldn’t do it ’cause it hurts, and makes pa say, “Gee wiz’!”
But sometimes pa is differunt, and them is the times wot he
Takes me out to the woodshed an’ kinder wallops me.
It gets so dark in the woodshed ’at I sneak up near th’ door,
But th’ other children won’t come out, nor play ’ith me no more.
My ma, she works ’ith her head tucked down, so’s not to see me cry;
Them times I think how sorry this fambly ’ud be if I’d die.
But yip! ’cross th’ big, black garden, my cat comes hoppity-skip,
’E never even looks to see th’ place pa throwed the whip;
’E humps ’is back up ’gainst me, an’ snuggles, and sniffs an’ sings;
An’ stickles me ’ith ’is viskers, an’ talks ’bout other things.
O’ course I love my ol’ black cat; w’y it seems to me at times
like that
I love ’im better’n I love ma, ‘n’ a good deal better’n I love pa.

* * * * *

Spell live mouse-trap with three letters.

C-A-T (cat).

THE DEAD KITTEN.

SYDNEY DAYRE.

Don’t talk to me of parties, Nan; really, I can not go.
When folks are in affliction they don’t go out, you know.
I have a new brown sash, too; it seems a pity, eh?
That such a dreadful trial should have come just yesterday.
The play-house blinds are all pulled down as dark as it can be,
It looks so very solemn and so proper, don’t you see?
And I have a piece of crape pinned on my dolly’s hat;
Tom says it is ridiculous for only just a cat.
But boys are all so horrid! They always, every one,
Delight in teasing little girls and kitties, “just for fun.”
The way he used to pull her tail—it makes me angry now—
And scat her up the cherry-tree to make the darling “meow.”
I’ve had her all the summer. One day, away last spring,
I heard a frightful barking, and I saw the little thing
In the corner of a fence; ’twould have made you laugh outright
To see how every hair stood out, and how she tried to fight.
I shooed the dog away, she jumped upon my arm;
The pretty creature knew I wouldn’ do her any harm;
I hugged her close, and carried her to mamma, and she said
She should be my own Kitty, if I’d see that she was fed.
A cunning little dot she was, with silky, soft, gray fur;
She’d be for hours on my lap, and I could hear her purr,
And then she’d frolic after when I pulled a string about,
Or try to catch her tail or roll a marble in and out.
Such comfort she has been to me I’m sure no one can tell,
Unless some other little girl who loves her pussy well.
I’ve heard about a Maltese cross; but my dear little Kit
Was always sweet and amiable, and never cross a bit!
But, oh, last week I missed her! I hunted all around;
My darling little pussy cat was nowhere to be found,
I knelt and whispered softly, when nobody could see:
“Take care of little Kitty, _please_ and bring her back to me.”
I found her lying yesterday behind the lower shed;
I thought my heart was broken when I found that she was dead.
Tom promised me another one, but even he can see
No other Kitty ever will be just the same to me.
I can’t go to your party, Mamie. Macaroons, you say?
And ice-cream? I know I ought to try and not give way;
And I feel it would be doing wrong to disappoint you so,
Well, if I’m equal to it by to-morrow, I may go.

MY CAT AND DOG.

MARORI.

I have a cat; she’s as black as my hat.
Fur fifty times finer than silk,
And what e’er is occurring, she always is purring,
Especially over her milk.
And I have a dog, too, a wonderful dog,
Nobility beams in his eye;
And, early or late, for his master he’ll wait—
None such friends as dear doggie and I.

His dear, honest nose he shoves into my hand,
Yet growls if a rogue comes in view;
And his great wagging tail makes one quite understand
He’s a watchman both fearless and true.
A trio of jolly companions are we,
Together we pleasantly jog;
Indulge in no riot, but live very quiet—
Myself and my cat and my dog.

THE LOST MITTENS.

Three little kittens lost their mittens,
And they began to cry,
“O mother dear,
We very much fear
That we have lost our mittens.”

“Lost your mittens!
You naughty kittens!
Then you shall have no pie.”
“Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.”
“No, you shall have no pie.”
“Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.”

The three little kittens found their mittens,
And they began to cry,
“O mother dear,
See here, see here,
See! we have found our mittens.”

“Put on your mittens,
You silly kittens,
And you may have some pie.”
“Purr-r, purr-r, purr-r,
Oh, let us have the pie.
Purr-r, purr-r, purr-r.”

The three little kittens put on their mittens,
And soon ate up the pie;
“O mother dear,
We greatly fear
That we have soiled our mittens.”

“Soiled your mittens!
You naughty kittens!”
Then they began to sigh,
“Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.”
Then they began to sigh,
“Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.”

The three little kittens washed their mittens
And hung them out to dry;
“O mother dear,
Do you not hear,
That we have washed our mittens?”

“Washed your mittens!
Oh, you’re good kittens.
But I smell a rat close by!”
“Hush, hush! mee-ow, mee-ow!
We smell a rat close by!
Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow!”

KITTYCAT AND THE MILKMAN.

Mr. Milkman, please to stop!
Fill my jug up to the top;
Half for mother, half for me,
Fresh and sweet milk let it be.
Mother told me, too, to say,
“Please to call here twice to-day.”

TWO HEARTS AND A KITTEN.

MABEL PREECE.

Timothy Dale, the blacksmith, sat beside the kitchen table in his tiny cottage, laboriously penning his first love letter. He destroyed sheet after sheet of writing paper in disgust at his misshapen letters and poor composition, until only one remained.

“It’s got ter come right on this ’ere one, or it can’t be done at all. The store’s closed fer th’ night an’ I ain’t got no more paper.”

“Dere Cynthia,” it read, “can you mete me bi the mill to morrow at 3. i luv you and wood like to no if you do the same and will marrie me plese not to forgit at 3 yours trooly Tim Dale.”

Cynthia Warden turned up the lamp and read the letter with no great surprise, for Timothy was not an adept in concealing his feelings. But Cynthia had been at boarding-school, and the honest but faulty epistle somewhat jarred on her. And then there was Walter Hughes.

Walter Hughes was a traveling salesman and at times visited his uncle, old Lawyer Hughes, the richest man in the place. At first the visits were infrequent, prompted by duty and the thought of “uncle’s little pile in the bank;” but after meeting Cynthia Warden he seemed to form an attachment for the village and spent much time there. His city-bred airs and refinement won Cynthia’s regards, and when he gave accounts of his thrilling experiences, her heart warmed to this hero of her girlish dreams. As she stood gazing out of her window, she almost laughed aloud at the thought of marrying Timothy Dale.

“Of course, it’s absurd. I might have thought him all very well had not Walter come;—but now it is out of the question.”

As Walter Hughes walked to Cynthia’s home the following afternoon his thoughts were extremely pleasant.

“The little game is progressing very favorably,” he murmured, rubbing his soft, flabby hands together in delight. “The girl is awfully smitten with me. She’ll come in for a goodly share of old Warden’s savings, and I might do worse than to marry her.”

He found Cynthia standing by the gate waiting for him.

“Come for a walk,” he suggested. “Cynthia,” he said, when they had exhausted the minor topics of the day, “I love you, and I believe you are not wholly indifferent to me. Will you marry me?”

Cynthia turned her eyes away that he might not see her great happiness, and as she did so they fell on an object by the roadside.

It was a kitten that some cruel boys had stoned. With a cry of pity she drew her hand from Hughes’s grasp and started toward the kitten, but he pulled her roughly back.

“Never mind the fool cat, Cynthia. What if it is hurt? I guess I’m of more importance than a kitten. Answer my question: will you marry me?”

It was as if a veil had been torn from her eyes. His cold, unsympathetic words, and still more, his pitiless face, betrayed the cruel, selfish nature of the man, and Cynthia’s face flushed with indignation and shame at the thought of having cared for such as he.

“No,” she responded quietly, but firmly, “I will not.”

He turned on his heel and left her standing there, and she buried her face in her hands, shuddering at the horror of what she had escaped.

A cheery voice roused her from her reverie.

“Well, Cynthia, girl, here you are! I’ve been looking by the mill for you, but as you warn’t there I thought I’d take a turn up this ’ere way an’ maybe I’d find—why, look at that pore little cat! Now, I’d jest like ter know who could ha’ done that! Wouldn’t I larrup their hide, though?”

He picked the kitten up and bound its wounded foot with his coarse red pocket-handkerchief. The hands of the burly fellow became as tender as a woman’s.

“I’ll jest take it home an’ fix it up,” he said carelessly, slightly ashamed of showing his soft-heartedness. “It’ll be sort ’er company ’bout the house. An’ now, Cynthia, I jest wanted ter know ef you’d do what I said in th’ letter—marry me—you know. I ain’t got much but a heart full of honest love ter give you, girl, but I’ll do my best by you an’ make you happy. I know I ain’t much, but—but—”

It was the longest speech the poor fellow had ever made and he broke down confusedly. But Cynthia, looking up at him with glistening eyes, said softly: “Will I marry you, Tim? Yes—with all my heart.”

Then, as with a low exclamation of surprise and joy he turned quickly toward her,—

“Look out!” she cried, laughing through the tears sparkling in her eyes, “Look out, or you’ll drop the kitten!”

LITTLE TURNCOATS.

GEORGIA A. PECK.

As passed the rector of All Saints’ one day,
Obsequiously an old man crossed his way,
And with “Good-mornin’, sir!” his head laid bare;
Then, steadying his basket with all care,
He turned its cover back to show within
Three sleeping kittens, saying, with a grin,
“I have some fine Episcopal kittens here
That you might like to buy,—they won’t come dear.”

“Look here, old man!” called out a passer-by,
“I see what you’re about, with half an eye!
You tried to sell that lot to me last night
As good, clean, Baptist kittens.”

“You are right,
My friend, and they were Baptist then, all three,
But ’twas before their eyes were opened! See?”

THE MISCHIEVOUS CAT.

MRS. E.J. CORBETT.

Little Pussy Pink-toes sat in the sun,
Blinking,
And thinking
What next could be done?
There wasn’t a mouse
To be found in the house,
Nor even a rat in the cellar—not one.
And Pussy said, “Mi-ow! I wish I could find
A nice bit of mischief just to my mind.”

Around the corner came Johnny McGee,
Aged four,
And no more,
Plump and rosy, and pleasant to see.
Not a moment he tarried,
But carefully carried
A pitcher of milk for his grandmother’s tea.
“Ho! ho!” cried the cat—
“I’d like to taste that;
I’ll frighten young Johnny, and then he will flee.”

So this wicked pussy-cat quickly uprose,
Raised her tail
Like a sail,
Showed the sharp claws in her little pink toes,—
And grew bigger and bigger,
A terrible figure—
Poor Johnny was frightened, as you may suppose.
And her tail, how it swelled—
And her voice, how she yelled—
’Twas so dreadful that poor little Johnny stood there
Quaking and shaking with fright and despair.

Pussy’s hair stood right up—her eyes were so green—
Her jaws,
And her claws,
Made the ugliest picture that ever was seen—
“I’m afraid—of that cat—” sobbed Johnny—“boo-hoo!”
Then down, with a smash,
The pitcher went—crash!
And poor Johnny McGee
Had lost all the milk for his grandmother’s tea.

So the milk was all spilled, and Pussy got none,
Of course;
She was cross,
As she sat there washing her face in the sun.
“Not even a taste
Of that milk—what a waste!”
“It wasn’t,” said Pussy, “the least bit of fun!”

DOWN TO ST. IVES.

As I went down to St. Ives
I met seven wives.
Each wife had seven sacks;
Each sack, seven cats;
Each cat, seven kits;
Kits, cats,
Sacks, wives,
How many went down to St. Ives?

_Ans._—One; the rest came from there.

* * * * *

She saw them weigh the baby, and nothing then would do,
But she must knot a handkerchief and weigh her kitty, too.
“Oh, mamma, come and look!” she cried; “you mustn’t speak or laugh!
My darling little kitty weighs a dollar and a half!”

KITTY AT SCHOOL.

KATE ULMER.

Come, Kitty dear, I’ll tell you what
We’ll do this rainy day;
Just you and I, all by ourselves,
At keeping school, will play.

The teacher, Kitty, I will be;
And you shall be the class;
And you must close attention give,
If you expect to pass.

Now, Kitty, “C-A-T” spells cat.
Stop playing with your tail!
You are so heedless, I am sure
In spelling you will fail.

“C-A” oh, Kitty! do sit still!
You must not chase that fly!
You’ll never learn a single word,
You do not even try.

I’ll tell you what my teacher says
To me most ev’ry day—
She says that girls can never learn
While they are full of play.

So try again—another word;
“L-A-C-E” spells “lace.”
Why, Kitty, it is not polite
In school to wash your face!

You are a naughty, naughty puss,
And keep you in I should;
But, then, I love you, dear, so much
I don’t see how I could!

O, see! the sun shines bright again!
We’ll run out doors and play;
We’ll leave our school and lessons for
Another rainy day.

THE SOCIAL TEA.]

BOY BLUE AND HIS GUN.

NELLIE M. GARABRAUT.

“Rub-a-dub-dub,”
Said the boy in blue,
“I have got a big gun
And I will shoot you.”

“Oh, don’t shoot me,”
Said the little brown dog;
“Go down to the mill-pond,
And shoot at a frog.”

“Oh, no, no!”
Said the boy in blue;
“I’ve made up my mind
That I will shoot you.”

“I can’t shoot frogs,
They won’t stand still,
Ker-splash! they go under
The wheel of the mill.”

“I shan’t stand still,
No more than the frog,
So you can’t shoot me,”
Said the little brown dog.

He ran in a hole
Right under the house
And lay there as still—
As still as a mouse.

“Well, I don’t care,”
Said the boy in blue,
“I’ll shoot a robin, and
Bring him down, too.”

“Do,” cried the cat;
“That will be nice,
And I will crunch
All his bones in a trice.”

The blue boy took aim,
But aimed not aright,
Or like cock-sparrow
He shot in a fright.

The robin he missed
But killed the old cat;
His grandmother gave him
A thrashing for that.

* * * * *

A certain room has eight corners; in every corner sits a cat, on every cat’s tail sits a cat, and before each cat is a cat. How many cats in the room? _Ans._—Eight cats.

WHY THE CAT ALWAYS FALLS UPON HER FEET.

_A Legend._

LOUISE JAMISON.

One day a magician was traveling through a great forest. He was a very good magician, and always ready to help any creature in need.

After he had gone a long way through the forest, he was very tired; and, as the sun was growing hot, he lay down at the foot of a big tree, and was soon asleep. While he slept, a great serpent came softly out of the thicket, and, as soon as it saw the man, it began to hiss to itself:

“Ah, ha! ah, ha, I’ve got him now! He’ll not spoil my supper again in a hurry. I could have eaten that cat last night if he had not driven me away. I’ll kill him for it now.”

So it crept nearer and nearer, and the magician slept on, without any thought of danger.

But it happened that the cat was watching. She was up in the tree, and she had not forgotten how the magician had saved her from this cruel serpent.

The serpent was very large and she was only a small cat, and she was terribly afraid, but she meant to save her good friend if she could.

So, just as the serpent was about to spring, she leaped down upon his back and stuck her paws deep into his head.

Wild with pain and anger, he tried to reach her with his deadly fangs, but she was always too quick for him, and she used her claws to such good purpose that her enemy soon lay dead.

Then she was so tired after her hard struggle that she had to lie down herself.

The magician found her beside him when he awoke, and when he saw the dead serpent he knew his life had been saved by his brave little friend.

“Dear little cat,” he said, “what can I do to show how much I thank you? Your eyes are quick to see, and your ears quick to hear; and for running your feet have been made swift, but one thing I can give you. All men shall know you as their friend, and your home shall be with them, and for your sake all cats shall leap where they will, and fall ever upon their feet.”

DAISY’S THANKSGIVING.

Now kitten-cat, Daisy, just hear me,
And ’tend to each word that I say,
And don’t frisk around so ’bout nothing,
To-morrow ’ll be Thanksgiving Day.
And if you don’t chew up your ribbon,
Nor dabble it round in the snow,
But behave all the time, just as pretty,
You’ll have something splendid, you know.

There’s another thing, Daisy, I’ll tell you,
Aunt Mary is coming to-day,
To show us a sweet, darling baby,
That’s named just like me—Allie May.
And if it should happen to squeeze you,
Or pull your long tail the least mite,
You are not to scratch her nor bite her,
For that wouldn’t be just polite.

We must do all we can that’ll please her,
She being our company so;
Besides, such a new little baby
Ain’t had time to learn better, you know.
So, if she does tease you, dear Daisy,
Though, of course, I don’t say it is right,
Please just get away from her easy,
Not scratching the least little mite.

I s’pose you don’t know ’bout Thanksgiving,
’Cause you haven’t had one before;
I’ll tell you: there’ll be a big turkey,
And pie made of chickens—and more.
And puddings all full of sweet raisins,
And jelly and jam—such a treat!
And if you’re a good kitten, Daisy,
You’ll get a whole plateful to eat.

THE NEWSBOY’S CAT; OR THE FAM’LY MAN.

E.T. CORBETT.

Want any paper, Mister?
Wish you’d buy ’em of me—
Ten years old, an’ a fam’ly,
An’ bizness dull, you see,
Fact, Boss! There’s Tom, an’ Tabby,
An’ Dad, an’ Mam, an’ Mam’s cat,
None on ’em earnin’ money—
What do you think of that?

Couldn’t Dad work? Why, yes, Boss,
He’s working for Gov’ment now—
They give him his board for nothin’—
All along of a drunken row.
An’ Mam? Well, she’s in the poorhouse—
Been there a year or so;
So I’m takin’ care of the others,
Doin’ as well as I know.

Oughn’t to live so? Why, Mister,
What’s a feller to do?
Some nights when I’m tired and hungry,
Seems as if each on ’em knew—
They’ll all three cuddle around me,
Till I get cheery, and say;
Well, p’rhaps I’ll have sisters an’ brothers,
An’ money an’ clothes, too, some day.

But if I do get rich, Boss,
(An’ a lecturin’ chap one night
Said newsboys could be Presidents
If only they acted right);
So, if I was President, Mister,
The very first thing I’d do,
I’d buy poor Tom an’ Tabby
A dinner—an’ Mam’s cat, too!

None o’ your scraps an’ leavin’s,
But a good square meal for all three;
If you think I’d skimp my friends, Boss,
That shows you don’t know me.
So, ’ere’s your papers—come, take one,
Gimme a lift, if you can—
For now you’ve heard my story,
You see, I’m a fam’ly man!

_MY PUSSY._

[Music: Tune “Buy a broom.”

1. 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.

2. She shall sit by my side, and I’ll give her some food,
And she’ll love me, because I am gentle and good.
I’ll pat little pussy, and then she will purr,
And thus show her thanks for my kindness to her.

3. I’ll not pinch her ears, nor tread on her paw,
Lest I should provoke her to use her sharp claw.
I never will vex her, nor make her displeased,
For pussy don’t like to be worried and teased.]

BOYS’ COMPOSITIONS ON CATS.

COMPOSITION I.

Cats is an insect what has no wings and has a long tail. It looks like fishworms, only fishworms hasn’t got no hair on it like cats has. Cats is black, and sets on back fentses and buzzes its wings, which it hasn’t got any. Cats is like locusts ’bout this, ’sept locust es got wings, an’ cats waves its talze ’bove its head, and don’t set on trees. Cats was a Namerican invention made by a Mr. Pharaoh, of Egypt, Illinois, ’bout one thousand years ago or so; I expect it was so or maybe more so. Anyway this man didn’t get no patent on cats, and they was copied by some fulish man who carried ’em to New Yorick where they have ruled things at night with a tight pair o’ strings, fur some daze. Cats has a hump back with long bristles onto it. It has a pair o’ lungs, which extends clean back to its tail, which is long. It uses all o’ these yere lungs in singin’ low, sweet melodies to the pail, watery mune, ’bout 1 o’clock in the morning. Cats sometimes sits on the comb of a slippery roof, an’ sizen sobs an’ squalls an’ strokes each other’s whiskers. Cats uses two legs to set on, one to stand on an’ t’other to fan his partner with. I know two cats what did this on our woodshed. I guess they did it because they thought they would shed. I know they got up there to shed, for me an’ Jack found half a hatful of catfur, an’ a pocketful o’ claws there the next mornin’. Wonder why they don’t shed in the daytime? Must be mune had something to do with it. Cats, unlike the insecks, don’t have no stingers. The bumblebee has. I onc’t caught a bumblebee an’ gave it to a cat. Cats don’t like bees, espeshly them what hez splinters in ther talez, wich this had. The thing stung all the way down and half way back again; the cat run about seventeen miles an’ then dropped down by the shady side of a stay-hack an’ quickly, without warnin’, he hastily died a sudden death all at once, for want of breath.

Onc’t when Jack an’ me was playin’ fishin’ in our well with a tom-cat tied to a string, Jack got hurt. He had the cat down in the well, waitin’ for a bite, an’ when his back was turned it crawled up the brick an’ clawed the sap outen him. After that Jack didn’t fule with cats.

I once knew a man who was wicked enough to throw a stove-lid through a big tom-cat at night, an’ the very next day he heard that his grandmother had broke her leg in New Orleans and several other places, which prove how wicked and sinful it is to disturb the critters; an’ that’s all I know about cats.

COMPOSITION II.

The cat which we had afor we got Mose was yeller, and didn’t have no ears, and not eny tail, too, cos they were cut off to make it go way from where it lived, for it was so ugly so it come to our house. One day my mother she sed wudent my father drown it, cos she knew where she cud get a nicer looking one. So my father he put it in a bag, and a brick in the bag, too, and threw it in the pond and went to his office, my father did. But the cat busted the bag string, and wen my father cum home it was lying under the sofa, but cum out to look at him. So they looked at one another for a long wile, and bime by my father sed to my mother: “Well, you are a mity poor hand to go shoppin’ for cats. Thisn is a site uglier than the other.”

COMPOSITION III.

Cats don’t like to swim, and never do except it’s an old cat that you want to get rid of and you do her up in a bag with some bricks and throw her into a mill-pond off the bridge, and then she’ll burst the bag and swim ashore and kite for home, so’s to be there to welcome you there, so’s you won’t feel lonesome.

Our cat lives in the house what times she don’t live over to Jones’s barn. She is real handy to throw stones at and to pull her tail and make her squawk. I make her squawk ten or six times a day, and the backs of my hands is drawed out in lines like a map, where her toe nails has got hitched.

Cats can climb telegraph poles and set on the ridgepoles of four-story houses without being dizzy headed, and they can sleep with one eye open and lay awake with both eyes shut.

I’d rather have a dog than a cat, any day. Dogs can race cats, they can race other dogs, they can race boys, or anything. Nobody ain’t scared of a cat. A mouse is; but not if it ain’t somewheres that it can’t get out of, or a rat, either. A dog can make a cat dead if he bites her enough. When he comes in the yard he can make her tail look like a Christmas tree. He can make her fix her back up like a camel. I ain’t afraid of thieves, but thieves are afraid of dogs. If a thief comes where a dog can get at him he’ll run like the deust; but the dog won’t run. A dog can watch a house better than a policeman. He won’t let the man that owns it come in the back yard in the middle of the night; but a cat would. If a man or any other thief was to sneak in, would a cat care? She’d go over the fence like lightning. That’s what! A dog knows when your home from school. He ain’t sleepy then. He has fun with old hats, if you give him one. You’ve got to pay for keeping him; but you don’t a cat; because a dog’s some good and a cat ain’t. I’d rather have a dog.

COMPOSITION IV.

If I had invented a cat, I should have made her without nails. Cats is full of music. They have concerts every night in our wood-shed, and no tickets to pay for. The rich and the poor alike are welcome to hear ’em.

Cats live on mice, and what cream and beefsteak they can steal out of the pantry. Sometimes they catch chickens, and that makes the old hen mad, and the old woman that owns the chickens madder. And she goes for the cat with a broom, and the cat climbs a tree and sits there and lafs at her, and goes to sleep and dreams she is in a kitchen again till it comes night, and then she climbs down back end fust and goes off to a concert to see the other cats. Thomas cats has the best voices and can sing bass and tenor both at once. It is nice to hear ’em, but when you sleep alone and wake suddenly by hearing of ’em, there is something or ruther that makes a feller’s flesh creep and the cold shivers run down his backbone.

Cats like to get on the spare bed among the shams and things, and paw ’em all down into a nest, and they like to go to sleep in your best coat. I expect they enjoy the fun of hearing you swear the next day when you brush it. I should if I was a cat.

Kittens is cats when they are first born, and there is an awful sight of ’em. They keep coming right along without regard to wind or weather.

They are dreadful cute, and can unwind more thread and tear up more fancy gimcracks that the girls make than any other known animal.

It ain’t lucky to kill a cat. I don’t know why. It is good luck to have one come to you if you keep her. You get rich right away, or poor, I forget which. Every cat has nine lives, and they don’t never die if let alone unless they have fits, which most of ’em has. A cat in a fit will beat a whole circus all to nothing, and the first thing you know she’ll come right out of it and go to eating milk just as if nothing had happened.

DOG AND CAT.

There were once a dog and a cat,
Who out on the door-step sat.
The dog said “Bow,” and the cat “Mieuw!”
Then they both ran after a rat, rat, rat;
Then they both ran after a rat.

The cat caught the rat in a trice;
Said she: “Don’t you think it is nice?”
The dog said “Bow,” and the cat “Mieuw!”
Then they wiped their whiskers twice, twice, twice;
Then they wiped their whiskers twice.

PUSSY WILLOWS.

O Mabel! O Fannie! Come out for fun!
Old winter is going! Now, now, there’ll be fun!
The boys, with their marbles, are down on their knees,
And wee willow pussies are climbing the trees.

The dandelion blossoms will show us their gold,
The pansies their droll little faces unfold,
The blue-birds will come and the robins and bees,
For wee willow pussies are climbing the trees.

The ants will creep up from their holes in the ground,
The blundering beetles will come bumping ’round,
The frogs will be singing in all sorts of keys,
For wee willow pussies are climbing the trees.

I love them! I love them—those sweet little cats!
They’re not much for frolic nor catching of rats;
But don’t the spring goodies come back by degrees
When they are seen climbing the old willow tree?

Oh, ar’n’t they just lovely—all clinging so tight—
Their whiskers and scratchers tucked clear out of sight
A-swinging and swaying in every light breeze?
They turn to pure silver, the ugly old trees!

HAD TO EAT IT.

Little Flossie had been presented with a small candy cat by her aunt, and it furnished amusement for nearly a week. One day it was missing, however, and her mother asked her if she had lost it.

“No, mamma, me didn’t losed it,” replied Flossie. “Me des’ played wif it till it dot so dirty, me des’ had to eat it.”

KITTY’S LESSON.