Chapter C: Grace Jerolamen (1)

_Written expressly for this book._

Let’s play school, kitty, you and I,
Right here in papa’s study;
You can sit there in papa’s chair,
If your feet aren’t muddy.

First, you must say your morning prayers,
Now bow your head, like I do.
And now we’ll sing the little song,
“Good morning, sunshine to you.”

Of course, you must learn how to write,
Then you can write to Rover,
A is like this, and B like that,
Oh, dear! the ink’s tipped over!

We’ll have the reading-lesson next,
Out of this book so pretty.
I’ll read you ’bout a little mouse—
You’ve torn the book,—bad kitty!

You want to play just all the time,
You lazy little sinner!
There goes the bell now, run away,
I guess it’s time for dinner!

* * * * *

_Ques._—What is the difference between a cat and a camel?

_Ans._—When a cat gets mad she gets her back up, but the camel simply humps himself.

_Ques._—Why is a cat going up three pairs of stairs like a high hill?

_Ans._—Because she’s a-mountin’.

THE SCARUM CAT.

MARY ELIZABETH STONE.

Precious dolly Dorothy,
I’ve been having trouble,
And the weight of anxiousness
Nearly bent me double;
For I saw the Scarum cat,
In the slumber pillows,
Creeping, creeping toward me
Through the bending willows.

Oh, my dolly Dorothy,
I was frightened, frightened!
For the clouds were very dark,
And it lightened, lightened!
And the creeping Scarum cat,
Coming through the willows,
Made my heart go pit-a-pat,
In the slumber pillows.

And I wanted to cry out,
But, oh dear, I couldn’t!
And I hoped the cat would turn,
But, oh dear, it wouldn’t!
And I tried to run away,
But could not leave the willows,
And the creeping Scarum cat,
In the slumber pillows.

Then, my dolly Dorothy,
I was nearly frantic,
When a foamy wave came up
From the big Atlantic—
Caught me from the Scarum cat,
Among the bending willows,
And dropped me in my little bed,
And woke me—on the pillows.

Mamma said, though dreams are dread
They vanish like a bubble;
“But,” said she, “a simple tea
Would save you such a trouble.
If you eat just bread and milk,
You will not see the willows,
And the creeping Scarum cat,
In the slumber pillows.”

THE TROLL CAT.

[The cat appears in many of the weird tales and popular
songs of the Northern nations. A characteristic legend is
the following.]

_Hor du Plat
Sag til den Kat
At Knurremurre er dod._

Knurremurre rules with a will
All the trolls in Brondhoi Hill;
Throughout all Zealand has it rung—
The fame of Knurremurre’s tongue.
One young troll got tired of the worry.
“I’ll away,” said he,
“To company
More pleasant than Knurremurre.”

* * * * *

“Wife, what’s scratching at the door
On this cold winter night?”
The gales through the snow-heaped forests roar,
And the hut-fire is burning bright.
“Open the door, good wife,” says Plat.
In walks a stately, whiskered cat.

He sits by the fire and dries his fur,
And purrs his thanks with a loud, long purr,
And eats his grout, and washes his face,
And makes himself at home in the place.

Weeks pass on, a good cat he;
He is quite one of the family;
For the kindly wife of Plat,
In her wooden hut by the northern sea,
Has a poet’s love for a cat.

* * * * *

’Tis night; the cat by the hearth-fire lies,
Purring and dozing, with blinking eyes;
When Plat comes in and says,—

“Good wife!
What strange things happen in one’s life!
I saw a sight
As I came to-night
By Brondhoi Hill,
Where all was still,
Save the trolls who hammered below with a will.
Out jumps in my way
A man old and gray,
And squeaking he said,—
‘Hearken, Plat!
Tell your cat
That Knurremurre is dead.’”

* * * * *

Up jumped the cat from the hearth-fire side—
“Ho! Knurremurre dead!” he cried.
“Now I may go home, I ween.”
And out he scampered with a will,
Out through the night to Brondhoi Hill,
And nevermore was seen.

CATS.

_Essay or Address._

STANLEY SCHELL.

In all the varied world of animals, three only are universally the inmates of our homes, the companions of our firesides—the cat, the bird, and the dog. The cat, especially, is the friend of our early childhood; the purr of the cat blends with the voices of the children and the ticking of the clock; it is the music of repose, the veritable “Home, Sweet Home” that haunts the wanderer on far-off shores.

A tenderness toward the animal creation is always characteristic of noble, generous and intellectual souls; and it is well known that our most intellectual people are most tender-hearted toward beings helpless and inferior to themselves, and they love with a child-like love the cat, whose image is associated with the sweetness and tenderness of the child’s world of happiness—the home.

The most noted persons in every profession have been domestic cat lovers, particularly authors and poets. Such men as Pope Gregory, Mahomet, Petrarch, Tasso, Cardinal Woolsey, Admiral Doria, Gladstone, Montaigne, Swinburne, Watson, Matthew Arnold, Dickens, Southey, Cooper, Hugo, Mérimée, Sainte Beuve, Baudelaire, Gauthier, Pierre Loti, Hoffmann, Scheffel, Lord Chesterfield, Jeremy Bentham, Doctor Johnson, Fielding, Lincoln, etc., were all cat lovers and worshippers, and many of them immortalized the cat in rhyme or in prose.

The Cat Family is a large one, and to it belong:

Tiger,
Lion,
Leopard,
Ounce,
Puma,
Jaguar,
Clouded Tiger,
Thibet Tiger Cat,
Fontaneir’s Cat,
Golden Cat,
Fishing Cat,
Bengalese Cat,
Wagate,
Marbled Tiger Cat,
Serval,
Golden-haired Cat,
Gray African Cat,
Servaline Cat,
Ocelot,
Margay,
Geoffroy’s Cat,
Ocelot-like Cat,
Yaguarundi (Brazil),
Eyra,
Colocolo,
Rusty Spotted Cat,
Chinese Cat,
Small Cat,
Jerdon’s Cat,
Java Cat,
Small-eared Cat,
Large-eared Cat,
Flat-headed Cat,
Bornean Bay Cat,
Egyptian Cat,
Wild Cat,
Indian Wild Cat,
Common Jungle Cat,
Ornate Jungle Cat,
Steppe Cat,
Shaw’s Cat,
Manul,
Straw or Pampas Cat,
Northern Lynx,
Pardine Lynx,
Carcal,
Cheetah,
Domestic Cat.

PUSS IN BOOTS.]

Considering the Cat Family as a whole, there is probably no other animal so well equipped for the battle of life.

Cats are carnivorous, preferring to discover and kill their own prey. Cats are ferocious and sanguinary, loving retirement; moving with concealment and stealth; always fighting desperately when injured, or when escape is no longer possible. All cats climb with ease, except the tiger and the lion. So persistent are the characters both of body and mind in the Cat Family, that, in spite of thirty-five centuries or more of domestication, the household cat to-day preserves far more of its ancestral traits than any other of the four-footed associates of man.

Cats are found all over the world except in the Australian region, in Madagascar, and the West Indies. They are mainly tropical and heat-loving, although a few species range far to the north, as the tiger in Asia and the puma in America. The short-tailed lynxes also predominate in the northern regions.

The first real evidence of cats in connection with man is to be found in the ancient monuments of Egypt, Babylon, and Nineveh. Cats are mentioned in inscriptions as early as 1684 B.C., and they were certainly domesticated in Egypt 1300 years before Christ.

The earliest known representation of the cat as a domestic animal and pet is at Leyden, in a tablet of the 18th or 19th Dynasty.

In ancient Egypt, the cat was an object of religious worship and a venerated inmate of certain temples. The Goddess of Pasht or Bubastis, the goddess of cats, was, under the Roman Empire, represented with a cat’s head. A temple at Beni-Hassan, dedicated to her, belongs to the 18th Dynasty (1500 B.C.). Behind this temple are pits containing a multitude of cat mummies.

The cat was also worshipped in the Temple of the Sun at Heliopolis, as the Egyptians deemed the cat an emblem of the sun, because its eyes were supposed to vary in appearance with the course of the sun, and for a similar reason the cat was deemed sacred to the moon, because it would undergo a change each lunar month, and because of the waxing and waning of its pupils.

Among the Greeks the cats became common pets at the period when Athens represented the civilization of the world; and, later, in the Græco-Italian civilization of Herculaneum and Pompeii in the south of Italy, and in the period of Roman supremacy, it was a well-known pet of courts and ladies’ boudoirs.

During the Middle Ages, cats were very scarce and valuable, and persons owning cats were heavily taxed.

The cat has also had its detractors, and shortly after the Middle Ages cats were looked upon as symbols of witchcraft and deviltry of all kinds, and were even burned at the stake as sorcerers and savants.

In Paris, every St. John’s Day, a number of cats were heaped up in baskets and bags in the Place de Greve, and the sovereign himself always set fire to the pile. This practice continued down to Louis XIV., who was the last King of France to do so cruel an act.

Gipsies have always feared the black cat and have greatly loved the white cat.

Shakespeare rarely alludes to cats, except in an uncomplimentary way.

The domestication of cats was gradual and continuous.

The origin of our domestic cat is undoubtedly the wild cat of Egypt and the American wild cat. And such origin is of very ancient date.

To-day the classification of our domestic cat is into two great classes: (1) The Long-haired or Angora Cat (Asiatic or Eastern in origin), consisting of the Persian, Russian, Chinese, and Indian Cats; (2) the Short-haired Cat (European and Western), consisting of the Tortoise Shell, Tortoise Shell and White, Tabbies—banded and spotted, brown, spotted, blue and silver, red, white, blue (Maltese in America), black and white, Royal cat of Siam, Manx.

DING, DONG, BELL.

Ding, dong, bell,
Pussy’s in the well!
Who put her in?
Little Tommy Lin.
Who pulled her out?
Little Johnny Stout.
What a naughty boy was that
To drown the poor pussy-cat,
Who never did him any harm,
But killed the mice in his father’s barn.

* * * * *

There was an old cat, and a black cat, too,
She had so many children she didn’t know what to do;
To save them from fighting and scratching and bawling,
She pinned them all up by their ears when out calling.

THE CAT OF HINDUSTAN.

Where mighty Ganges rolls in foam
Down-sweeping to the Indian Sea,
Grimalkin Long-Ears made her home;
Lover of birds (to eat) was she,
Wise and astute as cat can be.

There was a hill named Vulture-Fort,
Great vulture nests filled all the space;
There did the little birdlings sport,
And chirp and hop with birdling grace;
To puss a most attractive place.

She crept along paw after paw,
Like velvet dropping soft and light;
She munched the small birds with no awe
Of Justice;—sudden—what a sight!
Her fur stood upright with affright.

The mightiest vulture of them all—
Jaradgabah—his shadow cast
Upon her! see him, black and tall!
Well might Grimalkin’s heart beat fast.
She thought, “My hour is come at last!

“Swiftness and strength avail not me,
I cannot fly, nor fight this bird;
I’ll try my wits with flattery.”
She smoothed her fur and gently purred—
The vulture understood each word.

“Hearken to me, the wisest cat
That in all Hindustan you’ll meet;
Temperate and good; no lean nor fat,
Nor fish, nor flesh, I ever eat;
Grass only is my diet sweet.

“All men the stranger’s rights revere,
And hospitality afford;
Even foes may come, and with no fear
Sit unmolested at our board;
To all, food, shelter, we accord.

“Straw, water, earth, and pleasant words
The good man’s house will aye contain;
Shall I seek from you, king of birds,
Kind hospitality in vain?
Then would all Hindustan complain.”

The end was this: her whisking tail
And specious purr were not withstood;
The vulture’s wrath began to fail;
Surely this pleasing creature should
Be wise, be pious, be most good.

He asked her in;—O with good cause
The happiest cat by Ganges’ foam!
She winked her eyes and licked her paws;
Soon he went forth awhile to roam;
She ate the small birds and went home.

The mothers came at eve; no sound
Of joyous chirping filled the air,
But claws and feathers strewed the ground,
And in the midst, in blank despair,
Jaradgabah sat brooding there.

“Jaradgabah!” shrieked every one—
“’Tis he who has in frenzy slain
Our darling broods! Be justice done!”
The poor bird had no time to explain;
They seized him, rent his neck in twain.

When you your bosom’s love would mate
With strangers, be not prudence mute;
Think of Jaradgabah’s hard fate;
His trusting nature bore sad fruit.
Grimalkin Long-Ears was astute.

THE DEAD CANARY.

CHARACTERS: ELSIE, GEORGE, and JAMES.
STAGE SETTING: Home interior.
SCENE: GEORGE and JAMES are sitting at table reading books.

[_Enter_ ELSIE.]

ELSIE. O dear! O dear! It’s gone—killed—eaten up! O dear! O dear! [_Wringing hands._]

GEORGE [_looking up from book_]. What is the matter, Elsie? What is gone?

ELSIE [_sorrowfully_]. My dear, dear bird—my canary that you gave me.

GEORGE [_sympathetically_]. You don’t say so! How sorry I am!

JAMES [_looking on and deeply interested_]. What killed it, Elsie?

ELSIE. The cat.

GEORGE [_angrily_]. How cruel! how wicked! I’ll shoot her!

JAMES [_surprised_]. For what?

GEORGE. Why, for killing the bird.

JAMES. For killing one bird? What should be done with you, who have killed so many birds—all as beautiful as the canary?

GEORGE [_indignantly_]. Why, I am not a cat!

JAMES [_earnestly, yet with determined voice_]. No; but you are far more responsible than a cat, who is governed only by instinct, and kills a bird for food, not for sport, as you do.

GEORGE [_sarcastically_]. Well, this is being decidedly personal.

JAMES. It is simply calling things by their right names. Elsie, what do you think George has spent his whole day for? Just to catch and shoot a poor little wren. Late this afternoon he succeeded in fetching her down, and that leaves four poor little baby wrens in the nest to starve and die.

ELSIE [_shaking finger sorrowfully at George_]. Bad, wicked George! I’ll not speak to you again for a week. You and that kitty-cat are two murderers of birds, and should be shut up in the cellar together.

[_Exit_ ELSIE.]

GEORGE [_shrugging shoulders, gets up, shoves hands into pockets, and moves about room restlessly_]. What a great fuss about a bird!

JAMES [_indignant_]. Fuss? Why should you not apply the same rule to yourself that you would apply to a cat? The equity of the case is against you, George. You claim the right to kill, yet deny that right even to a cat! The law of usage is your only excuse, and it is a very poor defence at best; it is one law for the powerful and another for the weak. You should be too just to use it. [_Rises and stands leaning on table._]

GEORGE [_leaning against a chair_]. Your logic is very good, James; but I would like to shoot that cat, for—for——

JAMES. For doing just what you have done so many times. [_Crosses to brother._]

GEORGE [_stammering and looking ashamed_]. Well, I’ll—I’ll——

JAMES [_looking at him with pleading eyes_]. What?

GEORGE [_looking into_ JAMES’S _face with a more open face_]. I think I shall have to own that I have been in the wrong, and I promise never to shoot again in mere sport. [_They shake hands earnestly and gladly._]

JAMES. That’s a noble resolve, George. As to Elsie, I’m sure she’ll forgive you when she learns of your resolve; but mind—no mental reservations about that cat, or——

GEORGE [_smiling_]. Or what?

JAMES [_patting_ GEORGE _on shoulder as both move to leave room_]. Why, a cat-astrophe will be sure to follow.

GRAY’S ELEGY ON HORACE WALPOLE’S CAT.

_Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes._

’Twas on a lofty base’s side,
Where China’s gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selina reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared;
The fair, round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,
Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
She saw, and purred applause.

Still had she gazed; but ’midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The genii of the stream:
Their scaly armor’s Tyrian hue
Through richest purple to the view
Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless nymph with wonder saw:
A whisker first, and then a claw;
With many an ardent wish,
She stretched in vain to reach the prize.
What female heart can gold despise?
What cat is averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
Again she stretched, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between.
(Malignant Fate sat by and smiled)
The slippery verge her feet beguiled,
She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood,
She mewed to every watery god
Some speedy aid to send.
No dolphin came, no Nereid stirred;
Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard:
A favorite has no friend.

From hence, ye beauties undeceived;
Know, one false step is ne’er retrieved,
And be with caution bold.
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedless hearts is lawful prize,
Nor all that glistens gold.

NAUGHTY PUSSY.

Oh, Miss Pussy—Pussy-Cat,
Naughty pussy, what is that?
A little chicken—pretty thing!
There it hangs with broken wing!

Blackie says it’s very sad;
Fluffy thinks it’s just as bad;
Brownie lifts his paws up so,
Says: “Oh, pussy—bow, bow, wow.”

WISDOM.

Our kitty found a wasp to-day,
And with it thought that she would play;
Alas, she found that pretty things
Too often carry nasty stings!
“Oh, dear!” cried kitty, with a wail,
“I’ll play in future with my tail!”

REVENGE FOR POISONING A CAT.

A French lady by the name of Mme. de Bientruffé, whose departed husband had left her enough money to live comfortably the rest of her life, lived in quiet and happiness until her jealous neighbors began to envy her good luck, and wrongly to gossip about her. Among her most implacable enemies was a certain Mme. Galuchard, who burned with an almost Carthaginian hatred, which included not only Mme. de Bientruffé, but also her gray Angora cat, called Minouchon. Mme. Galuchard vowed incessantly with set teeth that some day or other she would cook their soup for them. The piano on which her old neighbor sometimes played threw her into fits of mad rage, which were accentuated only by the mewing of the cat. She had already several times demanded the execution of the animal, and every time the poor old lady had formally refused to comply with the demand, denying the charge that her pet attracted all the tomcats of the neighborhood. Not being able to encompass by open means the revenge which she desired, Mme. Galuchard resolved to accomplish it by force, and by means of the darkest machinations.

One day—entirely by chance, of course—a piece of bread crust, soaked in milk saturated with arsenic, was thrown in the way of the innocent Minouchon, who was wandering over the stairs, and, incapable of suspecting the perfidiousness of the human race, she thought she had found a tidbit, and hastened to sample it.

Alas! An hour later she died in fearful agony, and her little white Angora soul soared straight to the regions where there is no pain, and the remembrance of the misery of this world is effaced and vanishes in the vibrating splendor of the sky.

Her mistress mourned her as if she had been a human being. She had a handsome wooden box made, and painted white, in which she placed her idolized companion, with a new ribbon round her neck, and had her secretly buried in a corner of the nearest park.

When these sad duties were accomplished she had only one thought—how to punish the monster who had killed her pet.

Her suspicions soon fell on the repulsive Mme. Galuchard, who appeared to be puffed up with satisfaction over some insolent and cruel victory. Unfortunately, the latter had no pet animal through her love of which she might be hit; besides, Mme. de Bientruffé was too good-hearted to avenge the death of one innocent being by killing or injuring another.

If she thought over her plan for a long time, and at last fancied that she had found a punishment equal to the crime, she gave no sign that such was the case. The only thing to be noticed was that she bought one day a dozen traps—rat traps and mouse traps—which she caused to be set in her apartments. But then, since the assassination of the poor Angora cat had left the rodent tribe the freedom of the house, it was, of course, necessary for her to combat the animals, and the neighbors did not trouble themselves about it, Mme. Galuchard least of all.

A week later, however, when the latter was at home, and busy thinking what new injury she could do Mme. de Bientruffé, a uniformed messenger brought her a large box, and withdrew, saying that it was paid for. Thinking that she would find some beautiful gift—a shawl, a boa, perhaps a gown—Mme. Galuchard hastened to open the box.

Horrors! Hardly had she lifted the cover before a swarm of little gray animals, leaping, jumping, bounding, and giving piercing squeals, dashed across the room and crowded together in the corners, leaving the paralyzed woman half dead with fright. At the bottom of the box was a note signed by Mme. de Bientruffé:

“Madame: You killed my cat by giving him arsenic. As this kindness deserves another, I make you a present of my mice.”

* * * * *

_Ques._—What proves a minister to be the most affectionate of men?

_Ans._—In every church you will find a catechist (cat he kissed).

THE RETIRED CAT.

WILLIAM COWPER.

A poet’s cat, sedate and grave
As poet well could wish to have,
Was much addicted to inquire
For nooks to which she might retire,
And where, secure as mouse in chink,
She might repose, or sit and think.
I know not where she caught the trick—
Nature, perhaps, herself had cast her
In such a mould philosophique,
Or else she learned it of her master.
Sometimes ascending debonair
An apple-tree or lofty pear,
Lodged with convenience in the fork,
She watched the gardener at his work;
Sometimes her ease and solace sought
In an old empty watering-pot;
There wanting nothing but a fan
To seem some nymph in her sedan,
Apparelled in exactest sort,
And ready to be borne to court.

But love of change, it seems, has place
Not only in our wiser race;
Cats also feel as well as we
That passion’s force, and so did she.
Her climbing, she began to find,
Exposed her too much to the wind,
And the old utensil of tin
Was cold and comfortless within;
She therefore wished, instead of those,
Some place of more serene repose,
Where neither cold might come, nor air
Too rudely wanton with her hair,
And sought it in the likeliest mode
Within her master’s snug abode.

A drawer it chanced, at bottom lined
With linen of the softest kind;
With such as merchants introduce
From India, for the ladies’ use.
A drawer impending o’er the rest,
Half open in the topmost chest,
Of depth enough, and none to spare,
Invited her to slumber there.
Puss, with delight beyond expression,
Surveyed the scene, and took possession.
Recumbent at her ease, ere long,
And lulled by her own humdrum song,
She left the cares of life behind,
And slept as she would sleep her last;
When in came, housewifely inclined,
The chambermaid, and shut it fast;
By no malignity impelled,
But all unconscious whom it held.

Awakened by the shock (cried Puss)
“Was ever cat attended thus?
The open drawer was left, I see,
Merely to prove a nest for me;
For soon as I was well composed,
Then came the maid, and it was closed.
How smooth these kerchiefs, and how sweet!
Oh, what a delicate retreat!
I will resign myself to rest,
Till Sol, declining in the west,
Shall call to supper, when, no doubt,
Susan will come and let me out.”

The evening came, the sun descended,
And Puss remained still unattended.
The night rolled tardily away—
(With her, indeed, ’twas never day);
The sprightly morn her course renewed,
The evening gray again ensued,
And Puss came into mind no more
Than if entombed the day before.
With hunger pinched, and pinched for room,
She now presaged approaching doom,
Nor slept a single wink, nor purred,
Conscious of jeopardy incurred.

That night, by chance, the poet watching,
Heard an inexplicable scratching;
His noble heart went pit-a-pat,
And to himself he said “What’s that?”
He drew the curtain at his side,
And forth he peeped, but nothing spied;
Yet, by his ear directed, guessed
Something imprisoned in the chest;
And doubtful what, with prudent care
Resolved it should continue there.
At length a voice, which well he knew,
A long and melancholy mew,
Saluting his poetic ears,
Consoled him and dispelled his fears.
He left his bed, he trod the floor,
He ’gan in haste the drawers explore;
The lowest first, and without stop
The rest in order to the top.
For ’tis a truth well known to most,
That whatsoever thing is lost,
We seek it, ere it come to light,
In every cranny but the right.

Forth skipped the cat, not now replete
As erst with any self-conceit,
And in her own fond apprehension
A theme for all the world’s attention;
But modest, sober, cured of all
Her notions hyperbolical;
And wishing, for a place to rest,
Anything rather than a chest.
Then stept the poet into bed
With this reflection in his head:

Beware of too sublime a sense
Of your own worth and consequence.
The man who dreams himself so great,
And his importance of such weight,
That all around in all that’s done
Must move and act for him alone,
Will learn in school of tribulation
The folly of his expectation.

A STRANGE MOUSE.

As in the nursery Mrs. Puss was looking out for mice,
She threw a glance upon the shelf and there saw something nice.

A little mouse among the toys was standing very still.
“I’ll catch that mouse,” said Mrs. Puss, “most certainly I will.”

Then crouching down before the shelf, her instinct to obey,
She made a sudden upward spring and pounced upon her prey.

But what was this? In sudden fear her claws let go their hold
At coming into contact with a substance hard and cold.

Then frightened Mrs. Puss turned tail and fled from out the house,
While still her prey remained unmoved—he was a clockwork mouse!

HOW TO FEED AND CARE FOR CATS.

STANLEY SCHELL.

The cat is instinctively a cleanly animal, and, when housed, should be provided with every means to keep herself clean. Articles necessary for a cat are:

1. A flat, galvanized pan or box, with clean sand, earth or
sawdust.

2. Clean box or basket, filled with clean straw, excelsior,
or tissue paper, in summer; cut-up (waste) paper from
printer or binder, or a large, soft flannel blanket in
winter. This basket should be kept in the sunlight.

3. Absolutely clean dishes for food.

Brush the cat daily with a soft hair-brush or with a bath-mitten.

To wash a cat (which should be done every week) prepare a dish of good, rather thick soft soap, and have ready two foot-tubs of tepid water. If you have a small bath-tub, place a towel in bottom of tub, stand cat on hind legs in tub and let her front legs rest on edge of tub. Hold her by the neck or collar with one hand, and, talking to her nicely, begin rubbing in gently but thoroughly the soft soap, beginning at the hind quarters and tail and gradually working up toward the ears. When soap is well applied, move soap-bowl aside and dip your free hand in one dish of tepid water and gently apply water to lower part of cat’s body, and so on up the body until all the tepid water in this bowl has been used; then use second dish of tepid water to rinse cat, using, as before, a little at a time.

When cat is thoroughly cleaned, wrap her in a clean turkish towel and gently pat her so as to dry her as much as possible. Remove towel and wrap cat in a warm flannel blanket and gently rub towel over her body to dry her still more; then put her into her basket and let her finish the drying for herself.

If you are afraid to wash your cat, you can clean her by rubbing her with olive or cocoanut oil, or with cream; then, after partly drying her, put her into her basket to do the rest.

Some of the articles of food good for a cat are:

Fresh milk,
Sour milk (in case of worms),
Fresh water daily,
Oatmeal porridge,
Bread, crackers, or oatmeal biscuit, soaked in milk,
Asparagus, celery, string beans, etc., occasionally,
Raw mutton, except on day you give her liver (which should
be given at least once in ten days), or on day you give her
fish (which should be once a week).

Add boiled rice to the milk if cat has diarrhœa.

Whenever a cat is sick, if possible learn and remove cause; if not possible, give her one of the following:

Castor oil,
Grass,
Catnip,
Flowers of sulphur, or baking soda in milk.

A COMPOSITE CAT.

MARIA J. HAMMOND.

We took our pussy’s photograph, then one of a neighbor’s cat;
And then a third, and then a fourth—a dozen pussies sat.
And then we took the photograph of every photograph.
Oh, that is often done, you know; indeed, you needn’t laugh!

We showed mamma the last effect. “Here is the type,” we said,
“Of all the dozen pussy-cats—see what a splendid head!”
“Splendid? A terror!” cried mamma—quite frank, to say the least;
“Each puss would be a truer type than this composite beast!”

KITTY.

Here, and there, and everywhere,
Climbing, running, frisking;
On the table, in the chair,
Round the parlor whisking,
Kitty seems forever flitting.
Maids and mistress scold and laugh;
Now she’s in the basket sitting;
Let me take her photograph.

Most important person, Kitty!
Equal to a baby—nearly!
Full of mischief—more’s the pity,
Everybody sees that clearly!
See! She’s on the parlor table,
Breakfasting on milk and cream—
Steals as much as she is able,
Of the rest she makes a stream.

Scrambling up the window curtain,
To the mantel-piece she leaps;
Down go ornaments, that’s certain!
Broken fragments lie in heaps.
Kitty never feels she’s sorry—
Never has the slightest shock;
So she dozes, free from worry,
Sitting calmly on the clock!

Mrs. Pussy, her dear mother,
Watches her in mute delight;
Wondering at so much bother
With her kit from morn till night.
Kitty plumps on mother’s back,
Bites her ears, and pulls her tail,
Gets a scolding and a smack,
But it’s all of no avail.

Here, and there, and everywhere,
Kitty scampers through the house;
Mother shows her how to scare,
How to kill a captured mouse.
Up the trees, and on the wall,
Heedless she of all reproof;
Deaf to the maternal squall,
She is playing on the roof.

Oh, Miss Kitty! of to-morrow
Little know you, little care;
Never dream of coming sorrow,
How you may in future fare.
Happy now, and full of frolic,
Only eat and drink and play,
Never suffer gout or colic,
Or meet misery half way.

CATS RECOGNIZED BY CAT CLUBS OF TO-DAY.

1. SHORT-HAIRED CATS

Siamese
Blue (Maltese)
Manx
Foreign
Tabby
Spotted
Bicolor
Tricolor
Tortoise Shell
Black
White
Sable
Ticks
Abyssinian.

2. LONG-HAIRED CATS

Black
White
Blue
Orange
Cream
Sable
Smoke
Tabby
Spotted
Chinchilla
Tortoise Shell
Bicolor
Tricolor.

JIM WOLFE AND THE CATS.

MARK TWAIN.

We was all boys then, an’ didn’t care for nothin’ only how to shirk school, an’ keep up a revivin’ state of devilment all the time. This yah Jim Wolfe I was talkin’ about was the ’prentice, an’ he was the best-hearted feller, he was, an’ the most forgivin’ an’ onselfish, I ever see. Wall, there couldn’t be a more bullier boy than what Jim was, take him heow you would; and sorry enough was I when I see him for the last time.

Me an’ Henry was allers pesterin’ him, an’ plasterin’ hoss bills on his back, an’ puttin’ bumble-bees in his bed, an’ so on, an’ sometimes we’d jist creowd in an’ bunk with him not’standin’ his growlin’, an’ then we’d let on to git mad, and fight acrost him, so as to keep him stirred up like.

He was nineteen, he was, an’ long, an’ lank, an’ bashful, an’ we was fifteen an’ sixteen, an’ pretty tolerabal lazy an’ wuthless.

So, that night, you know, that my sister Mary giv the candy-pullin’, they started us off to bed airly, so as the comp’ny could have full swing; an’ we swung in on to Jim to have some fun.

Wall, our winder looked out onter the ruff of the ell, an’ about ten o’clock a couple of ole tom-cats got to raisin’ an’ chargin’ reound on it, an’ carryin’ on just like sin.

There was four inches of snow on the ruff, an’ it froze so there was a right smart crust of ice on it, an’ the moon was shinin’ bright, an’ we could see them cats jist like daylight.

First they’d stand off, e-yow-yow-yow, jist the same as if they was a-cussin’ one another, you know, an’ bow up their backs, an’ bush up their tails, an’ swell around, an’ spit, an’ then all of a sudden the gray cat he’d snatch a han’ful of fur off the yaller cat’s back, an’ spin him around jist like a button on a barn door. But the yaller cat was game, an’ he’d come an’ clinch, an’ the way they’d gouge an’ bite an’ howl, an’ the way they’d make the fur fly, was peowerful.

Wall, Jim he jist got disgusted with the row, an’ ’lowed he’d climb out there an’ shake ’em off’n that ruff. He hadn’t reely no notion o’ doin’ it, likely, but we everlastingly dogged him, an’ bully-ragged him, an’ ’lowed he’d allers bragged heow he wouldn’t take a dare, an’ so on, till bimeby he jist histed the winder an’ lo an’ behold you! he went—went exactly as he was—nothin’ on but his——_ulster_. You ought to ’a’ seen him! You ought to seen him creepin’ over that ice, an’ diggin’ his toe-nails an’ finger-nails in, fur to keep him from slippin’; an’ ’bove all, you ought to seen that——_ulster_ a-flappin’ in the wind, and them long, ridicklous shanks of his’n a-glistenin’ in the moonlight.

Them company folks was down there under the eaves, an’ the whole squad of ’em under that ornery shed o’ dead Wash’ton Bower vines—all settin’ reound two dozzen sassers o’ bilin’-hot candy, which they’d sot in the snow to cool. An’ they was laughin’ an’ talkin’ lively; but, bless you! they didn’t know nothin’ ’bout the panorammy that was goin’ on over their heads.

Wall, Jim he just went a-sneakin an’ a-sneakin’ up unbeknown to them tom-cats—they was a-swishin’ their tails, an’ yow-yowin’ an’ threatenin’ to clinch, you know, an’ not payin’ any attention—he went a-sneakin’ an’ a-sneakin’ right up to the comb of the ruff, till he got in a foot an’ a half of ’em, an’ then all of a sudden he made a grab for the yaller cat! But by gosh he missed fire an’ slipped his holt, an’ his heels flew up, an’ he flopped on his back, an’ shot off’n that ruff just like a dart!—went a-smashin’ an’ a-crashin’ down through them old rusty vines, an’ landed right in the dead center of all them comp’ny people!—sot down jist like a yearthquake in them two dozen sassers of red-hot candy, an’ let off a howl that was hark from the tomb! They got—wall, they left, you know. They see he warn’t dressed for comp’ny, an’ so they left—vamoosed.

All done in a sec’nd; it was jist one little war-whoop an’ a whish o’ their dresses, an’ blame not one of ’em was in sight anywhere!

Jim he war in sight. He was gomed with the bilin’ hot molasses candy clean down to his heels, an’ more busted sassers hangin’ to him than if he war a Injun princess—an’ he come a-prancin’ upstairs jist a-whoopin’ an’ a-cussin’, an’ every jump he giv he shed some sassers, an’ every squirm he fetched he dripped some candy! an’ blistered! why, bless your soul, that poor creeter couldn’t reely set down comfortable for as much as four weeks.

KITTEN OF THE REGIMENT.

JAMES BUCKRAM.

This kitten, sir, of the Colonel’s? I’ll tell the story.
We were at Roanoke, a month ago.
Waiting the fleet, and camped the hill-side white.
One night, when sentinels were all at post,
We lay around the fires and talked of home.
The smoke wreathed up into the still blue sky,
The wind was whist, and all the stars shone clear—
Just such a night as sleeps above the hills
Of old New England when the frosts are hoar—
Talking not aloud, but soft, as soldiers talk,
After some months o’ the rolling drum and sight
Of blood. The sentinel’s sudden challenge came:
“Halt! Who goes there?”
We all leaped up and harked.
“Only Doll Brewster, sir; I’ve brought my kitty.”
What! a child’s voice?—a child at bayonet’s point?
Shame! Let her pass.
Into the fire-light then,
Led gently by two brave, kind soldier-boys,
Blushing, with downcast eyes, and pretty lip
Half-curled to cry, hair loose and all like gold,
A kitten on her breast, walked sweet Doll Brewster.

Well, sir, the regiment came on the run;
And such a wall of ’em, all of ’em looking down
At a ten-year girl, hair loose, lip curled to cry,
And a kitten, white as snow, curled under her chin.
“Just like my sister!” cried one; “And mine!” cried another,
Till the fire began to look dim to all of us.
Then, sir, the Colonel came, with his sword a-clanking.
“What’s this?” he cried, but stopped, and his face grew soft.
“Please, sir,” said Doll, “I’ve brought you my little kitty,
It’s all I had, and Papa is sick and poor.
(Mamma, you know, is dead.) We’re Northerners, sir,
And brother died for the flag. I loved him so!
Please take my kitty; I want to give something, sir.”

The Colonel? He stooped and caught her in his arms—
Caught kitten and Doll, and kissed ’em both. He did!
And every man of us would have done the same,
And mighty glad of the chance.
There wasn’t an eye
Could hold its tears, nor cheek that had kept dry,
And if it hadn’t been for the Colonel there,
A hundred of us would have kissed the child.

That’s all the story of the kitten, sir—
The Colonel’s kitten and the regiment’s.
We wouldn’t have a hair of it hurt for gold—
Nor blood, if it came to that!
Have you a sister?
You know how a man can feel for a bit of a child
With golden hair and eyes like the heaven’s blue;
And she’d a brother who died for the old flag, too!

Oh, sir, we dreamed of home the livelong night—
Sisters and sweethearts, mothers, and wives and daughters.
Never was sweeter sleep in a soldier’s camp.
And all because that little bright-haired child,
Doll Brewster, with a kitten on her breast
Came up the hill, marched by the sentinel’s gun,
Stood in the fire-light with her golden hair
All loose, and pretty lip half-curled to cry,
And said: “It is all I had. Please take it, sir—
Please take my little kitty; I want to give something.”

THE WATCH-CAT.

ELLIOT WALKER.

Othello sits at top of cellar stairs and gazes reflectively down into the gloom. He has washed his paws and now is reflecting. Yes, he has caught the mouse and eaten him—a most delicious mouse—a most exciting moment—when, after long, patient wait behind the wood-box, his prey suddenly darted across to the refrigerator. Othello had given one quick spring—and now he lashes his long black tail from side to side at the recollection—it had been a great satisfaction to catch that mouse at last.

But now the mouse is gone, and so is Othello’s occupation. For three successive nights he had crouched in patient watching. Now the mouse is no more, and Othello almost wishes it back in its hole, so that he might again pass long hours in delightful anticipation. And that was the last mouse in the cellar! No use to go down again. Nothing to do, and he may as well go to sleep.

What is that? Noises outside the door—strange whispers! Why! the key turned round in the keyhole by itself! How funny! He will put up his paw and play with it if it does that again. The door is opening and cold air is coming in, and something else coming in, too—two such creatures as you never have seen before—muffled creatures, with queer black things over their faces and queer things in their hands. Yes, they must be men, but very queerly dressed, and they cast searching glances in every direction. What a queer little lamp they have lighted—just a glare of light, then darkness, then light again that moves here and there. Oh, they are going down cellar, to look in the refrigerator, probably, or possibly to shake the furnace. That is all the master goes down cellar for.

The cat crawled from his hiding-place to top of cellar stairs and again gazed into the gloom. What! Are they talking about that beautiful roast, and the pudding and the cold mashed potatoes? They are going too far; they might have the potatoes, but the cold meat—that is too much! He will tell his master, and the master will make them give it back, even as he had made Othello give up the young robin, by choking and blows. Yes, he shall know of this at once. But how to reach him? The pantry doors to kitchen and dining-room are always locked now, ever since the parrot came. Ah, he understands it now! Those creatures in the cellar are friends of the parrot—probably invited by him to come and gobble everything. That is the parrot all over, wanting everything and getting it, and Othello, who formerly had the run of the house, and went regularly to wake the master every morning, is now relegated to the kitchen, with the pantry door locked.

Othello grins at recollection of the reason for locking that door. When the parrot had arrived six months before and cast a shadow over Othello’s position, hatred and jealousy filled his feline bosom. To be sure, the parrot was talented and could say real words like people, and Othello admired that, but his disposition was mean, and after he had startled Othello by screeching “Scat!” and “Get out, Blacky!” something had to be done. And now it pleases him much to remember the scientific play of his claws on the parrot’s head and neck, and the way the feathers flew, and the appalling screams. Well, Ephraim—that is the parrot’s name—had no business to insult him. He began it by putting his head through the bars of the cage and rasping out “Niggerhead! Niggerhead! I chew niggerhead!” Ephraim had come over in a sailing vessel, and the sailors had taught him many evil words and phrases. So Othello had reached out one paw invitingly and Ephraim had struck at it viciously. But Othello had pulled the paw back quickly and brought the other one down on Ephraim’s head and held it there while he raked him with the other. And all the people in the house had come running, and he was cuffed and driven down-stairs.

The men in the cellar are coming toward the stairs now, and Othello retires under the stove. Now they are in the kitchen again and have put the food on the dresser. Othello would like some of that cold meat—it smells delicious—but he fears to come out from under the stove. He is suspicious. He will wait. What _are_ they doing? Unlocking the door to the pantry. How excited they seem! Now they are unlocking the dining-room door. What _are_ they after? He crawls quietly after them—they cannot see him in the shadow, but _he_ can see everything. Oh, they have laid a great nasty bag on the dining-room table, and they are taking from the sideboard all of those bright things that the family eat with and take such care of, and are putting them into the bag very carefully. There goes little Jenny’s mug—the one she lets him have milk from. No, that will not do. No meat, no milk! Now is his chance. From the dining-room to the hall, then up-stairs to the master’s room. How very easy, all in a minute!

What did that man say?—“Get the swag ready and leave it on the table; we’ll step back and eat. Don’t move it now—it may rattle. We’ll carry it off when we start—good haul!” Othello pricks up his ears. “Carry it off!” Yes, he understands that. He has been cuffed often for carrying off things—chops and slices of meat. These horrible men shall be cuffed, too—the master will do it. Creep along, Othello, creep along! Up the stairs now, down the hallway, into the master’s room. You will rouse him and save what you little know the value of. Jump on him, scratch him—anything! You have done it. He is wide awake now and trembling; is out of his warm bed, and seems to understand. There is a bright, shining thing in his hand and his face is white and set.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Why are you, brave Othello, cowering at top of the attic stairs? Two short seconds ago you were on the master’s bed, purring loudly. What is that awful rush below, out of the kitchen where the clock ticks, out across the porch, across the lawn, into the road? Bang! Bang! outside the house, then the sound of rapid running. Why, what is it, Othello? What are people screaming for, and why is little Jenny crying, why is Ephraim screeching atrociously, and why are you, with your tail twice its natural size, wailing dismally? Fright, Othello, general fright—and you brought it about with your notions of the rights of property. Quiet down now and crawl down-stairs to see what you get.

They are gathering in the dining-room, with all the lights going full blast, as you, Othello, sneak down-stairs wondering what it all means. The master has just come back from the outside, quite pale and shaky. “Fired six times and never hit one of them,” he says. “Did they get anything?” And the mistress, who has emptied the dirty bag on the table, replies, “Not a thing, William.”

They are all quiet now, especially Othello, who feels the queer experience deeply, and wonders how much abuse he will get when he is discovered hiding by the sideboard. The master spies him, and lifts him tenderly, with words of such affectionate appreciation that Othello wonders still more, but sinks his claws gently through the thin covering and purrs. “Ow!” says the man, and quickly extricates them. He strokes the cat very gently, and turning to his wife, says, “Maria, let’s get rid of that parrot. From this time forward the cat shall have first place. I have thought lately of buying a watch-dog, but it is not necessary. I’d rather have a watch-cat like Othello.”

* * * * *

_Ques._—Why does a cat look on first one side and then on another when she enters a room?

_Ans._—Because she can’t look on both sides at the same time.

TOM.

M.T. HART.

“Dear Tom is dead, please come to-night!”
She telegraphed. With keen delight
I read the message.
Roses for consolation meant
I sent, but oh, with what content
I paid expressage!

Don’t think me heartless, till you know
Death has relieved me of a foe.
Tom was my rival.
When he began to pine away,
I scarcely was the one to pray
For his survival.

He’s hated me since first we met;
He was a most pronounced brunette,
While I am fair.
He was more favored of the two;
Of soft caresses very few
Fell to my share.

But now he’s dead, I feel no spite.
I hope his harp is tuned all right,
His robe a fit, his halo bright
With gems galore.
And just this once do I confess
The reason of my happiness—
Because on earth there’s one cat less,
In heaven one more.

MY PET CAT.

I want to tell you about my pet cat. I am sure it will interest you. He is marked like a tiger, with white paws and a white pompon in the end of his tail. I have never seen or heard of a cat who eats the things he does. One day he knocked down a bottle of olives from the pantry shelf and ate four. Other things he likes are red beets and baked beans; sometimes he even prefers them to meat.

One of his bad habits is to lie in my flower garden. I have it in a bay window, where the sun shines on it all the morning. As it is nice and warm there, I have caught him a number of times trying to sleep among the flowers.

He isn’t a bit afraid of dogs; indeed, they are more afraid of him, for he often chases them out of the yard.

One morning last winter I could not find him anywhere. At last I heard a faint mew. I listened, and heard it again, this time fainter than before. I looked all over. At last I thought of the oven in the kitchen stove. I opened it, and out walked my pet, more dead than alive. He must have gone in when no one was looking, and so had the door shut on him.

One place he enjoys to get in is the clean clothes basket, and it is needless to say that the cook chases him. One day, after she had ironed a whole basket of clothes he jumped in the basket and went to sleep. He hasn’t gone into the kitchen since. I think he knows the reason why.

He hates to hear anyone whistle. When I begin he sits on his hind legs and cries until I stop, sometimes even jumping into my lap and begging me by rubbing against my arm.

We have another cat, who is kept in the kitchen. My pet seems to hate him. I believe he does not think the other cat half as good as he is. They are continually fighting, for “the kitchen cat,” as I call him, tries to take my cat down a peg or two.

CATCHING THE CAT.

MARGARET VANDEGRIFT.

The mice had been in council;
They all looked haggard and worn,
For the state of things was too terrible
To be any longer borne.
Not a family out of mourning—
There was crape on every hat.
They were desperate; something must be done,
And done at once, to the cat.

An elderly member rose and said,
“It might prove a possible thing
To set the trap which they set for us—
That one with the awful spring!”
The suggestion was applauded
Loudly, by one and all,
Till somebody squeaked, “That trap would be
About ninety-five times too small!”

Then a medical mouse suggested—
A little under his breath—
They should confiscate the very first mouse
That died a natural death;
And he’d undertake to poison the cat,
If they’d let him prepare that mouse.
“There’s not been a natural death,” they shrieked,
“Since the cat came into the house!”

The smallest mouse in the council
Arose with a solemn air,
And, by way of increasing his stature,
Rubbed up his whiskers and hair.
He waited until there was silence
All along the pantry shelf,
And then he said with dignity,
“_I_ will catch the cat myself!

“When next I hear her coming,
Instead of running away,
I shall turn and face her boldly,
And pretend to be at play:
She will not see her danger,
Poor creature! I suppose;
But as she stoops to catch _me_,
I shall catch _her_ by the nose!”

The mice began to look hopeful,
Yes, even the old ones, when
A gray-haired sage said slowly,
“And what will you do with her then?”
The champion, disconcerted,
Replied with dignity, “Well,
I think, if you’ll all excuse me,
’Twould be wiser not to tell.

“We all have our inspirations—”
This produced a general smirk,
“But we are not all at liberty
To explain just how they’ll work.
I ask you, then, to trust me:
You need have no further fears—
Consider our enemy done for!”
The council gave three cheers.