Chapter XXXII: A Kittie Party 230 (2)

This was so much worse than anything I had ever experienced, or even heard of, I hadn’t a word to say in reply.

But evidently the cold and hunger that she had suffered had had their effect on little Beauty. Although she had the best of care, still a few days later she was taken so very ill one night that it caused her to groan most pitifully; and in the morning when Guy came down, her lifeless form lay on the floor, cold and stiff.

Mistress very tenderly wrapped the little dead body in some soft white tissue paper, and put it in a box, and Guy buried it in the rear of the yard, marking the spot with a stake on which he printed:

“SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF BEAUTY.”

Then mistress planted some mignonette and pansies on the spot, and Guy fenced it in with pieces of arched wire, so that it made a nice little flower-bed.

After it was all over I heard mistress say to Guy: “Aren’t you glad we have been kind to this little creature during the few days of her life that she was with us?”

“I was just thinking how sorry I would be if I hadn’t been kind to her,” said Guy. “Yesterday when she whined so I was tempted to put her out, but I am glad now I didn’t; I guess she was sick then.”

“Yes,” said mistress, “when animals act ill-natured or fretful, it is generally because they are not well; and instead of being impatient with them, we ought to be all the more tender, and see whether we cannot find out the cause of their trouble, and relieve them.”

For several days after Beauty’s death I was again without a companion, but I wasn’t so lonesome as at first when Budge and Toddy went way, because I had Dennis; and besides, it was still lovely summer weather. I used to sit on the window-ledge and watch for the school-children to come by; and when I saw them, it made me very happy, for I knew then that I would soon see my friend Guy. As soon as he came into the yard I’d jump down and go into the house with him, and generally he would give me some of his bread and milk. Then he would practice a while on his violin, and I dearly loved to listen to the music. Sometimes he would mow the lawn and water it. He always had everything very nice for mistress when she came home. If only he could have stayed at home all day, Dennis and I couldn’t have wished for a dearer companion.

VIII

BUDGE AND TODDY THE SECOND

About a month after the death of Beauty, a little girl came one day with four tiny kittens in a basket, some tigers and some Maltese, and I heard her beg mistress to adopt one of them.

Mistress said at first that she did not care for any more cats. But the little girl was so persistent, and the kittens in the basket looked so bright and pretty, mistress was persuaded to take a closer look at them; and as I saw her take them up and fondle them, I felt pretty sure what the result would be.

“I will take two,” said she, “for if I should take but one away from her companions and from her mother, it would get lonely and homesick; besides, a little girl who tries to get good homes for helpless kitties ought to be encouraged.”

This made the little girl very happy, for she knew her kittens would have a good home with mistress; and she went away with only two remaining in the basket.

My new companions were named Budge and Toddy, after the two that had left us. I became friendly with them at once, for I had learned by this time that mistress was a good judge of cats, and that I was perfectly safe in associating freely with those of her choice. The only unpleasant thing about Budge and Toddy was, they had fleas, and, of course, I was visited by some of them; but after a few baths with Spratt’s soap we got quite rid of them. I will tell you how it was done, for mistress seemed to know just the right way.

First she made a nice warm suds, and saturated our necks thoroughly with it. She called this the “dead line” because the fleas could not crawl into our eyes, but had to stay back and be drowned. Then she rubbed the suds into the skin all over our bodies, and used a coarse comb so as to have it penetrate the fur clear to the skin, carefully shielding our eyes. Guy always assisted by holding us while she did the washing. He would hold the front legs in one hand and the hind legs in the other, which gave mistress complete control of the body as it lay in the suds, and Guy would turn it as she directed.

After we were thoroughly washed, mistress rinsed us off in plenty of clean warm water, wiped us dry with a Turkish towel, and gave us a good combing. Then we lay on our cushions in a sunny spot of the room, and in winter time she put the cushion near the register. When dry, she set us on a big newspaper, and gave us a thorough brushing, and it was surprising how the dead fleas would drop out. Then she folded the paper and burned it. After three such baths the troublesome little things completely disappeared.

Budge is a Maltese, very short and fat, with shaggy coat, short bushy tail, and a white “breastpin.”

Toddy is long and slender, with a smooth, soft coat and a long tail. He is a tiger cat like myself. He is livelier and more mischievous than Budge, and in a tussle generally comes out ahead.

Many times I have seen Budge quietly sitting on his cushion, perhaps watching a fly, or purring contentedly to himself, not suspecting any harm or danger, when Toddy, stealthily aiming from a distance, would jump upon him so suddenly as to almost take his breath away. Then they would roll over the floor, first one on top, then the other, biting, kicking and mauling each other, until the peaceful room was turned into a veritable arena. One round was scarcely finished before another was started. By turns they would hump their backs, turn down their ears, bristle their tails, or sway them swiftly to and fro, all the while eyeing each other with most defiant expression. At last the pent-up tempest breaks forth, but the battle proves too fierce for Budge and after several more rounds he seeks refuge on a chair only to find himself further pursued. The chair has a cane seat, and Toddy makes a fresh attack from beneath.

At last when it is all over, Toddy meekly kisses his victim, and says: “Never mind, Budge, you know I was only in fun.”

One morning when we were up in mistress’ room, she made a deep dent in our cushion and put Budge into it. He was then still very small, and it looked as if he was sitting in a little cave with only his head outside.

Pretty soon Toddy came along, and when he saw Budge in so snug a place, he walked all around him viewing him from every side. It was a rather cool morning, and he wanted to get in there too. But seeing there was not enough room by the side of Budge he got in front of him and began caressing him and washing his face and neck. Budge liked this so well that he moved closer and closer to Toddy, and in so doing got partly out of his cave.

This was just what Toddy wanted. When by means of his cunning scheme, he had tempted Budge out far enough, he put his paw behind him, and with a masterly shove, ousted him from the coveted place, and backed into it himself.

I have always thought that Budge laid this trick of Toddy’s up in a corner of his little heart; for, although he seemed to take it good-naturedly at the time, yet he lay in wait when Toddy came down the stairs. But it seemed as though Toddy was expecting something of the kind, for the moment Budge advanced toward him, Toddy jumped up in the air, and Budge shot through under him as though darting through an arch, so swiftly that he ran pell-mell into a basin of water which was being used to clean the floor.

“The charge of the Light Brigade,” said Guy, coming down the stairs behind Toddy.

“No, it’s the Battle of Waterloo,” replied mistress.

With such playful companions as these, you can imagine what delightful times I have had.

IX

A HAPPY HOME

Every morning after breakfast mistress reads in a book called the “Bible,” and when she closes it, they both kneel down in the bay window while she talks to the chair. Sometimes when the sun shines so nice and warm upon her back, I just jump up there and have a nice purr, which always makes Guy laugh.

Some of the stories they have read in the Bible were about men and women and children and goats and sheep and cattle. I have listened breathlessly many times for something about cats, but so far not one has been mentioned. But perhaps those things all happened before there were any cats. One time the story was about an old man who died leaving six daughters[1] and they were afraid that because they had no big brothers they would not get their share. So they went to Moses, their captain, and asked him about it, and he said that they should have their share just the same as if they were sons, instead of daughters. After the story was finished mistress asked Guy, as she usually did, what that meant, and what he had learned from it. He studied for quite a while before he answered her, then he said, “Well, I guess that means women’s rights.”

Another time they were reading about a very great king who sat on a throne, and a queen from another country who had heard about his wonderful wisdom came to ask him a very hard question to see whether what she had heard was true.[2]

“What was the question she asked?” said Guy, after the reading was finished.

“I don’t know,” said mistress; “the Bible does not tell us what it was.”

“I think I know what it was,” said he. “She asked him ‘who made God?’”

After they have spent a half hour or so in this way, they lock up the house and go away; but they always leave a nice lunch for us, and a dish of fresh water.

I know of many poor cats that never get a drop of water at home. They have to go and hunt for it in ditches and puddles, and then are blamed for not keeping a clean, soft, fluffy coat. Anybody ought to know that we can’t be expending moisture through our tongue, washing and scrubbing our coats, unless we can drink water whenever we want it. Some people think it answers the purpose just as well if they give us milk, and dear knows it’s true enough of the milk that some cats get. But we would prefer to have our milk straight, and our water likewise.

Our principal food is fresh boiled meat, mashed potatoes, and milk, and in summer-time we also get sweet peas, asparagus, beans and corn. Once a week we get salmon mixed with bread crumbs or mashed potatoes.

Once I came very near getting into trouble through my fondness for canned beans. I saw a can on the ash pile, and in trying to get what beans were left in the bottom I got my nose in too far. Imagine my shame, when I could not get it out again, and was obliged to go about with a tin can for a muzzle till Guy came home and took it off.

In pleasant weather our food is left on the kitchen porch, which, with our pads and cushions looks like a little summer parlor. There we stay in the bright sunshine, or we play in the grass, climb the fences, play hide-and-seek and roll in our catnip bed.

In cold weather a window is left open into the basement so we can go down to the nice warm furnace room, where we have a great big clothes-basket lined with a clean soft pad. Mistress knows that cats, like other creatures, want a bed long enough so they can stretch themselves out full length when they feel like it.

Of course, we sometimes sleep in other places beside our basket. For awhile an old cap of Guy’s lay on the basement floor, and I used to cuddle up in it to take my nap, because it just fitted me. One day I was just nicely settled in it when Toddy came and lay on top of me, and no sooner had we got ourselves nicely fixed for a nap than Budge came crawling over both of us, trying to get on top of Toddy. But Toddy’s body was too round and his coat too smooth and slippery for Budge to get a good hold, and after sliding off several times he finally went and took his nap in an old sprinkling can.

After supper we have the greatest frolic of the day in the library. In his kittenhood Toddy was a great athlete, and whenever a certain chair with a very high back happened to be near enough, he would climb to the top of it and mount the high bookcase, from which he would look down at the rest of us with a very victorious air.

One evening Budge watched him from mistress’ lap, his little breast swelling with ambition to do likewise. The moment Toddy alighted, Budge mounted the high-back chair, and craned his neck toward the desired spot. But he evidently thought it too great a risk; for he gave mistress a very pleading look which had the desired effect; she moved the chair closer, and Budge scrambled up its back, whence, with a bold leap, he easily spanned the space to the bookcase.

On the top shelf are the pictures of some of our friends. Miss Willard received his most respectful attention, I suppose because she was the mistress of the wonderful “Tootsie” we have all heard about. Tender, lingering glances were also bestowed upon our little friends Don and Winifred. But the beautiful and charming Mrs. Cleveland received his fondest admiration. So proudly did he sway his bushy tail when standing in her presence that several persons of less distinction were sent reeling to the floor. Then, having been associated for a little while in his life with great people he sought his humble lodging behind the cook-stove and took a nap.

One of my favorite places used to be on top of the wash-stand in the bathroom. One day after Guy had finished washing he left the water running just a little tiny stream into the wash-bowl. I thought it was a string, and in trying to catch it I fell, and in an instant I was flat on my back in the bottom of the bowl. I struggled to get on my feet again, but it was of no use; the side of the bowl was so smooth, there was nothing that I could get hold of to pull myself up on, and Guy just stood there laughing, and calling everybody in the house to come and see the plight I was in. At last when he had had all the fun he wanted at my expense, he pulled me out, and I have steered clear of wash-bowls ever since.

One of our dearest sports during those mirthful days was playing hide-and-seek behind the portières, and chasing each other from one room into the other. But the race was usually of short duration, for first thing we knew we were all in a heap in the middle of the floor, and we were generally in the midst of our frolic when the horrid bedtime came and we had to go to our basket. Sometimes we hid behind the bookcases so that Guy couldn’t get us. But I know this wasn’t nice, and I feel ashamed even now for ever having done it.

X

OUR HAPPIEST DAYS

On Saturdays mistress comes home earlier than usual. Then we get our coats brushed, and wiped off with a damp cloth, and we put on the finishing touches with that dexterous little scrubbing brush which every cat carries between his jaws. Then mistress changes the covers of our cushions and gives us clean pads.

I always purr when mistress brushes me, to let her know that I like it; and Budge likes it so well, he keeps turning himself so the brush will strike him at every point. I believe the brushing and the good food we get make us have such soft and glossy coats, and such fine bushy tails.

One day after Budge had been thoroughly groomed he concluded that he would go on an exploring tour, and, being so nice and clean, he was permitted to go wherever he pleased.

First he went on mistress’ desk, and pretended to read a letter from grandpa; then he played a tune on the piano. But nothing seemed to satisfy him till he mounted the book shelves, his favorite resting-place, and finding a nice shiny piece of paper there he proceeded to lie upon it and purr himself to sleep. But something was evidently wrong about that shiny paper. He arose to go elsewhere but the paper went with him. You see, it was a sheet of fly-paper, and the fluttering noise it made so frightened poor Budge that he ran from one room to another in his frantic efforts to get rid of it.

As quickly as mistress was able to get hold of the poor creature, she pulled the paper off, but with it came also a portion of Budge’s coat. This was such a brand new experience for Budge, he concluded to go to a quiet place to think it over; and finding an old grape basket in the yard he crawled in and fell asleep.

Speaking of Budge’s favorite resting-place on the book shelf reminds me of a story I have heard mistress tell about “Röteli” a red tiger cat away over in Switzerland that was fond of taking his naps in the oven. One day the oven door was shut without the cat being noticed, and a fire made in the stove, for the housekeeper wanted to cook dinner. She heard some dreadful, agonizing cries, but as she could not see the cat around anywhere, and being busy with her work, she paid no further attention. The roast was soon prepared, and as the housekeeper opened the oven door to put it in, behold there was poor Röteli lying almost lifeless with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Immediately the housekeeper knew just what to do: she sprinkled Röteli with cold water and dropped water on his tongue till he revived, and with the good care he received, regained his health and lived many years more. I hope that all housekeepers who have cats will take warning, and always look into the oven before they close it.

Sunday I like best of all, because then mistress and Guy are at home all day, except a little while in the morning. The first thing on Sunday morning each of us gets a fresh ribbon tied around his neck and, of course, then we make ourselves very clean. Mistress ties the ribbon very carefully, so that it does not pull our hair, and she cuts the loops. The reason for this is, as I heard her tell Guy, that once a cat was jumping across a fence, when a loop of her ribbon was caught in one of the pickets; and the poor cat hung there and miserably strangled to death, before any one came to her rescue.

On pleasant Sunday afternoons Guy brings the porch rug and cushions out in the yard, and then we have what we look forward to during the whole week, a long visit from our mistress.

Sometimes mistress takes us for a walk, and I never shall forget one pleasant moonlight evening when we went out with mistress and another lady. It was on a street that had no houses on it, only tall grass and catnip, and we were playing a game of hide-and-go-seek, when suddenly mistress called us to her and picked up Toddy and me. She tried to get Budge, too, but he was a little stubborn; instead of coming to her, he ran to the middle of the street, where a gentleman was riding, accompanied by a big dog. In an instant the air was full of howls, hisses, growls and fur, and Budge and the dog were all mixed up in a cloud of dust. I wanted to go too, but mistress held me so tightly I could not get away.

The gentleman alighted from his wheel and called “Hector,” but the poor dog could not get away just then. When he finally became disentangled he drew his tail very tightly between his legs and ran away as fast as he could, still howling piteously.

Mistress was evidently pleased with Budge for his courage in so fearlessly attacking a dog much bigger than himself, but she was also sorry for the poor vanquished dog, and said so to his master. But the gentleman said that the dog merely retired because he was too noble to attack an animal smaller than himself, and not at all because he considered himself vanquished.

But however that may be, I’m afraid it wasn’t very nice for Budge to engage in such a skirmish on a Sunday.

XI

BETSY WHITEFOOT

Some time after Beauty’s death, one day an old gray cat with white toes came on our back porch, and helped herself to a drink of water. She had a distressed and hungry look, and I am sure she had not had a bath or a brushing in a long time, for her coat was very rough and soiled.

Budge and Toddy were afraid of her, and ran back of the ash bin; but I stayed to see what mistress would do.

I noticed that in spots the hair on the cat’s body was entirely gone; the flesh was covered with bleeding sores, and her tail had scarcely any hair on it.

Guy called us cats together and sent us into the kitchen, but we could look through the screen door and see what was going on. He gave the poor creature a big saucer of fresh warm milk, which she lapped up very greedily, asking for more till she had finished three saucers full.

When mistress came home she looked at the cat, but did not touch her. She gave Guy some money and a bottle and sent him to the drug store for some medicine.

The poor cat was so tired she did not even wash after eating, but lay right down on the old door-mat. I think she had walked a long while before she found a place where she was allowed to rest. Before Guy returned from the store she was fast asleep.

Mistress poured some of the medicine on a small cotton pad, and placed it by the cat’s nose. Then she quickly covered her up with a tub, and Guy sat on top of it.

The cat whined and struggled for a few seconds, then gradually her breathing became heavier, but in less than a minute she was perfectly quiet. She had gone to her long and peaceful sleep, and I have no doubt that if she ever sees mistress in that beautiful place they tell about, where there are no homeless and hungry creatures, she will thank her for the kind act which ended her wretched existence.

The tub was not removed till the following morning, when Guy improvised a little casket for the body and buried it by the side of Beauty, marking the spot with a stake on which he wrote:

“SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THE UNKNOWN DEAD,”

and mistress planted some heliotrope upon it.

Meanwhile one of our neighbors was sitting on her kitchen porch in full view of the whole proceeding, and I expected every minute that she would say something sarcastic about a “cat funeral” or a “cat hospital,” as she had done before. She was busily plying the needle on her beautiful fancy work. As soon as mistress had finished planting the flowers, the lady came to the fence and said:

“I should think you would have your cats wear black ribbons when they are attending a funeral;” and without waiting for a reply, she held up her fancy work and asked mistress how she liked it. It was a doily stamped with a group of kittens playing ring-around the rosies, and several of the figures had already been worked in beautiful colored silk.

“It must be pleasant, no doubt,” said mistress, “to work beautiful figures of happy creatures upon canvas; but I prefer to give joy and happiness to the living. And as for the emblem you speak of, to my mind flowers symbolize the transition of life far more fitly than do the time-worn weeds of mourning.”

The lady made no answer to this at all, and mistress went into the house, leaving her alone with her fancy work.

Before we were allowed to go on the porch again, it was thoroughly scrubbed with boiling water; the tub was scalded, and the old mat was burned.

On the following day a neighboring cat, whom I have since learned to know as Jack, came into our yard, and I noticed that he persistently sniffed around the little fresh mound.

“What is in there?” said he, after he had visited it for the third time.

I told him about the sad occurrence of the day before.

“Was it a gray cat with white toes?”

I told him it was.

“Poor Betsy Whitefoot,” said Jack, in tones of real anguish. “I have shared my meals with her ever since the Mortons went to their summer house in the country. A better mouser never lived than Betsy, and how they could so cruelly desert her is more than I can understand.”

I could plainly see that Jack was filled with wrath and bitterness toward the people who had caused his friend so much sorrow, and I suggested to him that we go up in one of the poplar trees where we could talk over the matter quietly, and without attracting attention.

Jack readily assented, and when we had found a nice comfortable place he went on telling me more about the Mortons.

“Last winter,” said he, “during that dreadfully cold spell some kittens came to Betsy, and they made her stay in the cold shed without even a box or basket, and all that she could find to lay the kittens on was some straw in a corner of the floor. Of course the poor little things all got dreadfully sore eyes; two became completely blind; and one by one they drooped and died, till even Betsy herself told me she was thankful they were out of their misery, and that she hoped she would never have any more. And by the way, there goes Will Morton now,” said Jack, pointing down to the sidewalk. “Take a good look at him, and always avoid him if he comes your way.”

It was unnecessary for Jack to administer the caution, for the lad was no stranger to me; indeed he was the very boy who pelted me with stones on that hapless day when I strayed away from my mother. I never forgot him, for from time to time I would see him pass our house, usually puffing away at a cigarette, and accompanied by rough looking hard-faced boys.

Jack could not restrain himself from telling all that was in his heart about the dreadful Mortons. Said he: “Last winter Will went on a journey with his uncle, and he promised faithfully to write to his mother twice a week. But during four weeks he never wrote her even a postal card. And many a Sunday when his mother thinks he is in Sunday-school, I have seen him out in the alley with his companions, smoking and listening to rude stories. It all goes to show that he has as little respect for her feelings as she has for those of her cat.”

I was strongly tempted to tell Jack my own experience with Will Morton, but I felt that he had enough of heaviness on his mind, and I tried my best to think of something pleasant. I told him how kindly mistress had received Betsy, and how gently she put her to sleep, and it seemed to lessen somewhat the grief which he felt for his departed friend.

“I am thankful,” said he, “that there are some people in this world who realize that even a poor sick cat has some rights, and I hope that the day is not far off when every town and city will have a place where dumb animals that are deserted or lost or sick, can be taken in for protection and care.”

I told him that I hoped so too, for I knew that only a short time ago, mistress had had an experience which made us all feel the need of such a place. I heard her tell Guy of a poor sick and homeless pug dog she saw on the street, and how she stopped to put a court-plaster over a raw spot on his ear. Of course, the dog felt that she was his friend, and he followed her to her office. But she had no place to keep him, so she sent word to the Dog Hospital about it. She might have called the Humane Agent to come and shoot the dog, but she thought he was a nice animal and worth saving.

Well, the hospital man came and examined the dog, said he was old and sick, not worth trying to save, and that the only thing he could do for him was to chloroform him and take him to the glue factory. Mistress told him to do that; but she had to pay him two dollars before he would do another thing for the dog. A hospital of that kind is all right for an animal whose master is able to pay; it does not as a rule help poor homeless creatures. My idea of a hospital is one where any animal, no matter how poor or sick or unsightly, is welcomed, and either nursed back to health or put out of its misery. I have heard that in some large cities kind-hearted people have founded such asylums. But we must hope and pray that good people may be found in every town and city, willing to devote a portion of their means to the relief of suffering animals.

XII

SUNSHINE AND SHADOW

One pleasant Saturday afternoon I was awakened from my nap by a sound as of rustling foliage, and the room seemed to be suddenly filled with the odor of fresh violets. I opened my eyes and saw a very stately-looking lady, dressed in a beautiful silk gown and a hat that was covered with gaily colored birds, all having their wings spread as if about to fly away. She was seated in the high-back chair, and I quickly climbed up on it from the rear, and was just ready to spring upon the birds, when she gave a dreadful scream and ran out onto the porch.

At this, mistress came rushing down-stairs, and the lady told her with frantic gestures and loud exclamations what a dreadfully rude thing I had done to her. Mistress led her back into the parlor, and got her quieted as well as she could, but presently Budge and Toddy, who had been napping in the bay-window seat, also came into the parlor.

“Are all of these cats yours?” said the lady, with apparent astonishment. “I should think they would be a dreadful nuisance.”

I could see that mistress was annoyed by the remark, but she answered her very gently, and said: “It depends on your treatment of cats, Mrs. Cotton, whether they will be a nuisance or a pleasure. I have always found them a pleasure, and besides, I have a special purpose in keeping pets.”

“A purpose in keeping cats!” exclaimed the lady; “do tell me what it is.”

“It is to teach my boy to be tender and humane toward all animals; and as we cannot afford expensive pets like dogs and horses, we are satisfied with cats.”

“You are the first person I ever heard speak of a purpose in keeping cats,” said Mrs. Cotton. “I always supposed that people had cats because they just happened to come to them.”

“That is not the case with these cats,” replied mistress. “We formerly lived in a flat where we could not keep pets, and that is one of the reasons why I went to housekeeping.”

“But do you not find it very expensive to keep house for just you two?”

“We do,” said mistress, “but it is the money that is wisely expended, after all, that brings the largest returns. To many people, no doubt, our modern flats are a great boon, affording comfort and safety that they could not possibly secure elsewhere. But to my mind, the landlord who banishes children from his flat is a public benefactor, however selfish may be his motives. A child should have a home in the truest sense of that precious word, a home with lawn and garden, with room for pets and tools and playthings, affording him ample opportunity to give wholesome expression to his feelings. It is the life lived day by day in the home that moulds and fashions a child’s character, rather than any training he receives in school. Spend your money right now in _forming_ correct ideas, and encouraging expression of them, rather than save it by ignoble economy, only to be spent later in the vain attempt to _reform_ a character perverted and dwarfed through narrow and contracted living.”

“I have never before had my thoughts turned to this subject,” said Mrs. Cotton, looking very earnestly into mistress’ face, “but I believe what you say is true. I am so thankful my children are still young, that I may profit by your excellent ideas. And as for cats, I never before thought they were good for anything, having been brought up to think of them as uncanny creatures, something to be abhorred and dreaded. But as my little boy has written Santa Claus to bring him a kitty for a Christmas gift, I suppose I will have to give up my prejudice.”

“It is the superstition of a by-gone age,” said mistress; “but a happier day is coming, when the cat will be given her rightful place as a household pet; and through gentle treatment her nature will become still more refined and ennobled. Notwithstanding all that has been said about their selfish disposition, my cats have at times shown great consideration for each other. For instance, once I gave them their milk in a narrow dish, where only one could lap at a time, and to my great surprise they took turns. On another occasion I had prepared a plate of meat for them, arranging each cat’s portion by itself. Budge and Meow were not present, so Toddy ate his portion and left theirs untouched.”

“That is certainly remarkable,” said Mrs. Cotton. “I shall no longer object to having one in our house. But I fear we shall no sooner have become attached to her before she will leave us. My neighbor has had three very pretty kittens given her during the last six months, and not one stayed longer than a week.”

“Where does she keep them?”

“Oh, they stay around the yard, and when it’s cold they crawl under the barn, or if they get a chance they go up in the haymow.”

“No wonder,” said mistress. “A cat, with her domestic instincts, in order to become attached to a place, must have a cozy, comfortable corner somewhere in the house that she can call her very own. It may be nothing more than a basket with a pad or a cushion in it, but it must be permanently located in a retired corner of a comfortable room. A cat thus provided will become attached to her own peculiar furniture, and even should the family remove to another place, if she is carefully transferred to the new home, and her corner is at once fitted up in a quiet room where she can be kept indoors for a few days, she will not go away.

“And while we are talking on this subject, I trust you will pardon me if I mention something that may seem very trivial to you, but which I consider of great importance. A cat should have a name, because it adds to her dignity, and commands respect for her. Moreover it enhances her commercial value to be thus individualized, and lifted above the general mass of her kind.”

“I am very glad to know all these things,” said Mrs. Cotton. “You certainly have interested me in this subject as I never have been before in all my life.”

Before Mrs. Cotton went away that afternoon she actually came over to the window-sill and gave Budge several gentle strokes. I suppose she chose Budge because he is the smallest.

“How docile and confiding,” said she; “they seem to know no fear at all; and such soft and glossy coats I never saw before.”

“Their confiding and docile nature is due to kind treatment,” said mistress, “and the soft and glossy coats are the result of good food, plenty of fresh water and clean pads.”

As Mrs. Cotton took her departure, it seemed as though her face wore a far more kindly expression than it did when she came in.

Of course, I was delighted to hear all these good things, and especially that we cats are useful, and serving our dear mistress such a good purpose. May the time be near at hand when the sunshine of love and good-will shall chase away every shadow of hatred and cruelty!

XIII

JACK

Jack was a large black Manx cat that lived on Poplar Avenue, the friend of Betsy Whitefoot, as you will remember. His tail was only about an inch long, and his hind legs were higher than his front ones.

One day when jack’s mistress called at our house he followed her, and, having known him since the death of Betsy, I gave him a hearty welcome.

“Where did you get this beautiful cat?” said mistress, the moment she saw Jack.

“My husband brought him home one bitter cold day last winter,” said Mrs. Vandervere. “He saw some boys chase him through an alley. The poor creature was so thoroughly frightened that for several days he stayed almost constantly behind the cook-stove, refusing to come out. We thought the boys had cut off his tail, but when I came to wash him I discovered that he never had one. When he recovered from his fright we found him to be a very affectionate cat, and now we feel as though we could not do without him. Often when I am sewing he sits on my shoulders, and he used to have a fashion of pulling pins out of my waist with his teeth and drop them on the floor. But one day he pulled out a crooked pin and swallowed it, and by the way he acted we thought Jack would not be with us much longer. A raw egg, however, seemed to do him good, and in a few days he was all right again; but he has never pulled out any more pins.”

Jack and I with Budge and Toddy had been lying in our sunny bay-window, but while his mistress was still talking we two got up and went out into the yard. Jack went straight to Betsy’s grave and sniffed around a while, then he mounted the fence and showed me the shortest cut over to his house, and he also invited me to visit his catnip bed, in which he turned several somersaults. Then he led the way through the cellar window up into the house, and in the library beside the fireplace was his basket, a beautiful willow trimmed with red ribbons, and a soft cushion inside. Jack told me that was his “corner.” After a while we went outdoors again, and he showed me how far he could jump. It was from the top of the porch railing to the ground; and when I am a full-grown cat I expect to be able to do the same.

After that day Jack came to see me quite often, and he seemed especially to enjoy our beautiful sunny porch, which, with its pads and cushions and baskets, looked very much like Miss Virgie’s playhouse.

Whenever I visited Jack, we used to sit on a garden bench that stood in his yard, and upon which his mistress always left a blanket for Jack’s special comfort.

Jack was a great fellow to talk about old times, and one day when we were enjoying a sun bath on the bench he told me a very interesting story. He said that his ancestors came from an island across the ocean, and that he hoped some day to visit that country.

I described to him my journey last summer on the steamboat, and our visit on the farm, and it made him even more anxious to go.

Continuing his story, Jack said that he was a lineal descendant of the famous cat that made a fortune for Richard Whittington, who was “Thrice Lord Mayor of London.”

At this point I interrupted Jack to have him explain to me the meaning of “ancestor,” and “lineal descendant.” Jack was so friendly with me, I did not mind asking him, and he willingly explained it to me.

He said that the cat that lived with Richard Whittington very many years ago had a son named Tom; Tom had a son named Toby; Toby had a son named Jack, and so they kept on having sons till it finally came down to him, and that made Tom his ancestor, and him a lineal descendant.

Jack then told me of some of his experiences. He said that his ability to catch rats used to be quite as good as that of his early ancestor, but that since he lived in his present home, he had not much practice, there being no rats in the neighborhood, except an occasional one around the ash barrel.

I asked him where he learned the business, and he told me that he used to live in a down-town boarding-house, where he sometimes killed as many as twenty rats in one day. But the cook caught one alive one day, and tied a string around his neck with a little bell attached, and let him go back to his hole; and the ringing of the bell so frightened the other rats that they all went away. Said Jack: “My occupation was gone, and as the boarding-house keeper had no further use for me, she got some boys to chase me away.” And then he added with some bitterness: “That was the way she rewarded me for my services.”

I told Jack that I thought the treatment he received was very cruel. Indeed, I think a dose of chloroform administered to a cat one has no further use for, is much more humane than chasing him away, especially in cold weather. Of course, I didn’t tell Jack so; and indeed I am glad it was not done in his case. But not every cat is so fortunate as to be picked up by a kind-hearted person and taken to a good home.

Continuing our conversation I said to Jack: “Don’t you think your present beautiful home and kind mistress came to you as a reward for your industry in the boarding-house?”

He said he had never thought of it in that light before, but that he believed it must be so, and that he would forgive his former mistress for her unkindness.

At this time Jack’s mistress called him into the house, and I returned to my home, thankful that I had such a genial fellow as Jack for a neighbor.

XIV

CHRISTMAS

I shall never forget the delightful time we had on Christmas Day.

Imagine my surprise when on a beautiful winter morning we were decked out the first thing with bright new ribbons. I knew it was not Sunday, so I thought it must be Christmas, having heard Guy say that Christmas was just like Sunday.

After we had our ribbons tied, we were called into the library, and there on our bay-window seat was a beautiful lily plant with seven snow white bells on it, which filled the entire house with their fragrant odor. On the table stood a tree, like some I have seen in the country, and under the tree were three beautiful new pads, one orange, one blue and one pink, and a large willow basket with a soft cushion in it. Hanging on the branches of the tree, instead of apples or cherries as in grandpa’s orchard, were rubber balls, spools, and white muslin bags filled with popcorn. The spools had little tufts of bright colored worsted sticking out at each end, and they were suspended on narrow ribbon long enough to reach nearly to the table, which made it handy to play with them. The balls had something inside, which, when we squeezed them, would come out and tickle our noses, but we could never see the thing that came out. We used to try to catch it, but how could we catch a thing we couldn’t see?

After we had admired the beautiful tree for a while, Guy took down a bag for each of us. The muslin of which the bags were made was so thin that you could see the popcorn that was inside. The bags were tied at each end with pretty colored ribbon, which made them look just like little white sausages; but how to get them open and get at the popcorn was what puzzled me. But cats know just as well as people, that “in union there is strength,” so all three of us took hold of the same bag. It was tied with blue ribbon and belonged to Budge. For a while we played with the bag, each one pulling in a different direction, and in a few minutes the whole floor was littered over with popcorn. For a while we were very busy helping ourselves, and I am sorry to say that each growled at the others while eating, for fear they would get the most: it tasted so good.

While we were busy eating the popcorn, Dennis came in, wearing a beautiful new silver collar with his name and address: “Dennis Hilton, 129 Poplar Avenue,” inscribed upon it, and a yellow satin bow in the ring. Of course, we invited him to have some popcorn. But Dennis was more interested in our new pads and basket than in the popcorn, and after smelling of them all very cautiously, he stretched himself out on my pad at full length and took a nap. I was so glad he was too big for the basket.

I wondered all the morning why Jack didn’t come over, but in the afternoon we met accidentally on the fence ledge, and he told me that they had also had a Christmas over at his place; and he invited me to go over with him.

He said that on the night before when he was out in his poplar tree, he saw an old gray-haired man with a long, white beard, and wearing a furry coat and cap, drive down our street in a chariot drawn by reindeer, and that the chariot was loaded with the most beautiful toys and bonbons, such as children like, and that he stopped at every house in the neighborhood except Eddie’s.

Said I: “May be that’s Santa Claus, that we hear so much about; but they say he always travels in a sleigh.”

Jack said he guessed not, unless there was snow on the ground.

By this time we had reached his yard, and he invited me in and showed me his presents. He had a beautiful new brass collar with “Jack Vandervere, 111 Poplar Avenue” inscribed upon it. He also had a box of sardines which tasted perfectly delicious.

Mistress sometimes gives us salmon and it is very good; but I like sardines better because they are whole, and it is such fun to toss them around and play “catch” with them. If they would only wiggle a little, it would be still more fun to play with them.

Jack had many other presents, but the one that interested me most of all was a little box that sings when you pull a string. His mistress pulled the string for me, and the very first song that came out was one I have heard mistress sing, about an Owl and a Pussy Cat that went to sea and got married. Another song that came out of the box was “My Pussy has gone from her Basket.” It seemed to be gotten up on purpose for pussies. Perhaps if I am a real good cat, the little old man will bring me a song box some time. Next Christmas eve I shall watch for him from my poplar tree.

While I was admiring Jack’s presents and listening to the lovely music, in came Willie Cotton, carrying in his arms a beautiful jet black kitten with amber eyes and a white “breastpin.” It had a yellow ribbon around its neck, to which was fastened a note, as follows

“LABRADOR, Dec. 25.

“DEAR WILLIE:

“This will introduce to you Nicodemus. I have sent him to you because
you belong to the Band of Mercy, and want some animal to love and
care for. Fix him a comfortable place in some room where he will be
obliged to be neat and orderly in his habits. He will make you no
trouble, if you will take him out into the yard every morning, noon
and evening, and always take him to the same place.

“Your faithful friend,
“MRS. SANTA CLAUS.”

As Nicodemus was a Manx cat, Jack treated him very kindly, and invited him to have some sardines with us. While we were eating, the box played a song that I have often heard about some little fishes that asked their mother if they could go and play. I can’t repeat the song but I will tell you what I remember of it. Their mother said no, but the little fishes went anyhow; and the result was that they got so far away from home they could not find their way back again. At last they were caught in a net with a lot of other fishes, and taken to the cannery.

“Perhaps these are the very ones,” said Jack, as he pointed to the box that was fast becoming empty. I don’t know whether Jack’s object was to save his few remaining sardines or not; but, anyway, I did not care for any more just then; and as the sun had gone down, I bade Jack and his guest a very good-evening.

And so ended our Christmas.

XV

OLD BLACKIE

I had often wondered how it happened that a busy woman like mistress was so much interested in cats, till one evening the mystery was cleared up. A lovely lady whom Guy called “Aunt Minnie” was staying with us at the time--and by the way we cats are very happy whenever she comes to visit us, because then somebody always sends such beautiful flowers.

I had climbed up into mistress’ lap to listen to a story she was reading about some Cat Club. But as it was only about Angoras and Persian cats, and not a word about Maltese and tigers, it did not interest me very much, and I curled up and took a nap. When I awoke, mistress was talking, and the first I heard was: