"Like the loud purring of a Cat," was the answer, "but everybody knows
that the Cat is not purring anywhere around here."
"She might be," said the Dappled Gray. "Where does the sound seem to
be?"
"Above my head," said the Blind Horse; "and she certainly would not be
purring up there at this time. She would either be sound asleep, or off
hunting, or else out in the sunshine, where she loves to sit."
The Dappled Gray felt that this was so, and he could not say a word. He
was very sorry for his friend. He thought how dreadful it would seem to
be both blind and deaf, and he choked on the oats he was swallowing.
"Now don't worry," said the Blind Horse; "if I should be deaf, I could
still feel the soft touch of the breeze on my skin, and could taste my
good food, and rub noses with my friends. I wouldn't have spoken of it,
only I hoped that you could hear the noise also, and then I would know
that it was real." That was just like him. He was always patient and
sweet-tempered. In all the years he had been blind, he had never once
complained of it, and many times when the other Horses were about to say
or do some ill-natured thing, they thought of him and stopped. They were
ashamed to be impatient when they were so much better off than he.
The Horses kept on eating their oats and resting from their hard work.
In the hay-loft above their heads, the Cat lay and purred and purred and
purred, never dreaming that her doing so made trouble for her friends
downstairs.
She had been hunting all the night before, creeping softly through the
barn and hiding behind bags and boxes to watch for careless Mice and
young Rats. They were night-runners as well as she, and many things
happened in the barn and farmyard while the larger four-legged people
were sound asleep and the fowls were dreaming with their heads tucked
under their wings. Sometimes there were not so many Mice in the morning
as there had been the evening before, and when this was so, the Cat
would walk slowly through the barn and look for a comfortable
resting-place. When she found it, she would turn around three times, as
her great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother used to do to
trample a bed in the jungle, and then lie down for a long nap. She said
she always slept better when her stomach was full, and that was the
habit of all Cats.
Sometimes she hunted in the fields, and many a morning at sunrise the
Cows had seen her walking toward the barn on the top of the fences. She
did not like to wet her feet on the dewy grass when it could be helped;
so, as soon as she was through hunting, she jumped on to the nearest
fence and went home in that way.
Yes, last night she had been hunting, yet she was not thinking of it
now. Neither was she asleep. A Rat gnawed at the boards near her, and
she hardly turned her head. A Mouse ran across the floor in plain sight,
and she watched him without moving. What did she care about them now?
Her first Kittens lay on the hay beside her, and she would not leave
them on this first day of their lives unless she really had to.
Of course she had seen little Kittens before--Kittens that belonged to
other Cats--but she was certain that none of them had looked at all like
her three charming babies. She could not decide which one of them was
the most beautiful. She was a Tortoise-shell Cat herself, and her fur
was spotted with white, black, and yellow. The babies had the same
colors on their soft coats, but not in just the same way as hers.
At first she thought her largest daughter was the beauty of the family;
she was such a clear yellow, with not a hair of any other color on her.
"I always did like yellow Cats," said the young mother, "and they are
said to be very strong."
Then she looked at her smaller daughter, who was white with tiny yellow
and black spots on neck and head. "Such a clean-looking baby," she
exclaimed, "and I am sure that when her eyes are open I shall find them
blue like my own."
Just at this moment, the warm, dark little bunch of fur between her
forepaws moved, and she looked lovingly down upon him, her only son. "He
is certainly a very remarkable one," she said. "I never before saw such
a fine mixture of yellow and black, first a hair of one and then a hair
of the other, so that, unless one is very close to him it looks like a
rich brown. And then his feet!" She gave him a loving little poke with
one forefoot and turned him onto his back. This made him wave his tiny
paws in the air. The thick cushions of skin on each were as black as
black could be, and that is very uncommon. They are usually pink, like
those of his sisters.
The little fellow lay there, wriggling very feebly, until his mother
gave him another poke that turned him over. Then he stretched and
crawled toward her, reaching his head first one way and then another. He
was so weak that he could not raise his body from the hay, but dragged
it along by taking short and uncertain steps with his four shaking legs.
It was only a short time since he found that he had legs, and he hadn't
any idea how to use them. He just moved whichever one seemed most in his
way.
He didn't know where he was going, or what he was going for, but his
little stomach was empty and he was cold. Something, he didn't know
what, made him drag himself toward the big, warm creature near by. When
his black nose touched the fur of her body, he stopped pushing ahead and
began to feel from side to side. He did not know now for what he was
feeling, yet when he found something his tiny mouth closed around it and
a stream of sweet warm milk began to flow down his throat and into his
empty stomach. He did not know that it was milk. He did not know
anything except that it was good, and then he fell asleep. His sisters
did in the same way, and soon the happy mother could look down and see
her three babies in a row beside her, all sound asleep. Their pointed
little tails lay straight out behind them, and their soft ears were bent
forward close to their heads.
"I wonder," said she, "if I was ever as small as they are, and if my
mother loved me as I love them." She stretched out one of her forepaws
and looked at it. It was so much larger, so very much larger, than the
paws of the Kittens. Such a soft and dainty paw as it was, and so
perfectly clean. She stretched it even more, and saw five long, curved,
sharp claws slide out of their sheaths or cases. She quickly slid them
back into their sheaths, for fear that in some way they might happen to
touch and hurt her babies.
A Swallow flew down from his nest and passed over her head, then out of
the open window. "Kittens!" said he. "Kittens!" He flew over the fields
and saw two Horses standing by the fence while the farmer was oiling his
machine. "We have new neighbors in the barn," said he, "and the Cat is
purring louder than ever."
"Who are the neighbors?" asked the Dappled Gray.
"Kittens!" sang the Swallow. "Oh, tittle-ittle-ittle-ee."
The Blind Horse drew a long breath. "Then I did hear her purr," said he;
"I am so glad." He never made a fuss about his troubles, for he was
brave and unselfish, yet the Dappled Gray knew without being told how
much lighter his heart was since he heard that the Cat had really been
purring above his head.
The days passed by, and the Kittens grew finely. They got their eyes
open, first in narrow cracks, and then wider and wider, until they were
round and staring. The White Kitten had blue ones, the others brown. In
the daytime, they had long, narrow black spots in the middle of their
eyes, and as the bright light faded, these black spots spread out
sideways until they were quite round. When it was very dark, these spots
glowed like great Fireflies in the night. Then the Mice, who often
scampered through the loft when the Cat was away, would see three pairs
of eyes glowing in the hay, and they would squeak to each other: "See!
The Kittens are watching us."
And the Kittens, who were not yet old enough to go hunting, and who were
afraid of everything that stirred, would crowd up against each other,
arch their little backs, raise their pointed tails, stand their fur on
end, and say, "Pst! Ha-a-ah!"
Sometimes they did this when there was not a person in sight and what
frightened them was nothing but a wisp of hay, blown down by the wind.
Afterward, when anything moved, they sprang at it, held it down with
their sharp little claws, and chewed on it with their pointed white
teeth. When they were tired of this game, they played hide-and-seek, and
when they were tired of that they chased their tails. It was so nice
always to have playthings with them. Sometimes, too, they chased each
other's tails, and caught them and bit them hard, until the Kitten who
owned the tail cried, "Mieow!" and tumbled the biter over.
They were allowed to play all through the loft except over the mangers.
Their mother was afraid that if they went there they would fall through
the holes which had been left in the floor. During the winter, the
farmer used to throw hay down through these to the hungry Horses. When
the Cat saw her children going toward these places, she called them back
and scolded them. Sometimes she struck them lightly on the ears with her
forepaw. "I don't like to," said she, "but they must learn to keep away.
It is not safe for them to go there."
One morning when she was away, they were playing hide-and-seek, and the
White Kitten was hunting for a good hiding-place. "I'll hide near one of
these holes," she said, "and they won't dare come there to look. Then,
after they have hunted a long, long time, I'll get another place and
let them find me." She did hide there, and after a long, long time, when
her brother and sister were in the farther end of the loft, she tried to
run over to another dark corner. Instead of that, the hay began to slip
and slide under her and she went down, down, down, through a long dark
box, and hit with a hard thud at the bottom.
She was so scared that she couldn't have told how many toes she had on
her forefeet. Of course, she had five on each, like all Kittens, and
four on each hind-foot, but if anybody had asked her then, she would
have been quite likely to say "three."
She was sore, too, and when she felt a warm breath on her and opened her
eyes, she saw that some great creature had thrust his nose through a
hole in the side of the dark box. "It must be a Horse," she thought,
"and my mother says that they are kind to Cats. I think I'd better tell
him who I am. I don't want him to take me for a Pig, because he may not
like Pigs." You see, she forgot that Horses had been living in the great
world and could tell to what family a person belonged the very first
time they saw him. The only people she had ever seen were Swallows and
Mice.
"If--if you please, sir," she said, "I am the White Kitten, and I just
tumbled down from the hay-loft, but I didn't mean to."
"I am the Blind Horse," answered a strong and gentle voice outside, "and
I hope you are not hurt."
"Not very much," answered the Kitten. "I just feel ache-y in my back and
scared all over."
"Come out into the manger, White Kitten," said the Blind Horse, "and
perhaps you won't be so scared. I won't touch you, although I should
like to. You know I am blind, and so, unless I can touch people I
don't know how they look."
[Illustration: I AM THE WHITE KITTEN.]
The White Kitten crawled out and saw him, and then she wasn't afraid at
all. She was so sorry for him that she couldn't be afraid. She
remembered the time before her eyes opened when she had to feel for
everything she wanted. It was not so hard then, because she did not know
anything different, but now she could not bear to think of not being
able to see all that was around her. "If you will put your nose down in
the other end of the manger," she said, "I will rub up against it, and
you will know more how I look."
The Blind Horse did this, and who can tell how happy it made him when
her warm and furry back rubbed up against his nose? "Thank you," he
whinnied; "you are very good."
"Would you know I was a Kitten if I hadn't told you?" she said.
"Indeed I would," he answered.
"And you wouldn't have thought me a Pig?" she asked.
"Never!" said he; "I wouldn't even have believed you if you had told me
that you were one."
The Blind Horse and the White Kitten became firm friends, and when she
tried to wash off the dirt that got into her fur she sat in the very
middle of the manger and told him all about it.
"My mother always has washed me," she said, "but my tongue is getting
big enough to wash with now. It is getting rougher, too, and that is a
good thing. My mother says that the reason why all the prickles on Cats'
tongues point backward is because then we can lick all the meat off from
bones with them. I'm 'most old enough to eat meat now. I can't wash the
top of my head though. You have to wet your paw and scrub it with that.
Can you wash the top of your head?"
Then the Blind Horse told her how the men kept him clean; and while he
was telling this the Cat came into his stall, crying and looking for her
child.
"Oh, mother," cried the White Kitten, "I tumbled down, but I didn't mean
to, and I'm sorry I didn't mind you, and the Blind Horse can't wash the
top of his head, and he knew that I wasn't a Pig."
The Cat was so glad to find the White Kitten that she didn't scold at
all, but jumped into the manger and washed her clean, and then caught
the loose skin of the Kitten's neck between her teeth and carried her
through the stalls, across the barn-floor, and up the stairs to their
home. That made the Kitten much ashamed, for she thought that she was
old enough to go alone.
For two whole days after this the White Kitten was so lame from her fall
that she could only lie still on the hay, and she could see that her
mother did not treat her as before. "I won't ever go near those places
again," she said. "I never will."
"You promised me before that you would stay away," said her mother, "and
you broke your promise." She did not punish the White Kitten, but she
felt very sad and she could not help showing it. There was a dreadful
ache in her child's little Kitten-heart that was a great deal worse than
the lameness in her back or in her neck or in her legs.
At last there came a day when the whole family walked downstairs, and
the Cat showed her three children to the farmyard people and spoke a few
words about each. "The yellow Kitten, my big daughter," said she,
"promises to be the best hunter: she is a wonderful jumper, and her
claws are already nearly as long as mine. My son, the brown one, has a
remarkable voice. And this White Kitten, my little daughter, is the most
obedient of all. She has never disobeyed me since the day she fell into
the manger, and I can trust her perfectly."
Then the White Kitten knew that she was quite forgiven, and she was the
happiest person on the farm.
THE CHICKEN WHO WOULDN'T EAT GRAVEL
It was some time after the Dorking Hen had come off the nest with her
little brood, that the mother of the Shanghai Chickens began to have so
much trouble.
She had twelve as fine Chickens as you could find anywhere: tall,
wide-awake youngsters with long and shapely legs and thick down and
feathers. She was very proud of them, as any Hen mother might well be,
and often said to the Shanghai Cock, "Did you ever see so fine a family?
Look at those twenty-four legs, all so long and straight, and not a
feather on one of them." His eyes would shine and he would stretch his
neck with pride, but all he ever said to her was, "They will do very
well if they only behave as well as they look." He did not believe in
praising children to their faces, and he thought their mother spoiled
them.
Perhaps he was right, for the little Shanghais soon found out that they
were good-looking, and they wanted everybody in the poultry-yard to
notice their legs. It was very foolish, of course, to be proud of such
things, but when the other fowls said, "We should think you would be
cold without feathers on your legs," they answered, "Oh, we are
Shanghais, and our family never wear feathers there!" And that was true,
just as it is true that the Dorkings have extra toes, and that the Black
Spanish fowls have white ears.
The Shanghai mother was now roaming the fields with her brood, and there
was rich picking in the wheat-stubble. All the fowls were out of the
yard now, and would not be shut up until cold weather. Early in the
morning they would start out in parties of from six to a dozen, with a
Cock at the head of each. He chose the way in which they should go; he
watched the sky for Hawks, and if he saw one, gave a warning cry that
made the Hens hurry to him. The Cocks are the lords of the poultry-yard
and say how things shall be there; but when you see them leading the way
in the fields,--ah, then you know why all the fowls obey them.
The farmyard people still tell of the day when a Hawk swooped down on
one of the young Dorkings and would have carried him off if the Black
Spanish Cock had not jumped out, and pecked him and struck at him with
his spurs, and fought, until the Hawk was glad to hurry away. The Cocks
are not only brave--they are polite, too, and when they find food they
will not eat it until they have called the Hens to come and share with
them.
You can imagine what good times the Chickens had in the stubble-fields.
They were so old now that their down was all covered with feathers, and
some of them wondered if they couldn't feel their spurs growing. Still,
that was all nonsense, as a Bantam told them, because spurs do not start
until the fowl is a year old. They had long been too large to cuddle
under their mother's feathers at night, and had taken their first
lessons in roosting before they went to the stubble-fields. They had
learned to break up their own food, too, and that was a great help to
their mother. Fowls, you know, have no teeth, and no matter how big a
mouthful one takes he has to swallow it whole. The only way they can
help themselves is to break the pieces apart with their feet or peck
them apart with their bills before eating them.
The yellow grains of wheat that lay everywhere in the field were fine
food, and should have made the little Shanghais as fat as the Grouse who
sometimes stole out from the edge of the forest. Eleven of the brood
were quite plump, but one Chicken was still thin and lank. His mother
was very much worried about him and could not think what was the matter.
She spoke of it to the Black Spanish Hen one day, but the Black Spanish
Hen had never raised a brood, and said she really didn't know any more
about the care of Chickens than if she were a Dove. Then the anxious
mother went to the Shanghai Cock about it. He listened to all she said
and looked very knowing.
"I don't think there is anything the matter," said he. "The Chick is
growing fast, that is all. I remember how it was with me before I got my
long tail-feathers. I was very thin, yet see what a fine-looking fellow
I am now." He was really a sight worth seeing as he towered above the
other fowls, flapping his strong wings in the sunshine and crowing. His
feathers were beautiful, and the bright red of his comb and wattles
showed that he was well. "Ah," thought the Shanghai Hen, "if my Chicken
could only become such a fine-looking Cock!" And she didn't worry any
more all day.
That night she and her brood roosted in the old apple-tree in the corner
of the orchard nearest the poultry-yard. She flew up with the older
fowls and fluttered and lurched and squawked and pushed on first one
branch and then another, while the Chickens were walking up a slanting
board that the farmer had placed against one of the lower branches. It
always takes fowls a long time to settle themselves for the night. They
change places and push each other, and sometimes one sleepy Hen leans
over too far and falls to the ground, and then has to begin all over
again.
At first the Chickens had feared that they would tumble off as soon as
they were asleep, but they soon learned that their feet and the feet of
all other birds are made in such a way that they hang on tightly even
during sleep. The weight of the bird's body above hooks the toes around
the branch, and there they stay until the bird wishes to unhook them.
After a long time, all the fowls were asleep with their heads under
their wings. The Sheep, Pigs, and Cows were dreaming, and even the
Horses were quiet in their stalls. There was not a light to be seen in
the big white farmhouse, when the Dorking Cock crowed in his sleep. That
awakened him and all the other fowls as well. Then the other Cocks
crowed because he did and he crowed again because they did, and they
crowed again because he had crowed again, and the Chickens asked if it
were not almost morning, and their mothers told them not to talk but to
go to sleep at once and make morning come more quickly.
All of this took quite a while, and the Shanghai mother could not sleep
again. She could see her brood quite plainly in the moonlight, and one
of them was not plump like the rest. She roosted there and worried about
him until suddenly (she could never tell how it happened) she seemed to
know just what was the matter.
She flew down beside him and poked him under his wing. "Wake up," she
said. "I want to ask you something. Do you eat gravel?"
"No," he answered sleepily, "I don't like gravel."
"Didn't I bring you up to eat it?" she asked sternly.
"Yes, but I don't like it, and now that I am old enough to roost in a
tree I don't mean to eat any more. So!"
Just imagine a Chicken talking to his mother in that way! His mother,
who had laid the egg from which he was hatched; who had sat upon the
nest through all the weary days and nights while he was growing inside
his shell; who had cuddled him under her soft feathers; who had taught
him all he knew, and would have fought any hawk to save him! She had
begun to love him before he even knew that he was, and had lived for him
and his brother and sisters ever since.
The mother said nothing more to him then. She spent the rest of the
night watching the stars and the moon and the first rosy flush of the
eastern sky which told that morning was near. Then she said to her
naughty Chicken, as he began to stir and cheep, "I shall never try to
make you eat gravel if you think you are too big to mind your mother. I
shall just tell you this, that you will never be strong unless you do. I
have not told you why, because you never asked, and I supposed you would
do as you ought without knowing the reason. You have no teeth, and you
cannot chew the grain you eat before it is swallowed. You have a strong
stomach, and if you eat gravel this stomach or gizzard will rub and
press the tiny stones against the grain until it is well broken up and
ready to make into fat and strength for your body."
"But it doesn't taste good," he replied, "and I'd rather eat other
things. I don't believe it matters, and I won't eat it anyway."
The Shanghai Hen flew down from the tree and clucked to her Chickens.
She would not waste time talking to him. Whenever he came near her that
day, he ate everything but gravel. He had his own way and yet he was not
happy. For some reason, nothing seemed to be any fun. Even lying under
the bushes on the sunshiny side was not comfortable, and when he
wallowed in the dust with his brothers and sisters he didn't enjoy that.
Things went on this way for a good many days, and at last he saw that
his shadow was only a small black spot on the ground, while his
brothers and sisters had big fat shadows. He heard the Black Spanish
Cock call him a Bantam, and the Shanghai Cock say that he wouldn't live
until his spurs grew. One of the Dorking Chickens was talking to her
sister, and he heard her say, "Imagine him at the head of a flock!" Then
she laughed, a mean, cackling little laugh.
That night, when the rest were asleep in the apple-tree, he walked
softly down the slanting board and ate gravel. The next morning he felt
better than he had in a long time, so when there was nobody around he
ate some more. He didn't want anyone else to know that he had found out
his mistake. Every morning he looked at his shadow, and it grew fatter
and fatter. Still he was not happy, and he knew it was because he had
not told his patient old mother. He wanted to tell her, too. One day he
heard her telling his brother to eat more gravel, and the brother said
he didn't like the taste of it. That made him speak at last.