Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 53920-h.htm or 53920-h.zip:
(https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/53920/pg53920-images.html)
or
(https://www.gutenberg.org/files/53920/53920-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/kittyboyschristm00blan
[Illustration: _A solemn-faced little midget, about six years old,
clasping to her breast a battered doll, stood before them_--Page 31]
KITTYBOY'S CHRISTMAS
by
AMY E. BLANCHARD
Author of "Two Girls," "Taking a Stand,"
"A Dear Little Girl," etc.
Illustrated by Ida Waugh
Philadelphia
George W. Jacobs & Co.
1898
Copyright by
George W. Jacobs & Co.
1898
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I
Kittyboy was lost. It was an evident fact. He stood on the corner of
the alley which led into a wide street to which he had been chased
by an aggressive dog, and with every hair bristling, looked around
for a friendly door, but they were all shut closely; and the snow was
beginning to fall, in an uncertain way, just a flake here and there,
displaying exquisitely perfect crystals on the stone steps and the
brick pavement, then melting away very slowly.
Kittyboy tucked his four small paws neatly under him, and crouched in a
corner, once in a while giving a plaintive little "meow," which no one
noticed, if any one heard. Yet, after all, Kittyboy's losing of himself
was not such a dreadful thing, for he was always being kicked aside
as a troublesome beast, even before his little mistress, Annie Brady,
was sent away to a Home, being considered by her uncle's family in the
light of a nuisance, quite as great as Kittyboy himself. Nevertheless,
in spite of his rather unpleasant experiences in the world, Kittyboy
was full of a happy confidence in humanity scarcely to be expected.
So, presently seeing a figure coming up the street, he rose from his
compact attitude and ran along by the railing of an area, rubbing his
sides against the narrow bars, and finally followed the figure up the
broad steps; then, as the latch-key was turned in the door, he saw his
opportunity, and slipped in.
It was rather late; eleven o'clock or more, and getting colder every
minute. The house was very quiet, no one astir anywhere; a light,
however, was burning in one room, where a warm fire blazed in the open
grate, the sight of which so delighted Kittyboy that he began to purr
contentedly. The light, now turned up, showed more distinctly what
manner of person it was whom Kittyboy had followed: an elderly man,
with keen, sharp eyes; he was somewhat portly, was well dressed, and
brisk in his movements. Kittyboy's little black form, snuggled in one
corner, where he sat blinking at the fire, was not noticed by this
other occupant of the room, who, lighting a cigar, sat down by a table,
stretched out his legs comfortably, and unfolded the evening paper.
Presently, the sharp sound of a coal dropping on the polished hearth
disturbed Kittyboy's nap, and he jumped up, with visions of whips
cracking over his head, and gave a leap away from the fire. The sharp
noise also attracted the attention of the reader, who looked over the
top of his newspaper to see four little furry feet daintily stepping
across the rug.
"What are you doing here! Get out, cat!" came an exclamation in so much
milder language than that to which Kittyboy was accustomed, that he
considered it in the light of an overture, and springing up on the arm
of the chair, in which this new acquaintance was sitting, he proceeded
to play with the newspaper, patting the two sides, with ears very much
forward, and an alert look on the wise little face, as if in momentary
expectation of seeing a mouse jump out from the folds of the sheet.
The very audacity of the performance tickled the man's fancy. "You
impudent little beast," he said; "how did you get in here, anyhow?
Aha! I know. I believe I saw you as I came up the steps. You must have
slipped in behind me. But this will never do; you will have to get out
again. No cats allowed in my house."
For answer, Kittyboy began to rub his head against the arm nearest him,
purring softly.
The man regarded him less severely. "If I'm going to turn you out,
I may as well give you something to eat. You are none too well fed,
I see," he remarked; and, rising, he took his way to another room,
where, after hunting around, he found in the larder a pitcher of
cream, set away by the housekeeper for her master's morning coffee.
All unconscious of bringing dismay to the worthy woman, Dr. Brewster
emptied the contents of the pitcher in a saucer and set it down,
watching Kittyboy eagerly lap up this unexpected treat.
"Now you must go," said the doctor; and Kittyboy followed confidently
at his heels. But the draught of icy wind which greeted him as the
front door was opened, caused the little fellow to scamper back to
the library, where, before the open fire, he again sat down and began
complacently to wash his face.
Back into the room came Dr. Brewster, laughing in spite of himself.
"You are a sly little rascal," he said; "come, come," and he picked
up the unresisting little creature, which cuddled down comfortably in
his arms, as if it were beyond the bounds of possibility that a second
attempt should be made to put him out, and the good doctor actually
began to have compunctions. "I always vowed I'd never have a cat
in the house," he said, under his breath; "am I to give in at this
late day? Well! you audacious little wretch, I'll let you stay till
morning. It's too cold a night to turn any creature out of doors," and
Kittyboy's triumph was complete when he was put down on the hearth-rug
and allowed to continue his ablutions, while the doctor resumed his
paper.
But it was strange that the presence of a little black cat could turn a
sober man's interest from foreign news and the quotations of the stock
market, and that he should have found himself dwelling on the memory of
two little eager faces which he had seen that day gazing into a window
decked out with Christmas toys, and, furthermore, that twice he should
have read over an item which went as follows:
"Every year, about Christmas time, a number of letters find their way
to the Post Office; they are variously addressed to Santa Claus, Kris
Kringle, or St. Nicholas, and are the outcome of childish faith. One
is forced to wonder how often they must be followed by disappointment,
since there can appear no claimant for them."
The doctor, we have said, read the paragraph twice over, and then,
lowering his paper, sat looking thoughtfully into the fire. After
a while a smile broke over his face, and he returned to his sheet.
But the smile did not leave his lips till he extinguished the light
and went to his room, leaving the sleeping Kittyboy curled up on the
hearth-rug in a condition of delicious warmth and comfort.
When, the next morning, at the sight of buckets and brooms brought
in by the housemaid, Kittyboy scampered out, it was to find refuge
in the dining-room, just as the doctor opened the door to go to his
breakfast. This time Kittyboy was not driven out, for the cheery
waitress said, "It brings good luck, doctor, sorr, to have a cat come
to the house, especially a black cat." And by the time the doctor had
finished, indulgently feeding Kittyboy with bits from his own plate,
and Kittyboy had responded by such antics as kept the doctor laughing,
it was an understood thing that the little cat was fairly adopted into
the family.
The invasion of a common little street cat into the bachelor's
household quite scandalized the good housekeeper, who could not get it
out of her head that Kittyboy had in some way purloined the cream, but,
said the cheerful Maggie, "It's far too quiet here to suit me, and the
doctor actually ate his breakfast this morning without the paper at his
elbow. I certainly am glad to see some sort of a young creature about
the house." The housekeeper gave a sniff, but even she smiled furtively
a moment later at sight of Kittyboy wildly chasing his tail.
Buttoning himself up well in his overcoat, the doctor, after breakfast,
took his way down town, and went straight to the city Post Office. He
did not stop as he passed through the long corridor till he reached the
private office of the Postmaster himself.
"Hello, Brewster, what brings you here so early?" questioned that
worthy, looking up from his desk. "Haven't any complaints to make
about Uncle Sam's mail, have you? Don't be too hard on us if things
aren't just on time. There is a great rush from now till after the
holidays, and you old bachelors are so methodical that, if a letter is
a minute and a quarter late, you think the entire Post Office system
is tottering. Sit down."
"No," replied the doctor. "I didn't come to complain, Hardy, I came to
see if I could collect the mail for Santa Claus."
Mr. Hardy put down his pen, and stared at his visitor. "What are you
driving at, anyhow?" he asked. "Oh, I see; some charity Christmas tree,
or something. How much will let me off, doc?"
The doctor smiled. "I'm not on that errand at all. I simply want to
know if it is possible to have any letters, now lying in this office,
addressed to Santa Claus, delivered to me?"
Mr. Hardy looked thoughtful for a moment. "Are there any such letters?"
he then asked.
The doctor felt in his pocket for the last evening's paper, which he
had taken the precaution to carry with him, and silently pointed out
the paragraph he had read the night before.
Mr. Hardy nodded understandingly. "I don't see why you shouldn't
have them," he replied finally; "I'll get them for you, doc, if it's
possible," and, leaving the office, he presently returned with about
half a dozen letters, which he handed to his friend. "There you are,"
he said. "No need to ask what you're going to do with them. It's just
like the things you used to do when we were lads. It takes me back to
the old days when Christmas comes around. Come up and see us, doc; the
latch string is always out," and he turned to his desk, as the doctor
with his budget left the room.
The latter went directly to his club, and opened the funny, smudgy
little notes. Some of them printed; some sprawled across a wide page,
some very zig-zag and uncertain.
"_Don't, good Santa Claus, forget our corner_," read one, "_20uth
and Purl street, if you can't git down the chimney cause they are
reggyters come in the window, we'll leave it a little bit open so you
can hist it easy_.
"BOB."
"That youngster's all right," nodded the doctor. "I know the locality,
and there's not a doubt but that his stocking will be well-filled."
The next was printed.
"_I am a good girl bring me the doll. Fill wants a bow narrow_,"
--but there was no address, and this, too, was laid aside.
Then came a queer little, half-printed, half-written epistle:
"DEAR SANTA: _I want a new papa and a new kitten. Conny says kittens
are easy enuff to get, but papas are much harder and very spensive.
but I dont want just any kitten please, cause my dear Jollity was
black and all the kittens this year are grey. if you have any black
ones to spare please bring me one and a papa with a red ribbon around
its neck. dont go to grandpas at Fort wurth where we were last year
cause we aint there now we are at 610 west 12 street._
"ELINOR TEMPLE."
As the doctor read the signature a red flush mounted to his forehead,
and he cast a confused look around him; then he slipped the letter into
his pocket, took two or three turns up and down the room, and returned
to his examination of the rest of the mail.
The last two letters were pitiful appeals from homes of want and
misery; timid little requests, full of childish faith, which made the
doctor shake his head and blink his eyes, frowning the while. These
letters he also put aside, and then paced the floor in deep thought.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]