he thought, in his way. One morning, as he was returning early from
market, he saw a little ragged boy gazing hungrily at the open kitchen,
and, no doubt, wishing himself well inside.
“What is your name?” asked Lustucru.
“Faribole, Monsieur,” answered the little boy, making a low bow.
“And what are you doing here, spying in my mistress’s windows? Are you
thinking that you would like to be one of her household?”
“I was, indeed, Monsieur,” answered Faribole. “Could you tell me if
there is any need of a scullion, for I would willingly do any work, I
am so hungry and homeless.”
“I am the steward,” said Monsieur Lustucru, proudly, “and I alone have
the power to engage you. This I will do if you will promise to obey me
in all things.”
“Oh, I will do your bidding in everything,” the little fellow pleaded.
“Then,” said the steward, “follow me, and I will instruct you in your
duties.”
When they were safely in the house, Lustucru turned to Faribole and
said, “Do you see that cat?”--pointing to the sleeping Moumouth. “You
must try to make that creature your friend, for he is the chief pet of
our mistress, Madame de la Grenouillière. Make him love you, make him
your friend, and all will be well.”
For a month Faribole played with Moumouth; he coaxed him, he petted
him, and, at last, completely won the cat’s heart. Moumouth would have
followed him anywhere.
At the end of a month’s time, Lustucru called the boy to him.
“You have done all I told you to,” he said, as if he were very much
pleased.
“And now shall I stay here always, Monsieur?” Faribole asked eagerly.
“That depends upon your being willing to do what I tell you, my lad,”
answered the steward. “You must, to-night, call Moumouth out into the
garden. There you and I will put him into a large sack, and together we
will beat him to death.”
“Never! Never!” cried Faribole, who loved the cat very much. “I could
never do such a dreadful thing as that!”
For answer Lustucru went to the closet where the boy’s ragged garments,
that he had worn upon first entering the house, were hanging.
“Take off the clothes I gave you, and go away instantly in these rags,
if you are not willing to obey me!” said Lustucru, savagely.
In vain poor Faribole wept and begged for Moumouth’s life to be
spared, but the wicked steward refused to listen to another word; and,
at last, Faribole, growing less and less brave as he thought of his
hungry days and wet nights on the pavements of Paris, promised that he
would help Lustucru do this cruel deed.
The next day, as the afternoon was drawing to a close, Mother Michel
called Faribole to her and said: “I am going out on an errand, now, and
I am going to leave Moumouth with you. Be kind to him, and the Countess
will reward your kindness when she returns.”
Alas! No sooner had she started than Faribole, the tears running down
his face, coaxed Moumouth into the garden. There, at the end of a long
alley, stood Lustucru waiting, sack in hand. He seized the cat, thrust
him in the sack, and, in spite of all his struggles, tied the cord in a
tight knot. He raised his club, and was about to strike when back came
Mother Michel, out of breath from running so fast.
“Our dear mistress is returning, Lustucru,” she cried, panting. “Come,
let us go to meet her with all the rest of the household.”
She turned, and was soon out of sight.
“Here!” cried Lustucru, out of patience at the delay. “Here, Faribole!
Take this wretched cat, beat him until he can’t stir, and then throw
him into the Seine.” And he, too, ran away to welcome the Countess home
again. When he returned, there was Faribole, his face all wet with
tears, but no Moumouth!
“Have you done as I told you?” asked the wicked man, and the boy nodded
his head, too sad to speak.
But here they heard the voice of Mother Michel calling Faribole.
“Faribole! Faribole! Come hither! Our mistress, the dear Countess,
wishes you to bring her dear cat to her immediately.”
Faribole went slowly, and with his head hanging.
“Oh, Mother Michel!” he cried, “while Moumouth and I were at play in
the garden, he got frightened by some boys who were passing, and ran
away to hide in the hedge.”
The Countess was very much grieved, and Mother Michel tried to console
her. “Once he was lost for several days, and he came back unharmed,”
she said.
But though they looked everywhere, and offered rewards, no Moumouth was
to be found.
At last Mother Michel decided to go to the fortune-teller around the
corner, hoping that there she might hear some news of her lost pet.
The fortune-teller turned over her pack of cards. “You are looking for
something that is lost,” she said. “Ah, I see by the cards that it is a
cat.” She turned over a few more, “My poor lady,” she said sorrowfully,
“your cat has been sold to a butcher, and eaten for a rabbit!”
Mother Michel was just beginning to wring her hands with grief, when
she heard a violent scratching at the door, and then, right through a
pane of glass bounded Moumouth, and jumped straight into her friendly
lap.
“You wicked woman!” cried Mother Michel, angrily; “first you steal our
cat, and then you pretend that he is dead. Oh, this is a fine tale to
tell my mistress, the Countess. She’ll have you put in prison for this!”
“Mercy! Mercy!” begged the fortune-teller, falling on her knees. “I did
not know the cat was yours. It was brought to me by a little lad named
Faribole, who knew I wanted one. Forgive me! Do not have me punished
for a thing that I did not know was wrong.”
Mother Michel was so happy at finding Moumouth that she readily
forgave the poor woman, and hurried home to show the dear pet to the
Countess. Madame de la Grenouillière was as delighted to see Moumouth
as her companion had been to find him. When they had petted him and
fed him and, at last, left him asleep on a down cushion, they sent for
Faribole, and asked him why he had done so wicked a thing.
“Oh,” cried the poor boy, “I wanted to save him from Monsieur Lustucru,
and that seemed to be the only way. He wanted me to beat him to death.”
No one believed him, of course. The steward indignantly denied such
intentions, and poor Faribole was sent away in disgrace.
But Lustucru’s wickedness could not always remain hidden. Some days
after Moumouth’s return, while looking through her cupboard, Mother
Michel found three dead rats and the remains of the chicken patties
that Moumouth had refused to eat. She carried them to the Countess, and
they sent for the steward.
“Oh, Lustucru,” said his mistress, “the rats are troubling me so in
here that I wanted to know if you had any rat-poison.”
“Certainly, Madame,” he replied, bowing. “Wait one moment, and I will
bring it to you.”
The Countess soon found that the two poisons were exactly the same,
and, besides, there began to be people who said that they had seen
Lustucru throw Moumouth from the bridge into the Seine. The steward,
who feared that he would receive his just reward, ran away suddenly one
night, and took service shortly after on a ship that was wrecked on
the Sandwich Islands. And so all his sins were punished, for it is said
that the cannibals ate him for dinner the next day!
As for Faribole, he was taken again into the Countess’s service,
where, so willingly did he work, and so earnestly did he repent of his
misdoing, that Mother Michel adopted him as her own son. When the old
Countess died, she left in her will, as she had promised, an annuity
of three hundred dollars to Moumouth and Mother Michel, to be shared
between them, and when one died, the other was to receive the whole
legacy. So these three--Mother Michel, Moumouth, and Faribole--lived
together happy and contented all their days. And when Moumouth
died,--for all cats must, you know,--he had a grand funeral, and a fine
monument with the story of his life written on it in Latin, so that all
might know how good and wise a cat he had been.
* * * * *
“There!” purred Impty. “Isn’t that a fine tale? And, you see, it did
turn out well, didn’t it? Why, Moumouth became so famous that people
made a nursery rhyme out of his story. French children sing it to this
day, and know it as well as you do ‘Three Little Kittens.’”
“Oh, Impty! What lovely stories the King of the Cats does tell you! I
wish I could go to Cat-Land some night. Couldn’t I?” Dolly coaxed.
“I’ll see,” said Impty, settling himself for his sleep-journey.
“To-night I’ll ask my grandfather, and _maybe_ he’ll let you come.”
THE SIXTH NIGHT
“Can I go to Cat-Land, Impty dear?” asked Dolly, sitting up eagerly, as
soon as the black kitten jumped on the bed.
“No, you can’t,” Impty answered. “I’m awfully sorry, but my grandfather
says that unless you can change into a cat you can’t go; and people
can’t change into cats, nor cats into people, nowadays. I can’t imagine
wanting to be a human being, but there was a cat once that did. Did you
ever hear of her?”
[Illustration: VENUS AND THE CAT]
There was, once upon a time, a cat who was not at all satisfied with
herself. It was not that she wished to be more beautiful, but, because
she had fallen in love with a young man, she wanted to be changed into
a girl, that he might love her in return. So she prayed before the
altar of Venus, and begged that the goddess would make her a beautiful
maiden. So long and so earnestly did the cat pray, that Venus at last
grew sorry for her, and changed her into one of the loveliest girls
in the world, so beautiful, indeed, that, as soon as he saw her, the
young man begged her to marry him. Everything was going as happily as
possible, when Venus, just to see if she had been able to give the cat
another nature in changing her shape, put a mouse down before her.
Instantly the girl sprang from her seat, and chased the mouse round
and round the room, caught it, and would have eaten it, had not Venus
turned her at once into a cat again, for she saw it was of no use, and
that what was bred in the bone would always stick to the flesh.
[Illustration: VENUS TURNED HER AT ONCE INTO A CAT AGAIN.--_Page 180._]
* * * * *
“Of course it’s a pity she didn’t have more sense,” added Impty,
sagely; “but then, mice are _such_ a temptation! Æsop--my grandfather
says he wrote the fable hundreds and hundreds of years ago--knew just
as much about animals as he did about men. I’m going to tell you his
story of ‘The Cat and the Fox.’”
[Illustration:
THE CAT
AND THE
FOX
]
One day a cat met a fox in the wood. “Ah,” she thought, “he is clever
and sensible, and talked of in the world a good deal; I will speak to
him.” So she said, quite in a friendly manner: “Good morning, dear Mr.
Fox; how are you? And how do things go with you in these hard times?”
The fox, full of pride, looked at the cat from head to foot, and
hardly knew what to say to her for a long time. At last he replied:
“Oh, you poor little whisker-cleaner, you old gray tabby, you hungry
mouse-hunter, what are you thinking about to come to me, and to stand
there and ask me how I am getting on? What do you know, and how many
tricks have you?”
“I only know one trick,” answered the cat, meekly.
“And pray what is that?” he asked.
“Well,” she said, “if the hounds are behind me, I can spring up into a
tree out of their way and save myself.”
“Is that all?” cried the fox. “Why, I am master of a hundred tricks,
and have, over and above all, a sackful of cunning. But I pity you,
Puss, so come with me, and I will teach you how to baffle both men and
hounds.”
At this moment a hunter with four hounds was seen approaching. The
cat sprang nimbly up a tree and seated herself on the highest branch,
where, by the spreading foliage, she was quite hidden.
“Turn out the sack, Master Fox, turn out the sack!” cried the cat; but
the hounds had already seized him, and held him fast.
“Ah, Master Fox,” cried the cat, “your hundred tricks are not of much
use to you. Now, if you had only known one like mine, you would not
have lost your life so quickly.”
* * * * *
“And now I really must go,” said Impty. “I’m sorry not to tell you
more to-night, but our Caterwauling Class meets at eight in the
backyard, and I’m leader. They say I’ve a wonderful voice for so young
a cat. Isn’t it lucky that the shutter doesn’t close quite tight? If
it did I’d never see the fence, nor my friends, either, and, just
as likely as not, they’d elect Tabby Gray in my place out of spite.
Good-by!”
THE SEVENTH NIGHT
Outside it was cold and wet; twilight had come early, and Impty trotted
in shivering and a little cross.
“I almost wish that I wasn’t black,” he growled, as he cuddled up
beside Dolly. “Miss Jane’s airing her furs; _she_ says there’s frost in
the air, and she picked me up just because she thought I was her old
muff. The idea of mixing up a respectable kitten with a monkey muff!”
“What did you do, Impty?” asked Dolly, curiously.
“Oh, I just stuck out my claws, and miaoued a little. _Any_ cat would,
and then she said, ‘There’s that everlasting kitten!’ and shooed me out
of the door, and I got all wet before I could run in again.”
“Poor kitty!” said the little girl, patting him.
“To-night is Hallowe’en,” went on Impty, “and people used to believe
that witches and cats could go where they pleased on that night. They
can’t, really. I wish they could, for then I’d sail off through the
air with Miss Jane’s furs, and never, never bring them back! Or,
perhaps, I’d bite her boa in two like ‘The Cat and the Pudding-Bag
String.’ But it does seem a little odd that, long, long years ago on
this very Eve of All Hallows, Dick Whittington heard the Bow Bells
calling to him, ‘Turn, turn again, Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of
London!’ Do you know the tale of Dick Whittington and his wonderful
Cat? If not, I’m going to tell it to you to-night.”
[Illustration:
Dick Whittington
And His
Wonderful Cat.
]
A long, long time ago there lived in England a little country lad, Dick
Whittington by name. Now Dick’s father was a poor man, a farm-laborer,
working early and late in the fields that his family might be able to
live on even the simplest fare. Sometimes there was very little of
this, and at last Dick made up his mind to go to London and win a
fortune for the whole family. There, so he had heard, the streets were
paved with gold, and any one might become rich for the asking.
So one night, when every one else was fast asleep in his bed, Dick
tied his Sunday clothes together in a bundle and ran away on the wide
high-road that led to London-Town. Many a weary mile he walked; and,
when he was very hungry, and it seemed as if his tired feet could not
take another step, he cheered himself up by thinking of those streets
of gold. At last he came to London, and what was his disappointment
to see only rough cobble-stones, looking just like those in the
market-square near his own home. As he was wandering up and down,
footsore and not knowing where to go, he caught sight of a little
golden-haired girl. It was the only gold he had seen since he came to
London. She stared from the window above at the little ragged fellow,
and then, as if she suddenly thought that he might be hungry, she ran
down and begged the porter to let Dick in.
Now this little girl was Alice Fitzgerald, the daughter of a rich
merchant, his only child, and petted and loved by all who knew her.
Even the cook, crabbed and cross to every one else, could deny her
nothing; and because she asked him so prettily to feed the hungry boy,
he took Dick in, gave him some supper, and, the next day, made him his
scullion.
Dick worked harder than he had ever worked in all his life before.
He never saw Alice except when she went out to walk or ride, for the
kitchens were a long way from the parlors above. The cook was cross,
the work was dull, and, worst of all, the little, chilly garret in
which the boy slept was filled with mice and rats. These worried him
so, running over him at night, waking him from the happy dream that
he was at home again, that he spent his last penny for a cat which a
ragged urchin was carrying through the streets. Soon the mice and the
rats ceased to trouble him, and life seemed easier after all.
Master Fitzgerald, the merchant in whose kitchens Dick worked, was
a kind-hearted man, and whenever he sent out a ship laden with his
goods, he let his servants add some venture of their own, too, upon
which they could make a profit. Soon after puss had driven away all the
rats and the mice in her little master’s garret, the merchant called
together his household, and asked each one what they would send with
his fine new outward-bound ship. Some brought one thing, some another,
but Dick Whittington had only his cat to send. All the servants laughed
at him, and the cook called him a little fool for putting so silly a
thing on his master’s vessel. But the merchant said that if Dick wished
to sell the cat it should go, and pussy was carefully put on board the
ship. After she was gone how Dick did miss her! He had never realized
how fond he was of her until she was so far away that he could not call
her back; and the rats and the mice, as if they knew that there was no
cat lying in wait for them, ran back into the garret again. At last
Dick grew so discouraged that he packed his clothes in a little bundle
and stole out of the house softly one All Hallow’s Eve to run back to
his home. There the skies were blue, and the people kind, and even if
the streets were not paved with gold, all the woods and fields were
yellow with Autumn.
[Illustration: SOME BROUGHT ONE THING, SOME ANOTHER, BUT DICK
WHITTINGTON HAD ONLY HIS CAT TO SEND.--_Page 194._]
But, as he walked quickly along the road that led to the open country,
the great Bells of Bow Church began to ring, and the sound came to Dick
Whittington’s ears like a voice, for it called, “Turn, turn again,
Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of London!” The little boy listened,
and said to himself, “Perhaps there’s good luck yet in store for
me!” and once more the Bells of Bow pealed out, “Turn, turn again,
Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of London.”
So back to his garret and his work went Dick, resolved to stay a while
longer at least, and give the Bow Bells’ prophecy a chance to come
true. The cook was still cross, the work was as hard as ever, and, as
the mice and rats gnawed and gnawed, Dick missed his furry friend very
much. But he kept on steadily working, and, by and by, his patience
was rewarded. The ship that had sailed so long before with his little
venture on board, returned, and the captain told a marvellous tale.
A favorable wind had brought the vessel quickly to the coast of
Barbary, and there the sailors went ashore, carrying with them some
bales of merchandise to sell to the Sultan, who was so much pleased
with the wonderful things that he bought them all, and bade the captain
and his officers dine at the palace. They went, but, no sooner were
they seated at a long table spread with magnificent gold and silver
dishes, and everything good to eat and drink, than swarms of rats and
mice ran out of the walls, and devoured all the banquet. The captain,
vexed to lose his dinner so, sent the cabin-boy for the cat which
had been left on board the vessel, and, as soon as she came to the
palace-door, and saw the mice and rats, she sprang from the boy’s arms
and chased them all away, just as she had done in Dick’s attic in
far-off London. Then the Sultan of Barbary begged to buy this wonderful
creature, and offered the captain three hundred thousand pounds for
her. So pussy was sold, and a great fortune came in her stead to the
little scullion.
And Dick Whittington was worthy of his good luck, for he sent for all
his family to come to London and live like lords; he even gave presents
to the servants who had laughed at him and his cat.
His master, the wealthy merchant, made him a partner in his ships
and ventures; his fortune yearly increased, and when he had grown to
be a young man, he married Alice Fitzgerald, and, last of all, he was
knighted by the king, became Sir Richard Whittington, and was thrice
Lord Mayor of London, as the Bow Bells had long, long ago chimed in his
ears.
* * * * *
“And the best of it all is,” added Impty, with a wide, red yawn, “that
Sir Richard never forgot what had brought him his good-fortune when
he was only poor little Dick Whittington; for, in all his statues and
pictures, there is a little cat curled down in one corner, in memory of
his own puss.”
“How I wish I could see one of them,” said Dolly, earnestly. “I do love
people to remember things.”
“My grandfather, the King of the Cats, has lots in his palace in
Cat-Land. Now, if I could only take you with me--but I can’t; it’s no
use wishing, so good night!”
THE EIGHTH NIGHT
As Impty settled down into his place the next night, his purr sounded
almost like a laugh.
“Why, Kitty, what _are_ you laughing at?” Dolly asked, for the black
kitten was usually a sober little person.
“I was just thinking of a prank my grandfather played in his young
days, long, long before he ever thought of being the King of the Cats.
If you like, I’ll tell it to you.”
[Illustration:
THE FUNERAL
OF
TOM GRIMALKIN
]
There were once four crows that sat in an ash-tree near an old
farm-house. It wasn’t long before the owl that lived hard by looked out
of his window under the eaves of the loft, and said to them:--
“Good day to you.”
“Good day,” answered the crows.
“Have you any spare time?” asked the owl. “Then I can put you in the
way of earning an honest penny.”
“Indeed, we’d like to,” said the four, for the snow was lying old and
thick over the whole country, and there wasn’t much to be earned.
“My good comrade, Tom Grimalkin, is dead,” said the owl. “Now, I was
thinking you might carry him to his grave. When my old friend was
alive, he often used to say to me: ‘Jan Owl,’ he would say, ‘you must
give me a decent burial. A respectable life deserves a respectable
funeral,’ he used to say, for he was a clever cat. Now, look here! You
four have good black coats on, and are honest people--”
“Come along, then,” said the crows, and crept in through the owl-hole
after him, one by one.
Now it was pretty dark in the loft, and the thatched roof was low, but
they could see Tom Grimalkin where he lay. He was stretched at full
length in the hay, without a move in him. The owl took up his post at
his friend’s head, and the crows hopped along, all askew, just as
they do in windy weather among the young wheat.
[Illustration: “HAVE YOU ANY SPARE TIME?” ASKED THE OWL.--_Page 205._]
“Many’s the mouse we’ve caught in this loft together, Tom,” said the
owl. “We’ve always been good friends, and many’s the spree we’ve had
with one another. But that’s all past and gone now. Oh, Tom! Tom,
old fellow! How you’d rejoice, and what a spring you’d make, if you
were only alive, and I said to you, ‘Tom, four stupid black crows are
standing round you this minute!’”
Then up sprang the Tom-Cat, and there was a crow-hunt, the like of
which you’ve never seen.
* * * * *
“Didn’t I tell you that owls were more like cats than birds? Why, even
that silly song that your uncle sings sometimes, about the owl and the
pussy-cat that went to sea in a pea-green boat, and lived on honey,
says so. I don’t think that any self-respecting cat would eat honey,
but the rest of it’s true enough. This isn’t getting on with my next
story, though, and directly I’m through I’ve got to go to Cat-Land.
There’s to be a grand ball at the Palace to-night, and I’m to open it
with my cousin, the Princess Miaoulina. You never heard, did you, about
the way my grandfather happened to learn that he was King of the Cats?
Well, then, I’ll tell it to you.”
[Illustration:
The King
Of The Cats
]
A number of years ago, a gentleman, who was travelling through the
eastern part of Germany, lost his way at nightfall, and at last found
himself wandering through a large, dense forest. He walked his horse
slowly for some hours among the trees, and finally, as he was getting
very cold and tired, he thought he saw a light about a quarter of a
mile away. He turned his steps toward it, for he hoped to find some
peasant-cottage where he could pass the night, but, when he came
nearer, he saw that the light was streaming through the windows of a
ruined church. Looking over the sill of one of them, he saw a number
of cats gathered round a small grave, into which four of them, crying
bitterly, were lowering a little coffin with a crown and Grimalkin the
Fifteenth engraved upon it. Instead of stopping to ask the way, the
traveller jumped on his horse, and rode off, fortunately finding the
right path at last. His friends had been expecting him for several
hours, and, after they had given him a good dinner, and made him as
comfortable as they could, they asked him why he was so late.