Our beautiful October was marred by one day of black tragedy--the day
Paddy died. For Paddy, after seven years of as happy a life as ever
a cat lived, died suddenly--of poison, as was supposed. Where he had
wandered in the darkness to meet his doom we did not know, but in the
frosty dawnlight he dragged himself home to die. We found him lying
on the doorstep when we got up, and it did not need Aunt Janet’s curt
announcement, or Uncle Blair’s reluctant shake of the head, to tell us
that there was no chance of our pet recovering this time. We felt that
nothing could be done. Lard and sulphur on his paws would be of no use,
nor would any visit to Peg Bowen avail. We stood around in mournful
silence; the Story Girl sat down on the step and took poor Paddy upon
her lap.
“I s’pose there’s no use even in praying now,” said Cecily desperately.
“It wouldn’t do any harm to try,” sobbed Felicity.
“You needn’t waste your prayers,” said Dan mournfully, “Pat is beyond
human aid. You can tell that by his eyes. Besides, I don’t believe it
was the praying cured him last time.”
“No, it was Peg Bowen,” declared Peter, “but she couldn’t have bewitched
him this time for she’s been away for months, nobody knows where.”
“If he could only TELL us where he feels the worst!” said Cecily
piteously. “It’s so dreadful to see him suffering and not be able to do
a single thing to help him!”
“I don’t think he’s suffering much now,” I said comfortingly.
The Story Girl said nothing. She passed and repassed her long brown hand
gently over her pet’s glossy fur. Pat lifted his head and essayed to
creep a little nearer to his beloved mistress. The Story Girl drew his
limp body close in her arms. There was a plaintive little mew--a long
quiver--and Paddy’s friendly soul had fared forth to wherever it is that
good cats go.
“Well, he’s gone,” said Dan, turning his back abruptly to us.
“It doesn’t seem as if it can be true,” sobbed Cecily. “This time
yesterday morning he was full of life.”
“He drank two full saucers of cream,” moaned Felicity, “and I saw him
catch a mouse in the evening. Maybe it was the last one he ever caught.”
“He did for many a mouse in his day,” said Peter, anxious to pay his
tribute to the departed.
“‘He was a cat--take him for all in all. We shall not look upon his like
again,’” quoted Uncle Blair.
Felicity and Cecily and Sara Ray cried so much that Aunt Janet lost
patience completely and told them sharply that they would have something
to cry for some day--which did not seem to comfort them much. The Story
Girl shed no tears, though the look in her eyes hurt more than weeping.
“After all, perhaps it’s for the best,” she said drearily. “I’ve been
feeling so badly over having to go away and leave Paddy. No matter how
kind you’d all be to him I know he’d miss me terribly. He wasn’t like
most cats who don’t care who comes and goes as long as they get plenty
to eat. Paddy wouldn’t have been contented without me.”
“Oh, no-o-o, oh, no-o-o,” wailed Sara Ray lugubriously.
Felix shot a disgusted glance at her.
“I don’t see what YOU are making such a fuss about,” he said
unfeelingly. “He wasn’t your cat.”
“But I l-l-oved him,” sobbed Sara, “and I always feel bad when my
friends d-do.”
“I wish we could believe that cats went to heaven, like people,” sighed
Cecily. “Do you really think it isn’t possible?”
Uncle Blair shook his head.
“I’m afraid not. I’d like to think cats have a chance for heaven, but I
can’t. There’s nothing heavenly about cats, delightful creatures though
they are.”
“Blair, I’m really surprised to hear the things you say to the
children,” said Aunt Janet severely.
“Surely you wouldn’t prefer me to tell them that cats DO go to heaven,”
protested Uncle Blair.
“I think it’s wicked to carry on about an animal as those children do,”
answered Aunt Janet decidedly, “and you shouldn’t encourage them. Here
now, children, stop making a fuss. Bury that cat and get off to your
apple picking.”
We had to go to our work, but Paddy was not to be buried in any such
off-hand fashion as that. It was agreed that we should bury him in
the orchard at sunset that evening, and Sara Ray, who had to go home,
declared she would be back for it, and implored us to wait for her if
she didn’t come exactly on time.
“I mayn’t be able to get away till after milking,” she sniffed, “but I
don’t want to miss it. Even a cat’s funeral is better than none at all.”
“Horrid thing!” said Felicity, barely waiting until Sara was out of
earshot.
We worked with heavy hearts that day; the girls cried bitterly most of
the time and we boys whistled defiantly. But as evening drew on we began
to feel a sneaking interest in the details of the funeral. As Dan said,
the thing should be done properly, since Paddy was no common cat. The
Story Girl selected the spot for the grave, in a little corner behind
the cherry copse, where early violets enskied the grass in spring, and
we boys dug the grave, making it “soft and narrow,” as the heroine of
the old ballad wanted hers made. Sara Ray, who managed to come in time
after all, and Felicity stood and watched us, but Cecily and the Story
Girl kept far aloof.
“This time last night you never thought you’d be digging Pat’s grave
to-night,” sighed Felicity.
“We little k-know what a day will bring forth,” sobbed Sara. “I’ve heard
the minister say that and it is true.”
“Of course it’s true. It’s in the Bible; but I don’t think you should
repeat it in connection with a cat,” said Felicity dubiously.
When all was in readiness the Story Girl brought her pet through the
orchard where he had so often frisked and prowled. No useless coffin
enclosed his breast but he reposed in a neat cardboard box.
“I wonder if it would be right to say ‘ashes to ashes and dust to
dust,’” said Peter.
“No, it wouldn’t,” averred Felicity. “It would be real wicked.”
“I think we ought to sing a hymn, anyway,” asseverated Sara Ray.
“Well, we might do that, if it isn’t a very religious one,” conceded
Felicity.
“How would ‘Pull for the shore, sailor, pull for the shore,’ do?” asked
Cecily. “That never seemed to me a very religious hymn.”
“But it doesn’t seem very appropriate to a funeral occasion either,”
said Felicity.
“I think ‘Lead, kindly light,’ would be ever so much more suitable,”
suggested Sara Ray, “and it is kind of soothing and melancholy too.”
“We are not going to sing anything,” said the Story Girl coldly. “Do
you want to make the affair ridiculous? We will just fill up the grave
quietly and put a flat stone over the top.”
“It isn’t much like my idea of a funeral,” muttered Sara Ray
discontentedly.
“Never mind, we’re going to have a real obituary about him in Our
Magazine,” whispered Cecily consolingly.
“And Peter is going to cut his name on top of the stone,” added
Felicity. “Only we mustn’t let on to the grown-ups until it is done,
because they might say it wasn’t right.”
We left the orchard, a sober little band, with the wind of the gray
twilight blowing round us. Uncle Roger passed us at the gate.
“So the last sad obsequies are over?” he remarked with a grin.
And we hated Uncle Roger. But we loved Uncle Blair because he said
quietly,
“And so you’ve buried your little comrade?”
So much may depend on the way a thing is said. But not even Uncle
Blair’s sympathy could take the sting out of the fact that there was
no Paddy to get the froth that night at milking time. Felicity cried
bitterly all the time she was straining the milk. Many human beings have
gone to their graves unattended by as much real regret as followed that
one gray pussy cat to his.