[_See Note P, Addenda._]
COCK-JOCK AND THE CAT.
Cock-Jock, as he was called, was the most famous of a famous breed of
cocks, our family had possessed for many years. Descended from the
black-cock of the mountain, with plumage like jet, save one bright spot of
crimson and gold on each wing, short stout legs, and strongest of spurs,
he had never met his match in field or pit. Many a brave but unfortunate
bird he had stood upon, and crowed over, as he trampled out its last
breath. I am speaking of twenty years ago, when cock-fighting in private
was still a favourite pastime, with many otherwise sensible and honourable
men, in the far north of Scotland. Cock-Jock possessed in the highest
degree, all those princely and chivalrous qualities, for which animals of
his species and breed are so justly celebrated. He was a perfect gentleman
after his own fashion. He never would touch a morsel of food himself,
until every member of his large harem had filled her crop; and thus his
own share was at times small enough. If two hens quarrelled, and had
recourse to their nebs, he used to peck them both, time about, until they
desisted; he then gave them a sound rating, pointing out to them in
forcible language, the extreme impropriety of such conduct among ladies of
a well-regulated harem. Cock-Jock went to roost every night with his old
mother--how beautiful is filial piety!--on one side of him, and a large
white hen, his pet wife, on the other. Then he always crowed at the proper
time and place; never, under any circumstance, would he mistake moonlight
for morning, as some foolish brutes do. Dogs he especially disliked. He
used to steal a march upon them, pretend to be busy eating, till he turned
their flank, then, before the poor dog could say "wow," he had two inches
of spur in each hip; and that tickled him. He was very affectionate, and
tame enough to eat from your hand; but if you dared to go near or molest
a hen, he would assuredly lame you for a month. Once upon a time, when a
little bantam cock was sick, Jock never went to roost for weeks, but took
the bantam to a nest and nursed it under his wings, as a hen would a
chicken, and tenderly fed it daily till it grew well again. I knew a great
deal of what that cock said, for the language of the lower animals is by
no means difficult to understand. His remarks had reference principally to
his food, its quantity and quality, his wives--their virtues and vices,
and to his battles. He always backed himself to win. He used to ask every
human stranger he met, in a manner not at all calculated to give offence,
if he mightn't have "just one shy at your shins." He one day offered me a
snail. He came a long distance out of his way too to give it to me. He
offered me the delicious tit-bit with much ceremonious tick-tucking, and
in quite a patronizing manner, as if, like old King Thingummy, I had
advertised for a new pleasure, and he was about to introduce me to it. I'm
sure I hurt his feelings by refusing it. But I couldn't help it. I think
I could eat a snail now, if hard pushed, although I am told they taste "a
little green." But after one has lived on Navy weevils for many years, one
isn't so particular; but I was very young then.
I remember a gentleman's satin hat being blown off near to his cockship. I
wouldn't have been that hat on any consideration. Heavens! how he battered
it, and tugged at it, and tore it; finally he jumped on it, and crew
_over_ it and _at_ the owner.
"Twenty shillings," cried that unfortunate, "thrown to the winds! Curse
the cock!"
Jock looked at him, as much as to say, "Perhaps, sir, you would like to
come a little nearer, and repeat that expression." But the gentleman
didn't. He preferred going home bare-headed.
I one day met a poor woman carrying a large stuffed cock. Like the cheeky
brat they called me, I induced her to come and show the thing to Jock. She
did so. Jock very soon laid bare the bird-stuffer's art. Cotton-wool and
wires and all went to leeward. Jock had never met with so curious a foe in
his life before, and he treated him accordingly. My father came. Jock
crew. The woman wept, and I ran and hid.
One fine summer's day my sister left a pillow in the garden. We were all
in the parlour. Presently it came on to snow apparently, and the room got
darkened. We soon discovered that it was not snow-flakes, but feathers. My
father said, "In the name of all creation!" My mother put on her glasses,
and remarked, "Every good thing attend us!" Then we all took umbrellas,
and went out. When, half choked, we reached the garden, we discovered a
clue to the mystery. Cock-Jock had spied the pillow, and could not resist
having one kick at it. One kick led to another; and when the eider-down
began to come out, Jock lost his temper, and went at it with a will. He
had some extra animal energy to expend that morning, and he did it--so
successfully, too, that for a whole week never a bit of work was done
about the place. The horses had a holiday, and we had cold mutton every
day, the servants being all engaged culling the feathers from the grass
and trees, and picking the fluff from the flowers.
Now to Cock-Jock was granted the honour of walking about wherever he
pleased--a privilege which was denied to the members of his harem, and it
was on the garden walk the battle took place which I am about to describe.
Gibbey, my father's famous red Tom-tabby, had a saucer of milk on the
foot-path, with which, although he did not drink it himself, he did not
choose that any one else should meddle. The cat and the cock had always
been on friendly terms till now; and being thirsty, and presuming on this
friendship, Cock-Jock walked half-apologetically up to the saucer, and
dipping his beak in to fill it, raised his head to swallow it. It was just
as his eyes were thus turned heavenward, that Master Gibbey sprang up--he
was always too ready with his hands--and without taking his gloves off,
struck honest Jock a sound slap on the ear. The cock shook his head; but
knowing he was in the wrong, he did not get angry yet, but attempted to
reason with the cat. For Cock-Jock had this peculiarity: he never lost
temper at the first blow from any creature he thought he was a match for.
A strange bantam--and we all know how plucky and self-important they
are--once alighted on Jock's dung-hill, and immediately struck at him.
"Avast heaving, my little friend," said the big cock, or words to that
effect; "you must be aware that I could knock you into the minutest
smithereens in the twinkling of a foretop-sail."
"Oho!" thought the bantam, "you're afraid, are you; take one for your nob,
then," and he struck him again.
"Hang it all, you know," roared Jock, now fairly enraged. He gave the
bantam one blow; and where that bird was sent to has never been
ascertained to this day, never a feather of him being found. And so Jock
attempted to reason with the cat.
"Cock a ro-ra-kuk? What does this mean, Master Gilbert? I own to having
been in the wrong; but a blow, sir--a blow!"
He hadn't long to wait for another either--this time without the gloves;
and then, as the Yankees say, his "dander riz." The cock hopped nimbly
over the saucer, and the battle began in earnest. Cock-Jock "showered his
blows like wintry rain."
But pussy adroitly avoided them all, and returned them with such practised
precision and skill, that the poor cock's pretty head was soon a mass of
blood and gore. Jock, getting confused, held his head ground-wards, as if
fighting with another cock instead of a cat, thus giving Gibbey all the
advantage. The fight had now lasted fully five minutes, and as yet pussy
rejoiced in a whole skin. I was beginning to think it was all up with the
cock, when, crunch! the advantage came at last,--one stroke with that
murderous spur, and Gibbey was stretched among the flowers, to all
appearance dead. Cock-Jock bent cautiously down, examined him first with
one eye then with another, and then, apparently satisfied, he jumped on
his side and crew loud and long. But Gibbey did not die. He was out of the
sick-list in four days; but he ever after gave the cock a wide berth, and
plenty of sea-room. Poor Cock-Jock! he died at last on the field of
battle. His life was literally trodden out of him by a band of hostile
turkeys. Superior weight did it.