While I was yet a little school-boy, there came about my father's house

and premises a plague of rats. They came in their thousands, as if

summoned by the trumpet-tones of a rodentine Bradlaugh or Odger. They took

the farm-yard and outhouses by storm, laid siege to the dwelling-house,

and, from the thoroughly business-like manner they conducted their

operations, and went into winter quarters, it was quite evident they

meditated a stay of some duration. Sappers and miners, or royal engineers,

were employed to drive tunnels and galleries under every floor, with

passages leading to the grain-lofts above. Foraging parties were appointed

to every stack of corn and rick of hay. The henhouse was laid under

contribution to furnish eggs and feathers, and black-mail was levied from

the very cows. The eaves of the well-thatched barns and byres were

apportioned to their wives, their aged, and infirm, while the poor

sparrows were dislodged from their comfortable, well-lined nests to make

room for little naked baby rats; and so effectually was every department

worked, and so well did every branch of the service do its duty, that

Cardwell himself, nay, even Bismarck, Moltke & Co., could not have

suggested anything in the way of improvement.

At all these doings my honest father looked very blue, and employed his

time principally in expending various sums of money in vermin-killers, and

in reading works on toxicology. The result of his study was, that many

tempting morsels and savoury tit-bits were placed in convenient corners,

for the benefit of the invaders. It seemed indeed for their benefit: they

didn't care a straw for tartar-emetic, appeared to get fat on arsenic,

while strychnia only strengthened their nervous systems, and morphia made

them fierce.

Now Gibbie was the house cat, a very large and beautiful red tabby. In his

prime he had been a perfect Nimrod of the feline race. Scorning such

feeble game as the domestic mouse, his joy was to ramble free and

unfettered among the woods and forests, by the loneliest spots at the

river's brink, and among the mountains and rocks; often prolonging his

hunting excursions for days together, but never returning without a

leveret or fine young rabbit. These fruits of the chase he did not always

bring home, but often presented to his various human friends in the

adjoining village; for Gibbie was known far and near, and even his

lordship's surly old gamekeeper, though he raised his gun at the sight of

the cat, forbore to fire when he saw who the bold trespasser was. Many a

rare and beautiful bird did Gibbie carry home alive, among others, I

remember, a beautiful specimen of the corn-crake; nor can I forget

pussie's manifest disgust, when the bird was allowed to fly away. Just two

days after, he brought home a crow, but this time the head was wanting. By

the banks of the Denburn he one day fought and slew a large pole-cat; this

he carefully skinned, and dragged home. Gibbie was as well-known in the

country-side as the witch-wife, or the pack-merchant, and more respected

than either; and people often came to our house to beg for "ae nicht o'

Gibbie," as "the rottens (rats) at their town (farm) were gettin' raither

thrang and cheeky."

The loan was always granted.

"Gibbie, go," was all my mother would say, and off trotted puss by the

party's side, with his tail gaily on the perpendicular; for he knew, as

well as cat could, that rare sport and a rich treat of the sweetest cream,

would be the reward of his compliance.

But Gilbert did not confine himself to hunting only; he was an expert

fisher. For hours he would watch at one spot on the banks of a river, with

his eyes riveted on the water, until some unhappy trout came out to bask

in the sun's rays. This was Gibbie's opportunity. For a moment only his

lips and tail quivered with extreme anxiety, then down, swift as Solan

goose, he had dived with aim unerring, and seized his finny prey, with

which he came quietly to bank, and trotted off homewards, to enjoy the

delicious morsel in some quiet corner all to himself. Rabbits, hares, and

game of all kinds, Gibbie parted with freely; but a trout was a treat, and

he never shared it with man or mortal.

But Gibbie was now old. Nineteen summers had come and gone since he had

sky-larked with his mother's tail, and his limbs had waxed stiff, and his

once bright eyes were dimmed. He seldom went to the woods now, and when he

did he returned sorrowfully and minus. He preferred to dose by the parlour

fire, or nurse his rheumatism before the kitchen grate; and while nodding

over the embers, many a scene, I warrant, of his earlier years came to his

recollection, and many a stirring adventure by flood and field stole

vividly back to memory, and thus he'd fight his battles o'er again, and

kill his rabbits thrice.

"Gibbie," said my father one day, thoughtfully removing his pipe from his

mouth; "Gibbie, you've got some game in you yet, old boy."

"Oh, aye," said Gibbie, for he was the pink of politeness, and never

failed to reply when civilly addressed.

"Well," continued my father, "you shall have a good supper, and a night

among the rats in the grain-loft."

"Wurram!" replied the cat, which doubtless meant that he was perfectly

willing, and that it would be a bad job for the rats. So the programme was

duly carried out, and Master Gilbert was shut up among the foe.

Early in the morning, my father, who had not closed an eye all the night,

opened the door, and, lame and bleeding, out limped his old favourite,

shaking his poor head--raw with wounds--in the most pitiful manner

possible. The brave beast had fought like a tiger all the night long,

nearly two score of rats lay dead around, while the blood lay in pools on

the decks, with as much hair and fluff, as if a dozen Kilkenny cats had

been contending for victory--and got it. That night's ratting proved fatal

to old Gibbie. The dreadful wounds he had received never healed, and after

much deliberation it was determined that an end should be put to the poor

animal's sufferings.

So honest Hughoc, the stable-boy, was sent with Gibbie in a bag to drown

him.

"Is he gone?" said my mother anxiously, when he returned. And we bairns

were all in tears.

"Gone, ma'am?" replied Hughoc; "aye, if he had been a horse, and, beggin'

your pardon, a deevil forbye, the river would hae ta'en him doon,--sic a

spate (flood) I never saw in my born days."

Notwithstanding all this, Gibbie was at that moment finishing the contents

of his saucer, and drying his wet sides before the sitting-room fire, and

when we entered, he was singing a song to himself, like the ancient

philosopher he was. But the poor cat lived but one short week longer. He

died, as bardie Burns has it, "a fair strae death" in his own nook, and

was slowly and sadly laid to rest, beneath an aged rowan tree at the end

of the garden. And the berries on that tree grew redder ever after, at

least we thought so; but we never dared to taste or touch them, they were

sacred to the memory of poor dead and gone Gibbie.

In the meantime the plague of rats continued unabated, and their ravages

seemed rather to increase than diminish. But their reign was nearly at an

end. One day my father received the joyful intelligence that a splendid

young lady-kitten, was in need of a comfortable home--salary no object.

Away with a basket trudged my little brother and self, and after a long

walk came to young pussy's residence, and had the satisfaction of finding

both kitten and mistress at home. The former, indeed a beauty, and

faultlessly marked, was engaged alternately in drinking butter-milk, and

washing her face before a small looking-glass.

"Aye, my bonnie bairn,"--I was the bonnie bairn, not my brother,--"she's a

perfect wee angel, and ye maun be good till her; ye maunna pu' her by the

tail, and ye maun gie her lots o' milk, and never let her want for a

lookin'-glass."

We promised to grudge her nothing that could in any way conduce to her

happiness and comfort, and were allowed to carry her off. Before we

reached home, we had taken her from the basket, and with all the solemnity

the occasion demanded, baptized her in a running stream, and called her

name Muffie. Once fairly established in her new quarters, the kit lost no

time in commencing hostilities against the rats, and blood, not

butter-milk, became her war-cry. One day as she sat admiring herself in

the glass, a large rat unexpectedly appeared in the kitchen; and although

but little larger than himself, Kittie at once gave chase, not only to his

hole, but into his hole. For the next three minutes the squeaking was

quite harrowing to listen to; but presently pussy re-appeared stern

foremost, and dragging with her the rat--dead. This she deposited before

the fire, growling whenever any one went near it, as much as to say, "Lay

but a finger on it, and you yourself may expect to pay the same penalty

for your rashness." The little thing, indeed, seemed swelling with pride

and importance, and must have felt considerably bigger than an ordinary

sized ox, and as fierce as a Bengal tiger. In one moment she had bounded

from kit to cat-hood. Buttermilk and a looking-glass! Bah! Blood alone

could satisfy her ambition now.

Little Muffie was left that night in sole charge of the kitchen, and next

morning, no less than five large rats, lay side by side on the hearth, as

if waiting a _post mortem_, and wee pussie, with her white breast dabbled

in gore, exhausted and asleep, lay beside them. In less than a week, she

had bagged upwards of forty, and no doubt wounded twice that number. And

now fear and consternation began to spread in the enemies' camp. Such

doings had never been heard of among them, even traditionally. The oldest

inhabitant shook his grey muzzle, and gave it up; but added,--

"Friends, brethren, rodents! it is time to shift. No one knows whose turn

may come next. True, it is a pity to leave such jolly quarters, when

everything was going on so pleasantly. We have seen our fattest wives and

our biggest braves borne off; our helpless babes have not been safe from

the clutches of that dreaded monster, with the ferocity of a fiend in the

skin of a mouse, and lest worst befall us, _go we must_."

And go they did.

Old Tom Riddle, the parish clerk, who might have been seen any night,

staggering homewards in the short hours, was well-nigh scared out of the

little wits that remained to him, by meeting, as he said,--

"Thoosands upon thoosands o' rottens, haudin' up the road in the direction

o' the farm o' Brockenclough."

"Confoond it," he added, when some one ventured to cast a doubt on his

statement; "wasn't it bright moonlicht, and didn't I see them wi' my ain

een, carryin' their wee anes in their mooths, and leadin' their blin' wi'

a strae?"

Whether old Tom exaggerated or not is hard to say; but sure enough, next

morning there was not a rat to be seen or heard about my father's

premises; and it is likewise correct that about the same time, the honest

farmer of Brockenclough, began to complain loudly of the destruction by

these gentry of his straw and oats. "He liked," he said, "to see a few o'

the beasties rinnin' aboot a farm-toon. That was a sign o' plenty; but

when they could be counted by the score, it fairly beat cock-fechtin."

For the next twelve months of her existence, Muffie led a very quiet and

peaceful life. She was now in her prime--and a more beautifully marked

tabby it would have been difficult to imagine--but, as yet, no male of her

species had gained her youthful affections. But her time soon came, for

strolling one day in the woods, trying to pick up a nice fat linnet for

her dinner, Muffie met her fate, and her fate followed her home even to

the garden gate, then darted off again to his native woodland. His history

was briefly this. He was not born of respectable parentage, and I

question, too, whether his parents, were at all more honest than they

ought to have been. His mother was a half-wild animal, brought by a

half-cracked colonel from the West Indies, and she bore him in the woods,

and there she suckled and reared him, and it was no doubt owing to the

wild gipsy life he led, and the amount of freedom and fresh air he

enjoyed, that he grew so fine an animal. At any rate, I never have seen

his match. An immense red tabby he was, with short ears on a massive head,

splendid eyes, and a tail that no wild cat need have been ashamed of.

Muffie and her lover used to hold their meetings in the ruins of an old

house near a wood, and my brothers and I made a rash vow, to attempt the

capture of the beautiful stranger in this same building. Accordingly, one

fine moonlight night, missing Lady Muff, and guessing she was on the

spoon, we sallied out and made our way to the ruin. My brothers were told

off to guard the door and windows, and on me alone devolved the somewhat

unpleasant duty, of bagging the cat. With this intention I entered as

cautiously as a mouse, and sure enough there sat the happy pair,

contentedly, on the cold hearthstone. So engrossed were they in looking at

each other, that they never perceived me until quite close upon them.

With the agility of a young monkey, I threw myself on the Tom-cat and

seized him by the back. That is exactly what _I_ did. His proceedings were

somewhat different, and considerably more to the point, for after making

his four teeth meet in the fleshy part of my middle finger, he slid from

my grasp like a conger-eel, and went hand over hand up the chimney,

followed by the justly indignant Lady Muff,--and I was left lamenting. For

the next six weeks, I had the satisfaction of going to school with my arm

in a sling. I say satisfaction, because my misfortune was the cause of a

great alteration, in the manner of the schoolmaster towards me. Previously

it was usual with me to be thrashed "_ter die_, and well shaken," which

was not at all nice on a winter's day; but now all this was changed, and I

was not beaten at all. The pedagogue spoke to me subduedly, and with a

certain amount of conciliatory awe in his manner, and I observed that he

always kept a chair or form between my person and his, lest I should at

any time take hydrophobia without giving sufficient warning, and bite the

poor man. Seeing how well the sling worked, I did not hesitate to wear it,

for fully a month after my hand was quite healed, with the exception of

the cicatrices, which the grave only will obliterate.

Although beaten in our first efforts, we did not give up the idea of

capturing this vagabond Tom-tabby, yet it was only through the

instrumentality of Muffie, we eventually succeeded. We kept her at home,

put a saucer-full of creamy milk in a shady nook of the garden for her

lover, and whenever he appeared, which he always did at the hour of

gloaming, his betrothed was permitted to meet him, and although he

invariably beseeched her to fly with him, she was prevented from acceding

to his very reasonable request, by being tethered to a gooseberry bush by

a long string. Love and time tamed this feline Ingomar. He left his abode

in the forest, exchanged the wild-wood's shade for the stable's roof,

bartered his freedom for the ties of matrimony, or catrimony,--in short,

he married Muffie, adopted civilisation, and became barn-cat _par

excellence_. But no amount of persuasion could ever entice him into the

dwelling-house, nor did he ever suffer a human finger to pollute his fur.

I am sorry to say that Ingomar did not at all times behave well to his

wife; in fact, at times he was a brute. It was his pleasure that she

should sit for hours together in the garden, simply that he might look at

her; if she as much as hinted at retiring, he treated her exactly as the

Lancashire clod-hoppers do their wives,--he knocked her down and jumped

upon her. Muffie had five bonnie kittens, and she put them to bed on the

parlour sofa. Ingomar detested refinement as much as Rob Roy did.

"The sons of McGregor, weavers! Bring those kittens forth, and place them

here on straw; _I_ will see to their rearing."

That is what Ingomar said, and Muffie mutely complied; and those kittens

grew up as wild as himself. From sparrows they got to chickens, from

chickens to grouse and game generally, and then got into trouble with the

keeper, and had the worst of the argument, which on his part was

double-barrelled. In the early days of his betrothal, Ingomar threw

daisies at his beloved, and gambolled with her in mimic strife, but

latterly his song was hushed at eventide, and spits and clouts and flying

fluff were too often the order of the day.

Poor Ingomar! He was cut down in his prime--slain by a wretched

collie-dog. Slowly and sadly we bore him in, his beautiful fur all dabbled

in blood, and his once bright eyes fast glazing in death, and tenderly

laid him at the widowed Muffie's feet. Now listen to the remarkable

behaviour of that lady. The widowed Muffie did not weep, neither, in

consequence of not weeping, did she die; she did an attitude though, then

growled and spat, and spitting growled again, and finally gave vent to her

feelings by springing through the parlour window and escaping to the

woods. And here with shame and sorrow for female inconstancy, but in the

interests of truth be it written, not only did Muffie not remain long a

widow, but that brief widowhood even, was stained by many acts of levity

to the memory of the murdered Ingomar. His skin beautifully preserved

(by--[12]), that skin she did not hesitate to use as a mat, nay, she even

_gambolled with the tail of it_; and although she often paid a visit to

her husband's grave, it was not to weep she went there, no! but literally

to _dance on the top of it_. Such is life! Such are relicts!!

The rest of this pussy's life was entirely uneventful. One circumstance

only deserves relating. She was exceedingly fond of me, in fact quite

adored me. Oh! that is nothing, other females have done the same; but

Muffie did, what I daresay other females wouldn't,--she at any time would

eat a little bit of the end of a candle, or a bit of greased peat from my

hand, while refusing beef-steak or cream from any one else. When I was

sent to a distant school, and could only visit my home once a week or

fortnight, the house bereft of me had no longer any charms for poor

Muffie, and she took to the woods. Perhaps she enjoyed rambling amid

scenes hallowed by the recollection of her early love. She seldom returned

home until the day of my accustomed arrival, when she was always there to

welcome me. Now that she should have known the usual day for my appearance

was nothing remarkable, but it was strange that, if anything interfered

with my coming, puss was also absent, nor did my arrival on any other day

prevent her from being at home at least an hour before me. One day--alas!

that one day that _must_ come to all created things--my Muffie was not

there to meet me, and she never came again. After a long search I found

her beneath a tree, stark and stiff. Her gentle eyes were closed for aye!

I would never feel again her soft caress, nor hear her low loving

purr--dear Muffie was _dead_.

But dry your eyes, gentle lady, and listen to the story of

MUFFIE THE SECOND.

I call my present cat Muffie, partly in remembrance of my old favourite,

and partly because I think it such a cosy little name for a pet puss.

Bless her little heart, she is sitting on my shoulder while I write, and

no slight burden either, her fighting weight being something over twelve

pounds. A splendid tabby, she is evenly and prettily marked; her lovely

face vandyked with white, and her nose tipped with crimson, like a

mountain daisy. She is six years of age, and the mother of over one

hundred kittens. Three-fourths of these have found respectable

homes,--most of them were bespoken before birth,--and if they have only

been half as prolific as their mother, Muffie must be progenitor of

thousands.

[Illustration: WHITE.

First Prize--Owned by R. H. YOUNG, ESQ.]

[Illustration: BLACK.

First Prize--Owned by Mr. J. HARPER.]

A very ambitious kitten you were, too, my pretty Muff. I first picked you

up at an hotel, when no bigger than a ball of worsted. Your brothers and

sisters, and even your big ugly mother turned and fled, but you stood and

spat--didn't you, puss? and that fetched me. Your favourite seat, too, was

the top of the parlour door; and during the first twelve months of your

existence, sure didn't you tear to pieces three sets of window curtains?

didn't you smash all the flowerpots? weren't you constantly clutching

down the table-cloth and breaking the china and glass, running along the

key-board of the piano, and jumping down the stool? What chance did a silk

umbrella stand with you? What hope of existence had my patent-leather

boots? Was it fair to catch flies on my "Sunset on Arran" before the paint

was dry? Was it right to upset my ink-bottle on the table-cloth, or to

break the head off my praying Samuel, which head you coolly made a mouse

of, and finally hid in my shoe? Or was it at all proper to make such

earnest, though happily unsuccessful, endeavours to hook your master's

eyes out as soon as he opened them in the morning? But marriage sobered

you, Muffie; and I never can forget the extreme joy you manifested on the

birth of your first kittens. Your first idea, I'm told, was to make

"mousies" of them; then you thought of eating them. But how anxiously you

waited my arrival on that auspicious morning. You came twice to my bedroom

to hurry me down, and I dared not stop to shave. Then each kitten in

succession was held up between your forepaws to receive its just meed of

admiration. But I hardly think, Miss Muff, your song of joy would have

been quite so loud and jubilant, had you known I was selecting two to

drown. And each succeeding period since then, you have tried to have your

kittens in my bed, and twice you have been only too successful. There,

now, go down, my shoulder aches; besides, I have to address the British

public.

Muffie, like her master, has been a wanderer,--and she prefers it. To her,

home and master are synonymous terms. Were I to make my bed in the midst

of a highland moor, she would not desert me. If I were to place my

sea-chest on the top of dark Loch-na-gar,--and that would be no easy

matter,--and leave it there for a month, I should find Muffie on the top

of it when I returned.

It might very naturally be supposed, that a cat would form but a poor

travelling companion, and be rather troublesome. It is all custom, I

suppose. Miss Muff, at the smallest computation, must have travelled

nearly 20,000 miles with me; and she can always take care of herself much

better than a dog can. From constant experience, she has become quite

cosmopolitan in her habits. On the evening before "flitting day" she is

more than usually active, ambling round and snuffing at each box as it is

being packed, and rubbing her shoulder against it, singing all the while

in a most exhilarating manner. As night closes, she, as a rule, with few

exceptions, disappears for a time, going most likely to bid good-bye to

her friends, whom she seldom sees again in this world, but never fails to

be back early in the morning, when, after a hurried breakfast, she curls

herself up in her little travelling "creel," and goes quietly off to

sleep. In a railway-carriage or steam-boat, she is allowed to roam about

at her own sweet will; but by night her place is by her master's side, and

a more faithful watch he could not have. On arriving at an hotel, after

dinner pussy is permitted to go out to see the place. The first night of

her sojourn in a strange town, is always spent by Muffie in the open air;

and, wonderful to relate, she always enters in the morning by the _front

door_, although put out at the back. How she can find her way round with

accuracy, sometimes a distance of half a mile of strange streets, or how

she can tell the hotel door from any other, I cannot say; but she does.

Once I gave her basket in charge of a railway porter at a London station,

to take upstairs while I got my own ticket and the dog's. The poor fellow

soon returned with bleeding face and hands, to say that the cat had

escaped and disappeared in the crowd. There was no time to wait to look

for her, my luggage was on board, and the train about to start, so I

hurried off to take my seat. Very much to my surprise, I was hailed from a

first-class carriage by my pet herself, who appeared rejoiced to see me,

and indeed was much more calm and self-possessed, under the circumstances,

than her master.

Once, in a strange town--Liverpool,--Muffie disappeared in the most

mysterious manner, and was absent for three whole weeks. From some words

that I had heard the landlady's son drop, I suspected foul play; so I went

straight to the offices of the City Scavengering Department to prefer a

very modest request, viz., to have all the ashpits cleaned out within a

certain radius of my lodgings.

"All this work for a cat!" said the chief inspector. "Why, such a thing

has no precedent;" and he smiled at my cheek, I suppose.

"But," said I, "you can make this case the precedent; and it is so

valuable a cat, you know."

Aid came from an unexpected quarter. One of the officers was a Scotchman,

and took my part like everything. Valuable property, he argued, had been

stolen and destroyed; and if we should wait until the usual time for

cleaning the ashpits, all hope of putting the blame on the right party,

would be lost for ever.

"What chance," said his good-natured chief, "have I against two of you?"

So the order was given, and the ash-pits emptied. This took two or three

mornings' work, and many dead cats were found; in fact, every day I held a

post-mortem examination on one or two poor brutes, and of course the men

wanted a glass of grog; so that the business cost me "a power" of rum. But

no dead Muffie appeared. In the meantime I had to go to London without my

puss; and a few days after, Lady Muff likewise arrived by train. She had

returned to my rooms at Liverpool, exactly three weeks from the day she

disappeared, and _had kittens one hour after_.

Muffie I do not think ever killed a mouse, although very fond of catching

them. All she cares for is the sport. She invariably brings her little

victim into my room, and placing it on the hearth-rug, looks up in my

face, and mews, as much as to say,--

"Just observe, master, the fun I shall have with this little cuss; and see

what a clever mouser your Muff is."

While she is saying this, the mouse has escaped, but is speedily

recaptured and returned to the rug. After throwing it up in the air two

or three times, and catching it before it falls, the wee "cowering

timorous beastie" is left to its own freedom, Muffie walking away in a

careless, meditative sort of mood, and the mousie makes good his escape.

Not finding a hole, it hides below something, from under which something

it is soon raked out again; and so the cruel game goes on, till the

trembling little creature, with its shiny eyes, grows sick with hope

deferred, and faints away. Seeing this, pussy, after turning it over once

or twice with mittened paw, jumps on my shoulder with a fond "purr-rn,"

and begins to sing. The play is over, and by-and-by the mouse revives, and

is graciously permitted to retire, which it sets about doing with becoming

modesty, and an air at once subdued and deprecatory. Muffie is still on my

shoulder, benignly singing. Their eyes meet, and a little dialogue ensues.

Mousie says, with hers,

"Oh! please, your ladyship, may I go, ma'am? I feel so all-overish; your

claws are _so_ sharp, and your teeth so dreadful; and I'm but a little,

little mouse."

To which pussy replies,--

"Yes; you may go. I shan't eat you to-day; only don't do it again."

But why, you ask, should I permit such cruel sport? Because, intelligent

and gentle reader, any interference of mine would change the play from a

comedy in the parlour to a tragedy in the cellar.

I have neither fishing nor hunting exploits to tell of about Muffie. She

is celebrated only as a great traveller, for her faithful devotion to her

master, and for her care over even his property.

Last summer I spent a month in a beautiful sequestered village in

Yorkshire. My companions were, as usual, my Newfoundland, Muffie, a pet

starling, and another dog. Muffie is very much attached to this birdie,

allowing it to hop about her, like a crow on a water buffalo. This

starling, I think, is the most amusing little chap in all creation. He is

a good linguist and an accomplished musician, and is never silent--if he

is, he is either asleep or doing mischief. As he says whatever comes into

his head, and interlards his discourse with fragments of tunes and

Bravos! the effect is at times startling. The way he jumbles his nouns

together, and trots out every adjective he knows, to qualify every noun,

is something worth listening to. In the summer evenings, we used to go out

for long rambles in the country lanes. The dog--Theodore Nero--felt

himself in duty bound on these occasions, not only to look after his

master, but even to take the cat under his protection. The starling

stalked flies from my shoulder. Sometimes he would stay longer

snail-hunting, behind a hedge, than I deemed prudent; a glance from me was

all Muffie wanted, to be after him. I would wait and listen; and presently

I would hear Dick excitedly exclaiming, "Eh? eh? What _is_ it?"--a

favourite expression of his: "What _is_ it? You rascal! you rascal!" and

back he would fly to his perch, apparently quite thunderstruck at the

impudence of the cat.

Muffie bids me say she is quite happy and all alive. And I would add, she

is very much all alive, most interestingly so, in fact. But that did not

prevent her, last night, from preparing for me, what was doubtless meant

for a very pretty surprise and a high compliment. The cats in the

neighbourhood, hearing that I was writing a book in their favour, with

Lady Muff as chief musician, resolved to serenade me; and they did. Being

Christmas eve, I took them for the waits at first. I am sorry now that I

so far forgot myself, as to throw cold water over the assembly; but I

sincerely trust that they did not know, that the gentleman in white, who

appeared on the balcony, and so unceremoniously checked their harmony, was

the illustrious author of "CATS."

CHAPTER X.

BLACK TOM, THE SKIPPER'S IMP.

TOM'S INTRODUCTION.

No one in the ship had the slightest idea how Tom came on board, or who

brought him, or where he came from. He made his first appearance in public

while, outward bound, we were crossing the Bay of Biscay--that strange

mysterious sea, beneath whose waves the bones of so many of our bravest

countrymen lie bleaching. It was a roughish night, squally rather, without

much sea on, but the wind changing its mind every minute, whisking into

foam the crests of the inky waves, and carrying the spray far into the

rigging. It was a night to try the sea-legs of any one, so jerky and

uncertain was the vessel's motion; and the oldest sailors staggered like

drunken men, and were fain to cling to rigging or shrouds. I was smoking

on the quarter-deck just before turning in,--it had gone six bells[13] in

the first watch, and everything was snug for the night, when something

black as Erebus whisked past me, visible but for a moment in the

binnacle's light, and disappeared in the darkness forward. I looked

inquiringly at the man at the wheel, a serious old seamen, who, in answer

to my mute appeal, turned his quid twice in his mouth and, addressing the

compass, "That's the devil, sir," said he, "begging your pardon, sir. Came

on board to-night when we close-reefed topsails durin' a squall."

There was nothing disrespectful in the man's tone or bearing; indeed he

spoke almost with an air of solemnity.

"Usual accompaniment, I suppose," said I, laughing; "blue fire, and a

perfume not Rimmelian."

"Dunno what ship that is, sir," said he somewhat curtly; "but there was a

flash, young gentleman."

Seeing the man was disinclined to continue the subject, I went below, and,

thanks to the ship's motion, was soon in the land of dreams.

Next day broke bright and clear; both wind and cloud had fled; the sea

had gone down, and the vessel was under easy sail. A flock of gulls were

circling in the morning air, screaming with delight as they picked the

crumbs that floated astern; and all went merrily oh!

Presently the commander[14] came up, looking anything but sweet; and all

hands were immediately summoned aft for a speech. "Officers and men of Her

Majesty's gunboat _Tickler_, contrary to the customs and rules of the

service, and without my knowledge, to say nothing of sanction, I find that

a cat has been brought on board. Will the officer or man who owns the

animal kindly step forward?"

Here the officers, verbally, and the men, by their silence, disclaimed all

ownership of poor puss.

"Then," continued the commanding officer, "as no one seems to own it, I

have but one course. Bring up the cat."

All eyes were instantly turned towards the stern grating, which naturally

caused the captain to wheel round; and there, sure enough, as mim as a

mouse, with his tail curled round his legs for warmth, and looking on the

very best of terms with himself and all creation, sat a large black Tom

cat. He lowered his brows as he returned the skipper's glance, and his

eyes sparkled crimson and green. "Midshipman of the watch," was the order,

"see that cat overboard."

"Ay ay, sir," sang out the middy. "Forenoon watch, cat walks the plank,

heave with a will--cheerily does it."

Puss was on his legs in a moment, back erect, hair on end, and tail like a

bottle-brush, spitting, sputtering, and behaving altogether in a "highly

mutinous and insubordinate" manner. This conduct very nearly led to a

fatal termination, by a whole shower of belaying-pins, which, however,

hurtled harmlessly over his head. "An inch of a miss is as good as a

mile," thought Tom; "while there's life there's hope, and I'll give you a

race for it, my lads." And he cleared the deck at three bounds, and dived

below, followed by the whole watch. Three minutes' trampling and howling

below, then up through the fore hatch came pursuers and pursued, pussy

leading and the sailors astern. Up the rigging shinned the cat.

"Follow your leader," roared the men.

The chase now became general and most exciting; and with a cheer all hands

joined, evidently more for the fun of the thing, than with any intention

of harming the cat. Up the rigging and down the stays, alow and aloft, out

on the flying jib-boom and along the hammock nettings. Sure never before

were such feats of agility seen on board a British Man o' War; the men

seemed monkeys, the cat the devil incarnate. With a strength seemingly

supernatural, Tom at length scrambled up, and took refuge above the main

truck where the Dutch Admiral of old hoisted the broom, swearing, as only

Dutchmen can, that he would sweep the English from the sea; and the men

returned to the deck, gasping and red from their futile exertions, to

await further orders.

BLACK TOM SPEAKS A PIECE.

"Curses on the brute!" muttered the commander. "Am I to sail the seas with

a black cat on my main-truck? Steward, bring my revolver." The revolver

was brought, but the captain's aim seemed unsteady; he fired all the six

chambers, without any further result than chipping the main-top-gallant

yard. Poor Tom, seeing the serious turn matters had taken, and that his

death was compassed, determined to speak a few words in his own behalf;

and with this intention he lifted up his fore-paw, and, now looking below,

now appealing to heaven, he delivered an harangue, the like of which none

of us had ever listened to on shore, much less afloat. His meaning,

however, was perfectly plain.

Around him, he said, behold a waste of waters; he was far from land; he

had no boat; and though he knew he could swim, although he never tried, he

would rather die than wet his feet. Had we no compassion, no bowels of

mercies? He wanted to harm nobody. What good could shooting him do? He

was willing to remain where he then stood for the rest of the voyage, in

fact to do anything or everything, if his life were only spared.

The captain smiled. "I thought," said he, "I was a better shot; however,

give the devil his due." And he ordered all hands to treat the cat kindly,

if ever he came below again. Tom retained his elevated seat for fully two

hours, and finally fell sound asleep. Waking calm and refreshed, and

perhaps somewhat dizzy, he stretched himself a leg at a time, for he

hadn't much room, yawned, did an attitude, and came slowly down on deck.

He walked at once to the quarter-deck; and, to show that he harboured no

ill-feeling, he actually went and rubbed his big black head against the

captain's leg.

TOM BECOMES SHIP'S CAT.

Henceforward Tom was no longer a mere passenger on board; his name was

borne on the ship's books, and he was tolerated both by officers and men.

Somehow, Tom became no favourite. The questionable manner in which he had

made his first appearance, and the latent devil that seemed to lurk in his

eye, acted like a spell on the natural superstitions of the sailors, more

than one of whom was heard to express an opinion that "That

black----(alliterative term of endearment used by British seamen) will

bring the ship no good luck."

Now, whether out of gratitude for having his life spared, or for some

other feline motive known only to puss, certain it is, that Tom attached

himself to our commander, and to no one else on board; for whenever that

officer came on deck, so did the cat, trotting by his side and enlivening

his walk by a song. When any other gentleman happened to be walking with

the captain, Tom used to take his station on the hammock nettings and

follow every motion of his beloved adopted master with eyes that beamed

with admiration. This show of affection was at first indignantly resented

by the skipper, and many a good kick Tom used to have for his pains; but

the more he was kicked the louder he sang, so at long last, yielding to

the force of circumstances, the skipper ceased to mind him, and the two

became inseparable.

TOM GOES ON SHORE FOR A WALK.

Nothing very unusual happened during our long voyage to the Cape. Tom went

on shore at St. Helena, like any other officer, and it was fondly hoped he

would take up his abode on that beautiful island. But having visited the

principal places of interest, nearly murdered a poor little dog in James

Town, and--this is only conjecture--taken a rat or two at Napoleon's tomb,

Tom came off again in the officers' boat.

ON BOARD AGAIN.

The cat might in time have come to be a general favourite in the ship; but

he suffered no advances to be made by "any man Jack," as the saying is,

and scowled so unmistakably when any one attempted to stroke him, that he

was unanimously voted to Coventry, and allowed to do what he liked. Tom

had a regular allowance of ship's provisions, like any one else, but his

greatest treat was milk (preserved) and rum thickened with oatmeal. For

this he used to come regularly once, and often twice a-day, to the

dispensary. His favourite seat was on the weather bulwarks; and there he

would often remain for hours, gazing thoughtfully down in the blue clear

depths of the tropical ocean.

"He do be counting the jelly-fish and looking for sharks," one man

remarked.

"Nay," said another, "he's a-thinking o' home. May-be, he has left a wife

and babies in old England."

"Then," said the first speaker, "what a tarnation fool he was, not to stop

on shore. Sure, no one sent for him."

"Hush," said the first, "he's an evil spirit, Bill, as sure as a gun; and

he belongs to--

THE SKIPPER."

You may easily guess from the foregoing conversation, that the captain

himself was no great favourite. He was a little red-haired foxy-faced man,

a Scotchman (save the luck), but a Scotchman who hated the land of his

forefathers,--

"Whose heart had ne'er within him burned," etc., etc.,

in fact, retaining but one trait of Scottish character, namely his love

for Scotch drink. Once round the Cape, and north on our cruising

ground--the Mozambique Channel, the skipper shone out in his true colours.

His face and nose got daily redder; and the sinister smile that seemed

printed there never left his lips. Such a smile I have never seen before

nor since, except on the face of a Somali Indian. The first victims to the

skipper's wrath were the poor black Kroomen, one of whom was always

stationed at the mast head, to look out for strange sails. Now the

commander had an eye like a fish-hawk, and generally managed to sight a

vessel before even the out-look. God help the out-look when this occurred.

He was ordered down at once, and in one minute more was lashed to the

rigging by both wrists, and writhing and shrieking for mercy under the

infliction of two dozen with a rope's end, laid on by the sturdy arms of a

fellow Krooman. The men, for the slightest offence, had their grog stopped

for a week or weeks; and as the proceeds went to swell the sick-fund--a

fund to purchase comforts for the patients--I had usually more money in my

hands than I knew how to expend, until I happily thought of a plan to get

rid of the surplus cash.

"Brown," I would say to an officer, after the cloth had been removed, "you

look unusually seedy to-day; in fact," looking round the mess, "you all

look rather pale; effects of climate, poor devils. I am afraid I have

hardly done my duty towards you. Steward, bring in those bananas from the

sick-bay, bring also the pineapples, the mangoes, the oranges, the ground

nuts, a pomola, and a bottle of madeira. Liquor up, my lads, let us drink

the skipper's health. The sick-bay fund is unusually flourishing, so don't

forget in every port we come to, to ask me for honey for your rum, milk

for your tea, and orange-blossom to perfume your cabins withal."

Anything approaching insubordination among the boys or men or board was

punished with flogging--four dozen lashes, with a different bo'swain's

mate to each dozen, was the usual dose.

TOM AT A FLOGGING.

Tuesday was flogging day; and to add, if possible, to the terror of the

condemned wretch, after the gratings were rigged and the man stripped and

lashed thereto, sawdust was sprinkled on the deck all round, to soak up

the blood. But at every flogging match

"There sat auld Nick in shape o' beast,"

at least in the shape of Tom the cat, who would not have missed the fun

for all the world. There on the bulwark he would sit, his eyes gleaming

with satisfaction, his mouth squared, and his beard all a-bristle. He

seemed to count every dull thud of his nine-tailed namesake, and emitted

short sharp mews of joy when, towards the middle of the third dozen, the

blood began to trickle and get sprinkled about on sheet and shroud. Though

I never disliked Tom, still, at times such as these, I really believed he

was the devil himself as reputed, and would have given two months' pay for

a chance to brain him. When the flogging was over, Tom used to jump down

and, purring loudly, rub his head against his master's leg.

By at least one half of the crew, Tom was assuredly believed to be--if not

old Nick himself--possessed of an evil spirit. A good deal of mumbo jumbo

work therefore went on, for the men tried to find favour in Tom's eyes,

and many a dainty morsel did this cat of evil repute thus receive; so that

he grew and flourished like a green bay-tree, while his coat got glossier

and his figure plumper every day.

HOW TOM USED TO FISH.

Although well fed and cared for, Tom at times used to forage for himself,

not that I ever heard he was a thief--to his honour be it written; but he

fished, and very successfully too, without so much as wetting the soles of

his beautiful pumps. His _modus operandi_ was as follows.

On dark nights in the tropical seas, he used to perch himself on the

bulwarks aft, and bend his glittering eyes downwards into the sea. He

never sat long thus without a flying-fish, sometimes two, jumping past him

or over him, and alighting on deck. Then Tom would descend, and have a

delightful supper, and if not fully satisfied resume his seat and continue

the sport. Tom must have gained his knowledge from experience, although

the success of his method of fishing is easily explained. It is well known

that these fish always fly towards a light, which is therefore often used

by the sailors to catch them. The cat required no other light save the

glimmering of his two eyes, which in the dark shone like a couple of

koh-i-noors.

TOM TAKES CHARGE OF A GUN.

Tom was in the habit of going to sleep, in the large pivot gun we used for

shelling running-away slavers. For a forenoon nap nothing could have

suited him better; it combined the pleasures of solitude with retirement,

and moreover was both dark and cool. One fine sunny day, we were in chase

of a particularly fast dhow, which, taking no heed of our signal

howitzers, evinced a strong disposition to edge in towards the shore, the

order was accordingly given to fire at her with our Big Ben. Before

loading, the gunner keeked in to see that all was clear, and sure enough

there was Tom, by no means pleased at being disturbed in his siesta.

Neither could any amount of "cheety-pussying" entice him from his

snuggery, while tickling with the end of a ramrod only made him spit and

sputter, and make use of bad language.

"What's the delay?" cried the captain.

"Cat in possession of gun, sir," was the reply.

"Dear me! dear me!" whined the captain. "Rouse him out, and be quick about

it."

After a pause.

"He won't rouse out no-how, sir," said the gunner.

"I'm hanged" roared the skipper, "if that rascally dhow isn't landing her

slaves inshore. Rouse him out I say. Fire a fuse--_con_found the cat."

"Shoal water ahead, sir," from the man at the mast-head.

"Hard a port, stand by both anchors," and round we went just in time to

save us. In the meantime a fuse had been inserted in the touch-hole of the

gun. Bang! and thus attacked in rear, Tom came out of the gun faster than

ever he had done in his life, and took to the rigging, with hair on-end

and eyes all a-flame.

"Lower away the first and second cutters," was now the order. "It shan't

be said, that a cursed cat kept us from capturing a lawful prize. D----the

beast."

(For the benefit of those who love strong language _alias_ swearing, it

must here be stated, that in courtesy to my lady readers I abstain from

giving the skipper's language _verbatim_, for in that respect he would

have pleased a Lancashire coal-heaver; he was a don in the use of

expletives, although, to his credit be it recorded, while freely launching

forth anathemas at the limbs of his men, and consigning their eyes to

perpetual punishment, he just as freely let his own eyes have it. Oh, he

wasn't particular by any means; he gave it to us all alike--officers and

men, cat and Kroo-boys.)

He captured that slaver though--went in the boats personally to do it, and

that night the sea was lighted up for miles with a blaze, that spoiled

pussy's fishing for once. It was a caution to slavers on shore and sharks

at sea. At a good mile's distance we could see to read our last letters

from home, by the light of that burning dhow. We were not surprised to see

the captain come on board, black with smoke and begrimed with gunpowder,

for we had heard desultory firing, but we were slightly taken aback to see

Tom meet him in the gangway, and to observe the captain stoop down and

tenderly caress him. Perhaps he wanted to make up to him, for his former

roughness.

"I've given that chap Carrickfergus," he remarked, in a sort of a general

way to us officers; and to me he added, "I suppose the men may have a

glass of grog, doctor."

"Certainly," I said. "Steward, splice the main brace." Then the skipper

dived below and got drunk, which he had the knack of doing on the very

shortest notice.

THE CAT'S "CANTRIPS."

Of Tom's adventures on board the saucy little _Tickler_, very much could

be written. Somehow, he never was safely out of one scrape till into

another. A dear wee mongoose was once brought on board, and would

doubtless have become a great pet, if Tom had not broken its back on the

first night of its arrival. A monkey was received as a visitor, and with

him Tom at once declared war, and kept it up to the bitter end. The

monkey's favourite mode of attack, was to run aloft with a belaying-pin,

and biding his time, let it drop as if by accident on poor pussy's head.

But Tom let him have it sharp and fierce, whenever he caught him. Once I

remember the monkey was sitting on his hind-quarters on deck, stuffing his

cheeks with cockroaches, and looking as serious as a judge. Tom spied him,

and ran cautiously along the bulwarks, then springing on his foe, he

seized him round the neck with one arm, and with the other administered

such a drubbing, as the poor thing never had before in his life. The

monkey with bleeding face, at length escaped to the maintop, and there

cried itself asleep.

Whether or not Tom was the Jonas, who caused all the mishaps that fell

upon our little vessel during that four years' cruise, I shall not pretend

to say, although all hands forward firmly believed he was. Like the

witch-wife in Allan Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd--Tom

"Got the wyte o' a' fell oot;"

and certainly Snarley-yow and his master were never more detested than

that black cat, and the skipper eventually came to be.

"LIFE-BOAT'S CREW, AHOY!"

Once, I remember, we experienced a spell of weather so dark and unsettled,

that a general gloom prevailed in the ship fore and aft. We were rounding

the Cape in mid-winter. First we had a gale of wind, our bulwarks stove in

forward, and a boat washed overboard. Then several days with no wind, but

a heavy sea on, and the horizon close aboard of us on every side. The

nights were pitchy dark, with thunder and lightning so appalling that no

one thought of turning in, till far on in the middle watch. Scenes like

these can never be described. They are painted with the finger of awe on

the beholder's memory, and time cannot efface them. I can see even now our

little vessel, hanging bows on to the side of that dark wave, the hill of

water rising above us, the inky gulph beneath, her wet and slippery decks,

and the faces of the men that cling to the cordage, ghastly in the

lightning's glare. A moment more and we are on the brow of the wave, then

down we drive into the very trough of the sea, where, for a few seconds,

the ship lies trembling, as if every timber in her sides was instinct with

life. On such a night as this Tom fell overboard. This may seem like a

descent from the sublime to the ridiculous. It is a fact, however, and was

a very disagreeable descent indeed for poor Tom. The life-buoy was almost

instantly fired and let go by the commander himself, who alone saw the

accident.

"Ease her! stop her!" he roared. "Away life-boat's crew!"

Up tumbled the crew, the boat was lowered, and in two minutes more they

had dropped astern, and were pulling with might and main for the now

distant life-buoy. The storm had by this time passed over, save an

occasional flash of lightning. For fully ten minutes, each time we rose on

the crest of a great wave, we could distinctly see the life-buoy's light,

burning bright and beacon-like, away to leeward of us; then it flickered

feebly, and finally went out.

"Gracious heavens!" exclaimed the Captain, "that light was never

extinguished: _it has gone out_." Five minutes, ten, fifteen minutes

elapsed in dead silence. We leant over the bulwarks, and could feel our

hearts throbbing against them, as we peered into the darkness and listened

for the slightest sound; only an occasional glimmer played along the

horizon, only now and then the splash of a breaking wave. Hours passed by,

and still no signal from the deep, to tell us aught of life was there; and

all that long dismal night, rockets were let off, bluelights burned, and

big guns fired. But the sea gave never a sign. How anxious we all were! No

one had a thought of retiring. The captain spent his time in alternately

pacing frantically up and down the deck, and in diving down below,--we all

knew for what. At last he wept like a child, and tore his hair out in

handfuls. I felt sorry for him at first, until I heard him curse his own

evil fate, because his fourteen years' service would all be lost. It was

self not the poor men he was thinking of.

But the longest time has an end, and morning came at last, and just as the

horizon was becoming dimly visible through the rising mist, and silence

was reigning fore and aft--for both men and officers were tired out with

suspense and long watching--we were all startled and rendered as wide

awake as ever we were in our lives. For, borne along on the morning

air--breeze it could hardly be called--came a faint shout. One moment all

hands listened: it was repeated.

"Shout, my lads," cried the captain, all his manhood returning at once;

and such a ringing cheer was sent over the waters, as only could proceed

from the lungs of Britain's sailors.

[15]My! how every face brightened; and, my! how every eye glanced and

glittered, as that boat loomed out from the fog. She was soon alongside,

all hands were safe, and the first on board was _the skipper's imp_. There

was one old sailor who had been very quiet all the night, but who now

burst into such sobbing as I never heard before. The poor man's son had

been in the boat.

Did we splice the main-brace? Rather. We spliced it on deck, and we went

below to the ward-room and spliced it again; in fact that main brace took

a good deal of splicing, then we turned in and slept till noon, and I

dreamt I was spliced myself.

SHIP ON FIRE.

If I remember rightly, we were somewhere in lat. 17° South, and a good

way off land. We had been cracking on all the forenoon under steam, after

a Northern slave-ship, which we had finally boarded, captured, and taken

in tow. A fine pair of heels she had shown us too. We had to burn hams to

get within shot of her. But we did at last, and there she was, with a

prize crew on board, and the fiery old Arabs glaring like evil spirits at

us as they leaned over her taffrail. A breeze had sprung up towards four

o'clock, and the orders were given to bank fires and set sail. I was

sitting in the ward-room reading, when--

"Look Jim!" I heard some one on deck remark. "Where is that thundering old

cat going to now?"

"Bedad then," said Jim, "but he's taking the rigging like a good one

anyhow. Shouldn't wonder now if he was going to give us another spache."

I ran up just in time to see the cat shin hand over hand up the main-top

gallant mast, and seat himself on the very truck, in the exact spot he had

occupied in his first adventure on board, when the captain fired at him.

It had gone three bells in the first dog watch;[16] we had just finished

tea, and gone on deck to smoke our evening pipe. We were making ourselves

very comfortable on the stern gratings, and our Scotch engineer--naval

engineers for the most part are Scotch--was singing "For we are homeward

bound;" not that we were homeward bound by a long chalk, but it gave us

the idea we were, don't you know? and made us feel all the jollier, when

the quartermaster came aft, and addressing the officer of the watch--

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, leisurely, turning his quid in his

mouth, "but I think, sir, there be a strong smell of fire right

amidships."

We went forward.

The second cutter lay bottom upwards, between the fore and main masts, and

from under its gunnel were curling little puffs of light blue smoke, for

all the world as if some one were smoking a cigar beneath the boat. But

the smoke had _the smell of burning wood_.

_Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding._ Ah! had Edgar Allan Poe heard that

bell, he might have added one other stanza to that strange wild poem of

his. _Ding, ding, ding, ding._ You never heard it, did you reader? Well,

it is a pleasure you still have before you. The breeze was freshening

every minute, the sea was getting its back up, and darkness thickening

around us. But what mattered darkness, we should soon light up old ocean

with our burning ship.

_Ding, ding, ding_--up tumble the hands at the dread summons. The hoses

are laid, the pumps rigged and manned as if by magic, and before the last

sound of the bell is borne away on the breeze, every man is at quarters,

steady, grave, and silent--waiting. _Waiting?_ Aye; fancy having to wait

for a single moment, with the fire crackling under the broiling deck, and

tons of powder under hatches. But service is service--the captain alone

has not responded to the alarm, and the officer of the watch has gone to

call him. Worthy man, he was--

"Not fou, he just was glorious,

O'er a' the ills of life victorious."

"Oh!" he said; "ship's on fire, is she. Then go you to blazes."

He came up soon, however, and every man that night did his duty. Nothing

in the world, save British pluck and coolness, could have conquered that

fire. It was the padding at the back of the boiler that had caught, and

burning through, had kindled the coals behind, and when the decks were

scuttled, the scene below was like a red raging hell.

In less than two hours however, the flames were got under and the fire

extinguished; and, saving the watch on deck, the crew, tired and bruised,

and many of them scalded, had gone below, while the carpenters were busy

repairing decks; for in a man-of-war every trace of recent danger, whether

from wind or fire or foe, is speedily erased.

A shoal of sharks that had been following the ship expectant,

disappointed, sought deeper water, and black Tom, the cat, came down from

his perch on the main-truck, singing a song of deliverance.

MINOR MISHAPS.

It would take a long time indeed to narrate all the misadventures we had

in that cruise. We got quite used to running on shore, being awakened any

night, with that strange grating noise beneath our keel, and the sudden

cessation of all motion, which tells the experienced sailor better than

words can, that the ship has struck. One bright moonlight night, far on in

the middle watch, we ran aground on the Lyra reef. Luckily the tide was

not full nor the wind blowing. By next morning we had lowered the boats,

and sent over the guns to lighten ship, and lay waiting for the tide. A

bright sky, and a blue, blue sea all around, with never a sail in sight,

nay, not even a bird. The waters so pellucid and clear, that leaning over

the bulwarks we could see the yellow sand at the bottom, see forests and

gardens of marine plants, and flowers pink-petalled or tender green,

gently waving to and fro in the current; see the transparent medusæ

disporting their rainbow beauties, and see the thousand and one

strange-looking tropical fishes, of colours so bright and shapes so

grotesque, that they seemed the fishes of our dreams, or caricatures of

animal life.

Fast and sure on that reef we lay for upwards of forty-eight hours, and it

was only by lightening the ship of coals, and buoying her with empty rum

casks that we got safely afloat at last. The men were in good spirits all

the time, because forsooth, the cat, was "_singing like all possessed_."

NOTHING TO EAT.

It was the last voyage of the cruise. We were steering from Zanzibar to

the Cape, under orders home. We had on board with us no less a personage

than the bishop of C---- A---- and his learned curate, Dr. Blank. Now we

had not been to sea over three days when, lo and behold! one-half, at

least, of the casks of beef and provisions, supposed to be full, were

found to be mere dummies. It was nobody's fault--it always is nobody's

fault in a case of that sort--but the upshot of it was, that all hands

were put upon short allowance; and as our mess--having got into debt--was

just then living on ship's provisions, we officers had to suffer the same

privations as the men. Besides, we had neither beer, wine, nor spirits on

board, very little water, and no coals to spare to distil more.

This was a very pretty look out for a three weeks' voyage, to the Cape, in

mid-winter. And poor Tom came in for more cursing now than ever. Everybody

cursed him everywhere; they cursed him below and cursed him aloft; cursed

him on the quarter-deck, and cursed him in the cook's galley. But Tom only

sung the louder.

"It was all along of that blessed cat," the sailors said; and they added,

"that it was a good thing we had my lord bishop on board, to counteract

the evil effects of the skipper's imp." The poor bishop suffered too, but

mostly from sea-sickness. He kept his bed all the voyage. He was a stout

man at Zanzibar, but he got considerably thinner, before we reached the

Cape. But his curate was more to be pitied, he was a thin man, didn't get

sick, and had a stomach like a brewer's horse; and the more sorrow for

that same, there being so little to put into it. Our biscuit must, I

think, have been baked before the flood, each morsel, while black with

cockroaches' filth outside, entertaining a whole colony of weevils inside;

we ate the weevils, however, merely tapping each morsel on the table to

get rid of the superabundant dust, before conveying it to our mouths. We

had neither potatoes nor butter. We had white beans though, and black rice

and fried sardines, to which latter we used to add a little turmeric and

cayenne by way of flavouring. We actually got mean in our hunger, and used

to say little snappish things to each other, about our share of the

victuals; things which we would have been ashamed to say under any other

circumstances. No one, I can assure you, was above helping himself, to the

last spoonful of rice or beans, out of a delicate feeling of consideration

for his neighbour. In good sooth, sometimes three or four spoons, would

meet at the dish at once in most undignified haste.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," our little good-natured assistant paymaster would

say; "better is a dinner of rice and fried sardines, where love is, than a

stallëd ox and hatred therewith."

We should just have liked to have seen the stallëd ox, that's all. But

this assistant paymaster was a stout bulky little chap, and didn't suffer

half what we did. I'm certain he lived on his own fat all the way to the

Cape, just as the sheep in the Highlands do, when they have the misfortune

to be buried in the snow for a week or two. Our conversation all the

dinner hour--when we weren't quarrelling--used to be about this glorious

feed, and the next glorious feed, which we once had; and it would

certainly have been amusing for an outsider--who wasn't hungry himself

mind you--to have heard us, enlarging on all the dainties that had been

set before us in happier times.

Our conversation would have been somewhat after the following fashion:--

_S._ "But, by George, when I was in the P. & O. Co.'s Service--ay, old

fellows, that was the place to live--there is where we used to get _the_

spreads."

_All._ "Yes, yes; tell us, there's a dear boy. What had you for dinner?"

_S._ "Well, you know, the bill of fare used to be two yards long, and a

yard and a quarter wide. We had two soups, and then----"

_All._ "No, no; tell us first what the soups were?"

_S._ "Well, say vermicelli and macaro--Oh! hang it all, Moreton, that's

the third time to my certain knowledge, that you've helped yourself to

rice."

_Moreton._ "To-morrow's pea-soup day, never mind."

_S._ "But I do mind."

_All._ "Go on with your yarn."

_S._ "Well, vermicelli and macaroni, and then a bit of delicious white

turbot, with oyster sauce and----"

_All._ "Yes, yes; go on."

_S._ "All very well to say go on; but I _shall_ have those three beans,

you greedy beggars. Well, then, after the fish came--" etc., etc., etc.

When S. had finished, R. would begin.

"That just reminds me of an hotel I was at in France," etc., and so each

one told his experiences, to the infinite delectation of his neighbours,

and having locust-like devoured everything we came across, we used to get

up hungry and haggard, and run on deck to smoke away the tail end of our

appetite.

In those days, our grace before and after meat was rather a peculiar one.

The president said the first; it was, "Curse the cat." Then just before we

rose from table, "Mr. Vice, will you kindly return thanks."

"_Confound_ the cat."

THE LAST OF THE SKIPPER'S IMP.

No one ever saw the last of him, however; although a seaman, called Davis,

swore point black, that he had seen the cat fly overboard in a sheet of

blue flame; but then Davis was the biggest lubber and the greatest liar

in the ship. The only thing known for certain is this: we were about three

days' sail from Symon's Town, Cape of Good Hope. The night was dark and

the weather squally, and poor Tom was last seen sitting, very quiet and

pensive-like, on the hammock nettings aft. He was seen there, I say, in

the middle watch; and he was never seen again alive or dead. The men swore

roundly that he was a devil nothing more nor less, and that, being a

devil, he couldn't stomach my lord bishop on board, and consequently took

French leave and went home. The truth, I suppose is, that the ship gave a

nasty lee lurch, and Tom, half asleep, missed his footing, and tumbled

overboard. I know the skipper was sorry.

We kept a good look out for the _Flying Dutchman_ after Tom's demise; but

very much to my disappointment, we did not fall in with that ghostly ship.

If I were merely writing a sailor's yarn, I should certainly say we had

seen her, and give a most photographic-like description of her; but such

stories I leave landsmen to tell, for I think if a man has been for ten or

a dozen years at sea, and kept his weather eye lifting all the time, it

will take him the remainder of his life to tell the whole _truth alone_.

When we came down to the Cape, which we managed to do without any further

adventures, there lay the new admiral's ship, all spick and span from

England's shores, so all our fellows were turned over to, and went home in

the old Admiral's ship, all except our engineer and my unhappy self. We,

much to our disgust, were reappointed to the saucy _Tickler_, which was to

remain out for another commission, as tender to the new flagship. Now,

however, we had a new captain, the jolliest little man alive; new

officers, and a new crew, and we were all as jolly as sandboys. The new

officers thought themselves tremendously clever chaps, and every night

they used all to pull off their slippers and go pell mell at the

unfortunate cockroaches; but the engineer and I sat like stoics, and let

them crawl over us in scores, and if too many at one time came on the

book we might be reading, we gently removed them. But before a month was

over, our messmates found out the futility, of trying to diminish the

number of cockroaches, and these interesting creatures had _carte blanche_

all over the ship.

[Illustration: TORTOISESHELL.

First Prize--Owned by MR. L. SMITH.]

[Illustration: SILVER, or BLUE TABBY.

First Prize--Owned by MR. REYNOLDS.]

We sailed for Bombay.

But though black Tom was no more, ill-luck seemed still to hover in the

wake of that little vessel.

I would willingly narrate our further adventures in detail, but somehow I

have no heart, now that the cat has left the story. But, how we were

caught in a gale off the Cape and the ship _taken aback_ (that, reader, is

much more dreadful than it appears on paper), how we sprang a leak a week

after--glass falling and weather stormy, on a rock bound coast--and, just

as the ship was beginning to stagger like a drunk man, and the boats were

got ready for lowering, the engineer--brave little man--dived below water

in the engine-room, and found it was no leak at all, but the great

sea-cock left open by a drunken stoker; how we ran on shore on that wild

reef outside Johanna, and lay there for a whole week with our keel

floating in splinters around us; how, finally we got off, and steamed to

Bombay almost a wreck; the pumps going continually, and barely keeping her

afloat; how we arrived safely through it all; how a liberal government

paid rather more for repairing her, than would have bought a new one, and

how she was sold three years after for an old song,--is it not all written

in the log of Her Majesty's saucy gunboat, _Tickler_.

[Illustration: "Zula," the property of Mrs. Captain Barrett-Lennard. This

cat was brought from Abyssinia at the conclusion of the war, fed on the

way home on raw beef, and was long very wild. She is now very fond of her

mistress, but has a great many eccentricities which other cats have not,

and is altogether a wonderful specimen of cat-kind.]

ADDENDA.

I deem it fair both to myself and to the reader, to supplement my own

evidence on the "Curiosities of Cat Life," by giving the names and

addresses of my authorities for those of my anecdotes, which may seem to

run contrary to the generally received opinions, concerning cats; at the

same time thanking those ladies and gentlemen, who have taken so much

interest in the progress of this work, and expressed themselves willing to

vouch for the truth of the incidents herein related by me. I have tried

to make the anecdotes as readable as possible, and as humorous, as I know

many people think "cats" a dry subject; _but in no single instance have

the interests of truth been disregarded_. My anecdotes are what might be

called sample anecdotes, as I have many hundreds more of the same sort, my

object being to describe _pussy as she really is_, and thus to gain favour

for an animal hitherto understood only by the few, and abused by the many.

And, nothing would give me greater pain, than the reader to have an idea,

that my cats are exceptional cats; for, I distinctly aver, _that no cat

mentioned in this book, has either done or suffered anything, which any

other cat in the kingdom cannot do or suffer_.

INDEX OF NAMES AND ADDRESSES.

Anderson, Alex., Mr., New Fowlis, Crieff, N.B.

Anderson, Jane, Miss, Old Meldrum, Aberdeenshire.

Bird, Miss, Snowdon Place, Stirling.

Bonnar, T., Mr., Largoward, St. Andrews.

Budge, W., Mr., 113, Montrose Street, Brechin.

Burns, D., Mr., 19, Murray Road East, Finsbury Park, London.

Catto, W. D., Ed. of "People's Journal," Dundee.

Church, W., Mrs., 5, Regent's Park, Heavitree, Essex.

Cockerell, Misses, 41, Warwick Street, London.

Crerar, Peter, Mr., Buchan's Buildings, Burrell Street, Crief, N.B.

Cresswell, Frances, Miss, Early Wood, Bagshot, Surrey.

Catto, Edward, Mr., 17, Mortimer Street, Dundee.

Davis, Mr., Aberdare, South Wales.

Donald, John, Mr., 54, Plantation Street, Glasgow.

Dorwood, David, Mr., Kinettles, Forfarshire.

Douglas, T. S., Mr., Park Street, Aberdeen.

Durno, Isa, Miss, Floors, Auchterless, N.B.

Ford, R., Mr., 32, Princess Street, Dundee.

Forshall, F. M., Miss, 14, Park Place, Clarence Gate, London.

Gerrard, Samuel, Mr., New Aberdour, Fraserburgh, N.B.

Gillespie, James, Mr., Ardean, by Dollar, N.B.

Geekie, G., Mr., 18, Mitchell Square, Blairgowrie, Perth.

Gordon, Miss, Camden House, Aberdeen.

Gordon, Mrs., 41, Grieve Street, Dunfermline, N.B.

Grant, Archibald, Mr., New Dupplis, Elgin.

Gray, T., Mr., Park Street, Galashiels.

Grey, P., Mr., Durris, by Aberdeen.

Hutcheson, James, Mr., 22, Temple Lane, Dundee.

Howie, David, Mr., Inverleithen, Peebleshire.

Leitch, David, 31, Bonnygate, Cupar Fife, N.B.

Lynch, Miss, Arduthie, Stonehaven, N.B.

Mackie, A., Mr., 12, Lower James Street, Sheerness.

Macdonald, Mrs., Post Office, Lasswade, N.B.

McCorkle, R., Miss, Newhouse, Stirling.

McLean, John, Mr., Orbliston, Fochabers, N.B.

McKenzie, Mrs., Dornoch, N.B.

McPherson, Colin, Mr., Viewbank Terrace, Dundee.

Miller, Francis, Mr., 17, Sutherland Street, Helensburgh.

Millar, D., Mr., The Cross, Linlithgow.

Mitchell, J., Mr., Matthew's Land, Strathmartine, by Dundee.

Morseley, C. A., Miss, 8, Ludeley Place, Brighton.

Mowat, M., Mr., Berriedale, Caithness.

Oliver, A., Miss, Bovinger Rectory, Ongar, Essex.

Paterson, J., Mr., Carnbo, Kinross.

Pettigrew, Miss, Post Office, Auchterarder, N.B.

Pratt, W., Mr., 143, Norwich Road, Ipswich.

Robinson, W. J., Ballycassidy, _viâ_ Omagh, Ireland.

Rebecca, Mr., Rubislaw, near Aberdeen.

Sibbald, Peter, Mr., 5, Brougham Place, Hawick.

Smith, J., Mr., 79, Princess Street, Dundee.

Stoddart, D., Mr., 92, Rose Street, Edinburgh.

Suter, Miss, Balne Vicarage, Selby.

Swanson, J., Mr., Durness Street, Thurso.

Taylor, W., Mr., Merchant, Cuminstone, by Turriff N.B.

Tyndal, T. G., Mr., Schoolmaster, Portleithen, Hillside, Aberdeen.

Wallace, Mrs., E. U. Manse, Coupar Angus.

Watson, J., Mr., High Street, Alva, Stirlingshire.

Whiteley, Mr., Baggholme Road, Lincoln.

Whyte, J., Mr., Dallfied Terrace, Dundee.

Wilson, G., Mrs., Cults, near Aberdeen.

_Note A._--I have to acknowledge with thanks, the kind letter on the

points and classification of cats, sent me by J. Jenner Weir, F.L.S.

_Note B._--Fishermen, returning in their boats on clear summer nights,

often see a bright light on this mountain's side. I should think the

phenomenon due to the reflection of star-rays, from a piece of rock

crystal; but the superstitious Skye men have a different opinion, and aver

that this light marks the entrance to the cave of the buried treasure. I

hope they may find it. I strongly suspect, however, that the malignant

fairy is nothing more nor less than a wild cat.

_Note C._--Anecdote of the wild cat. Mr. Sibbald.

_Note D._--Anecdote related by Mrs. McDonald.

_Note E._--Anecdote of "Tucker." Mr. Swanson.

_Note F._--Anecdote of cat hunting on three legs. Mr. John McLean.

_Note G._--Anecdote by Miss Oliver.

_Note H._--Related by Mrs. Church.

_Note I._--Related by Mrs. McDonald.

_Note K._--The cat belonging to Lieutenant Hawthorne. This cat was first

prize for weight at the Crystal Palace.

_Note L._--Anecdote related by Mrs. D. H. Gordon.

_Note M._--Anecdote by Miss Oliver.

_Note N._--For private reasons the address of voucher for the truth of

this anecdote cannot be published, but can be sent privately, if wished.

_Note O._--Related by Mr. Murray, Stretford Road, Hulme, Manchester.

_Note P._--This sport (?) is also common in the Highlands of Scotland.

_Note Q._--This happened at the mill of Maidencraig, near Aberdeen. Mr. W.

Young, was then miller.

_Note R._--Related by Mrs. G. Wilson.

_Note S._--This queer little doggie may be seen any evening at the Crown

Hotel, Gosport. A small white bull-terrier.

_Note T._--Related by Mr. Rebecca.

_Note U._--Anecdote by Mr. Millar.

_Note V._--Anecdote by Mrs. Church.

_Note W._--Related by Miss Oliver.

_Note X._--Related by Mr. Swanson.

THE END.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The aversion of the poorer classes in Scotland to receive parochial

relief, or to go into "the house," is well known. No man having once done

so can--or indeed would be permitted to--hold up his head among his

neighbours again.

[2] One only child.

[3] Gowk--a cuckoo, an animal of little sense.

[4] Tit--pap.

[5] Dripping = kitchen-fee.

[6] _Glossary to above._ 1, _Thrum_, a bit of thread. 2, _hum_, sing low

without words. 3, _grat_, wept. 4, _eenies_, little eyes. 5, _preenies_,

small pins. 6, _syne_, then. 7, _glum_, melancholy. 8, _heed_, head. 9,

_bleed_, blood. 10, _beanies_, small bones. 11, _Num!_ Nice! 12, _greet_,

weep. 13, _lum_, chimney-pot.

[7] Women selling Scotch confectionery.

[8] Note. This chapter "is rote sarkastic."

[9] See, page 100, vol. I.

[10] _Pelage_ in _cat_ology = feather in _dog_ology.

[11] Honey, suet, marlingspikes, and pens.--_Jack's translation._

[12] In my next edition I shall insert a bird-stuffer's name here. Space

to be let to the highest bidder.

[13] 11 o'clock.

[14] Throughout the story, commander, captain, and skipper mean one and

the same person. In the Royal Navy, a senior lieutenant generally commands

a gunboat, and is called captain for courtesy, and skipper behind his

back.

[15] My! a Scottish interjection only translatable by the Greek [Greek:

Iô]! (_Io!_)

[16] Half-past five p.m.

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DOGS:

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EDITED BY HENRY WEBB.

EXTRACTS FROM OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

"'DOGS; THEIR POINTS, WHIMS, AND INSTINCTS,' by Henry Webb (_Dean & Son_)

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Sportsman, Nov. 23rd, 1872._

"Most of the papers are written by men who have favourites of the breed

which they describe."--_The Globe, Oct. 30th, 1872._

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peculiarities of dogs, and many things worth knowing may be learnt from

its perusal...."--_The Army and Navy Gazette, Nov. 2nd, 1872._

"The photographs of nearly a hundred dogs, which embellishes Mr. Webb's

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"The points of good breeds are tersely stated, and beyond doubt, the book

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faithful animals."--_Lloyd's Newspaper, Nov. 17th, 1872._

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_Arley Rectory, Coventry._

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_Hooper's Bridge Mills._

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which every sportsman should know; I am indeed very much pleased with the

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_Beverley, Yorkshire._

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_Hales Court, Canterbury._

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_Blackwood House, N.B._

"Mr. Webb's book is very interesting. I, however, do not agree with him

that the head of the Dandie Dinmont bitch is smaller than that of the dog.

E. BRADSHAW SMITH."

Transcriber's Notes:

Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_.

The original text contains letters with diacritical marks that are not

represented in this text version.

The original text includes Greek characters that have been replaced with

transliterations in this text version.

The original text includes the following symbols: recipe [R.], dram [dr],

and ounce [oz].