The child was playing with a cat upon the rug, and finding great delight
in its piteous meows when she pulled its tail. The mother remonstrated
at each outcry in about this fashion:
“Margy, _dear_, don’t pull poor kitty’s tail like that! Don’t you know
it hurts poor kitty? How would you like to have mamma pull your hair? I
wouldn’t do it now. Try to make kitty happy.”
“Why don’t you pull her hair, and show her what it’s like?” inquired
Donald, who was reading in the window-seat.
“I want her to learn to think such things out for herself,” the mother
replied with a wise air. “I want her to put herself in kitty’s place.”
“Huh—she’ll never do it unless you make her. Let me show her, will you?”
“No, indeed, Donald. I’m afraid your method wouldn’t be very gentle.”
“Well, I bet the cat doesn’t think she’s very gentle, either,” and
Donald went back to his story.
“Margy must learn to do her own thinking, of course. I remember when you
were a baby, Donald—Margy, child! Mercy, what a howl. Pussy! Margy,
can’t you see you hurt poor pussy? Hurt it, dear—just hear it cry! Makes
it feel all badly, as Margy does when she’s ill. Just hear poor kitty
cry!”
Margy was “hearing poor kitty cry” with new delight at each piteous
meow, which she took to be dear kitty’s means of entertaining her—having
never been taught to associate the sound with pain of any kind. Just
then the door bell rang, and the mother had to leave.
“Donald, dear, you look after Margy while I’m gone,” she said, as she
closed the door.