we coaxed from under cover of a heap of rubbish in the alley, one of
the dirtiest yellow and white gutter kittens ever seen; one that had
been eyeing us timidly and insolently from the safe protection of
his smelly hiding place for several days. Gaunt, miserably hungry and
shivering with the cold, he did not respond to our overtures of trying
to make him a mite happy on Christmas day, with the eagerness one would
naturally expect. When he did condescend to come, his steps were very
deliberate and he carried himself with a certain sad dignity as if he
had found the cold world hopeless, and had shut his young heart against
all trust. From his manner it was more to politely oblige us that
he came at all, than because he wished a merry Christmas or even our
acquaintance.
By dropping our air of patronage and assuming a respectful one, we were
finally able to cajole him to the doorstep and at last to the warmth of
the kitchen and a saucer of food. Although he was not a bit shy, it was
plainly his first introduction into the interior of any house. He was a
typical alley kitten, and probably a graceless one, born in the gutter
with no pretensions to breeding or even good looks. But with all this,
a lover of cats could plainly see that he was not a common "yeller cat"
but had a superior strain of blood in his veins from somewhere. Young
as he was, it gave him a distinct individuality which impressed us
from the very first. His short life had in all likelihood been a hard
one; probably he had been abandoned in infancy and obliged to make his
own living by depredation, and knew only the cruelty and insult of a
homeless alley existence.
There may still be people in the world--civilized people--who do not
care for cats, but we, liking all cats and fancying the calm dignity
of this one in particular, were at once in hopes he would forsake
his back-door haunts and come and live with us as our very own. As
he looked wise enough to solve life's problem on almost any lines,
we tried to tempt him to think seriously on all the comforts our home
afforded and the life of ease and luxury it would bestow. We gave him
feasts and promised him all sorts of other good things, if he would
only abandon his former dissipated ways and stay with us.
He was always such a very serious cat, never seeming to have a kitten's
natural playfulness, not enough to even chase his own tail once in
a while as most kittens do. We never could coax him even under the
most alluring temptation to be otherwise than grave and tolerant of
our levity and as we had our little romps with him we called him in
laughing sarcasm, "Jiminy Christmas." We had no idea of giving one so
dignified this trifling name permanently, but he so quickly learned to
respond to it, and as no other was suggested more appropriate in its
place, it was gradually established as the regular name by which he was
known.
He surely was a most welcome addition to our household and we tried
to make him feel this and to know that we were honored by his stay.
Although he was growing fat and beautifully sleek and was most
friendly, graciously accepting all that we gave, but giving very
little in return, we noticed that he did not seem quite content and
at ease, but was restless, as if some previous and neglected affair
were on his mind and calling him elsewhere. There was nothing that we
could actually complain of, still there was something comforting and
permanent that was lacking in his presence. He was good--at least,
part of him was good; but we had no idea, as we came to know later, of
that other part that was, well--not so good. At the time all we could
see was that something was plainly fretting him, something chafing
him almost beyond endurance. After we were better acquainted we found
that close beneath his gentlemanly exterior lay a veritable wild and
vagabond nature, a vagrant ancestral strain that nothing could tame.
His queer combination of inheritances was the cause of constant strife
in his nature, and the vagrant germ was likely to break out at almost
any time into attacks of "spring fever," which would force all ties of
the gentlemanly part to the wall and inevitably he would fare forth.
We tried in every way to coax him into contentment and domestic ways,
but the very fact that he was under surveillance and obliged to do
things, even for our loving satisfaction, was irritating to him and
made the "wild strain" chafe under the bondage. He seemed to try to
please us as hard as we tried to please him, and appeared grateful and
affectionate, but he could not hide that smoldering, hungry yearning
in his eyes nor the fact that he was tugging continually at the chains
of his restraint, waiting, listening and planning some sort of polite
escape, respectability growing more and more irksome every day.
Afterwards, when we came to know his besetting sin more intimately, we
gave him credit for manfully putting up a good fight this first time
against that vagrant embryo that was stirring an almost irresistible
desire in his breast. The migratory instinct grew more insistent day
by day, doubtless restrained for a time by a sense in his gentlemanly
nature of certain obligations due us for our hospitality, but at last
it was too much for his politeness even and with a hasty "good-bye" and
a "thank you, ma'am, for your goodness" off he scampered somewhere out
where he could be free, and into the uncertainty of his former tramp
existence, but with the exquisite joy of liberty speeding his heels.
We felt very sorry and really quite culpable in not having been able to
offer sufficient inducement to hold this tantalizing little vagabond.
Although we did not wish him any misfortune, we _did_ hope that if
adversity should overtake him in the mysterious, hot, irritating
madness of his desire, he would remember our hospitable roof, and come
straight back to us.
He must have had an unusually good time and turned himself loose
recklessly, for it was many months before we saw him again, and when
he did appear he had grown to full and magnificent cathood. He came
to our door as an undoubted friend, bubbling over with vitality, every
fiber in his body, even to his tail, buoyant with pride and action. He
was still rather superior in manner and quite sure of himself and his
reception, not that he would intrude himself upon us, but if agreeable
to all he would "bide a wee."
He looked as if the open road and the chase had afforded him more than
a sumptuous living, for although well weathered by his tramp life, he
was as chipper as ever and his muscles hard with a healthy well-fed
leanness. Evidently, if we wanted this little savage at all we must
accept him as a proposition and law unto himself. And we did want
him, feeling sure that he was of the right sort, with merely a dash
of mystery and adventure about him. He was made more than welcome, and
his toes surreptitiously buttered according to ancient superstition, a
process said to keep cats from roaming. He graciously settled into the
old ways, accepting our love and forgiveness as freely as it was given,
and this time was good enough to stay with us for several months.
As week succeeded week and he was still a contented member of our
household, showing no signs of going his own way, we felt certain
the talisman had worked and grew to be fairly sure of him. We really
believed that the fleshpots of servitude had opened his eyes to the
folly of his former disreputable ways, and that in pure physical
content he would now settle down into the easy berth offered him and
the tameness of domesticity.
But it seems that this was only the "gentlemanly part," for the time
being having a holiday, and that our assurance was a creation of our
own desire and doomed to disappointment. The time came all too surely
when he began to show a decided weariness of walls and a diminished
appetite for things cooked, perking his ears with a curious, listening
look in his dark eyes, as of constant, waiting expectation, listening
to something calling from afar. The roaming strain in his blood ever
ran true on its glorious course, and it was not long before his days
were empty and life too unbearably dull under the ease of our, perhaps
too lavish, hospitality. Much to our chagrin he plainly showed that he
was weary to death of having to account for days, and being locked up
nights.
We recognized the signs and knew that this was one of his periods of
utter revolt, when all clogging connection with civilization would
prove too galling in comparison with the joys of the open, and knowing
the nature of the sledge hammer that was pounding in his breast, stood
by and watched the struggle with amused interest. We were certain
that we had given him the sense of the restfulness of a settled home
with its comforts, and were also sure of having gained his gentlemanly
gratitude and affection. But "you never can tell," and so we waited and
wondered in curious uncertainty as to the outcome.
Summer passed, and it was not until the leaves were smitten with frost
and falling scarlet and gold in the autumn woods that Jiminy Christmas'
vagabond blood tantalized him into faring forth. The free way in which
the cheery chipmunks and the squirrels were scampering among the naked
tree-tops, rattling the dry branches and sending a rain of nuts on his
great playground, set the wheels of discontent to buzzing so fiercely
in his roving nature that it actually hurt him to stay within bounds.
We felt that if he were able to resist the merciless torment this time,
he would indeed be a warrior worthy of laurel.
In the end the lure of life in the open won; or was it the old militant
alley and chummy gutters? But whichever it was, the summons proved
too enticing, and so one evening, half-apologetically, as if dragging
himself away from an almost overpowering temptation to stay, he rubbed
his "Aufwiedersehen" about our feet. We watched him fade like a ghost
into the surreptitious joy of the blue gloaming, carrying his tail with
an air of regret and shame, but resolutely, and quickening his pace
with every step, never to be seen again until all hope had long been
given up.
As the months and finally more than a year passed and no prodigal
returned, we feared that he had shaken the dust from his paws and the
memory of our home from his mind, forever, and gone the final way of
all such vagabonds. We were honestly puzzled over this wild independent
streak in his nature, and naturally rather indignant over his lack of
appreciation. Still, his next appearance was anxiously waited for and
there was never a day that we did not look and hope that out of the
mysterious everywhere, somehow, someway, this ungrateful cat would come
back to the warm spots in our hearts, and the empty spot on our hearth
that were waiting for him.
One lovely morning, in the early spring, on going out on the back porch
for a breath of the fresh morning world and a general survey of things
blossoming, little did we dream of seeing our renegade. Yet there he
was, sitting modestly on the very edge of the farthest corner, as if
claiming nothing, nor asserting anything, but actually there, come back
to us from the mysterious absence of a whole year.
"And is it you?" was the rather scornful welcome he received.
Naturally the feeble irony of this greeting was lost on him and he
gave us a smiling "good-morning," with a "lovely day today" sort
of expression, and our pleasure at renewing the acquaintance was as
great as the surprise he had given us. We could scarcely believe our
eyes, but by this time we were getting used to this cat's "dropping
in on us" how and when he liked. He was quite self-possessed, making
what we considered a polite apology but no unusual fuss, ignoring
this huge blank in his record and pretending it was but yesterday
that he had stepped out to "look at things." His superb air of having
no recollection and being so stolidly calm over it, and having
no consciousness of anything to account for, was exasperatingly
characteristic. But with all this, there seemed to be at first a
questioning, wistful look in his wide-open eyes as they met ours. Not
that he was at all humble; it was rather as if he were trying to fathom
the depth of his depravity in our estimation: a guilty, uncertain,
uneasy, self-conviction, as if feeling his way back into our goodness
and esteem.
Although he had made himself tidy, after the manner of cats, he looked
as if this intervening year had not been entirely good to him. His
disreputable appearance gave proof, that however gentle we had found
him in peace, he must be terrible in war, for his glossy fur was soiled
and shabby and in a pitiable state of rags and tatters, showing the
scars of many a hard-fought battle, but honorable battles and honorable
scars we were sure.
Older now, and as one who had experienced hard, his calm eyes held in
their dark depths the mystery of many a bandit night under the stars.
He was like the "shabby genteel," doing his painful best to make the
most of a decidedly disreputable appearance, ignoring all things that
were even suggestive of a blank page unaccounted for. He was still
plucky and sublimely dignified in that impregnable reserve which even
our kindness had never been able to penetrate, but there was something
gone from his old-time militant buoyancy, and in its place a kind of
desperate air, as of one who assumes a bravado of happiness he does not
feel.
This time he manifested a decided gratitude for all the good things
that came to him. As his hollow skeleton filled out with good and
regular food, and his relaxed sinews stiffened, we thought that at
last the days of roving and the vagabondage of lusty youth were over
and that he had come to a realizing sense of what a comfortable old
age would mean. Surely now he would accept a trifling bondage for
the sake of peace, rather than yield again to the vague uncertainty
of irresponsible freedom and the disastrous results he had plainly
experienced. The old love for the prodigal came back and he was
reinstated with joy. But alas, the straight and narrow path seemed to
have no charms for this incorrigible, and his case seemed hopeless.
Just as his hollow curves were filling out into decent plumpness
and his thick glossy coat beginning to look like an aristocrat's the
symptoms of the inevitable "parting of our ways" were again apparent.
It was the usual attack, violent and urgent, leading him to dare and
defy all, even death, in following the beckoning call.
It was mortifying to us that he should even occasionally prefer the
low company of his alley associates, and the shame of being a skulking
gutter shadow, dodging abuse, but that he should have these periodical
spells of the "inevitable interval," unconscious of any restraint,
wandering and living as a tramp for months away from us, his ways and
life entirely shrouded in mystery, was too exasperating even for our
loving forbearance. In our wrath, we determined that if he went this
time from our home, it should be forever. We had lost all patience
with his delightful weakness and had at last made up our minds that
if he could not be contented to remain this time, we would depose him
everlastingly from our hospitality and erase him from our hearts, for
we felt that we were wasting our affection and anxious sympathy on
false pretenses.
In our high estimation of him, we had given him credit for what was not
there, and an appreciation far above what he had proven capable of. We
were baffled and perplexed beyond endurance by this strange fascination
which seduced him with such passionate persistence, driving him from
our protection into great spaces in his life which were a sealed book
to us. During all these years of our intermittent friendship, we were
never able to solve this riddle. It was as if he heard some compelling
challenge, like the sounding notes of the Pied Piper, calling and
calling him from that far-off unknown, and try as he would to oppose
it, his scandalous legs would eventually force their independence and
get him there in spite of a hostile and honorable will. There was
something so piteously appealing in the cat's evident helplessness
to combat these siren summons, which threw him into a white heat of
daring, that it finally disarmed our antagonism. Resigned to what we
had now found was inevitable we compassionately waited and watched,
realizing the fierceness of the strife that was raging in his complex
nature, and knowing that he was powerless to thwart it.
This time the battle was a short one, for he had lost the shame of it,
and had not the strength or desire to fight it. With no apology but
with the steady, brooding look of a thousand defiant devils in his gray
eyes, he soon made a hasty escape, the stiff hair lifting eagerly along
the ridge of his back as he set out again on the long weary road that
was forever drawing him from the narrow path of peace and rectitude. He
had evidently sunk very low, even in his own estimation, for our last
glimpse of him caught him adroitly dodging a shower of rocks well-aimed
by the eternal small boy, ever on the lookout for such targets, as he
disappeared over the alley fence.
We gave him up surely this time and mourned him as dead, knowing that
the pluck and endurance of youth was long past. His wandering irregular
life had done its worst, weakening his one-time rugged frame that was
wont to withstand so defiantly, the hardships and privations of a tramp
life.
[Illustration: JIMINY CHRISTMAS, THE FREE SPIRIT
Born Free, He Kept His Own Wanton Will Free from Enslavement to the
End, Living His Own Life in Honor and Honesty in an Out-Doors All His
Own]
But he was not dead, and we were bound to see him once more from out
the No-Where, and to have the satisfaction of knowing that this long
trip was his last and his wandering days over. It was during the wee
small hours one silent, frosty night, that I was irresistibly drawn
from my dreams and from my bed, and stepping to the window looked out
on the sparkling space of what seemed to be the deserted roof, flooded
in the unclouded light of the full moon. Quietly and with no sense
of abruptness, came stealing on the heavy stillness of the night, a
mournful, throaty wail of resignation from out the inky shadow made
by the chimney. This desperate cry of the solitary cat sounded almost
human, as if, seeing me standing there, and knowing that the icy doom
had overtaken him, he just wanted to let me know the desolation of
his helplessness. Peering into the shadow, I saw crouched there in
a strangely pathetic manner, our wandering Ishmael, keeping a lonely
night-watch and waiting patiently in the cold for--God knows what. He
seemed dazed and terrified, crouching stiffly and staring about him
with wide-open, frightened eyes. He must have known that the darkness
was close upon him, for that one beseeching, throaty note, unspeakably
human and forlorn, was all his uncomplaining wretchedness uttered.
Answering to my coaxing, he straightened his fast stiffening limbs with
an effort and dragged his poor weak body to my compassionate caress.
He had changed pitifully during this stay away and was only a shadow
of his former self physically. His pride and might were all gone,
but he was a stoic still, enduring what he himself seemed to know was
death, in silent, uncomplaining misery but with a green spark of terror
blazing in his fading eyes. I was glad that he had not crawled away to
some secret place for the last great struggle alone, but had come to us
and to our sympathy in his final need.
I soon had a blazing fire and as he feebly felt its warmth, he made a
pathetic effort to tidy his poor matted fur, in which he had always
taken such pride, especially in our presence. But even a few licks
of his tongue were too much for his failing strength, and he dropped
limply to the rug. Once he turned his head wearily to me as if to
express his gratitude and as if to say, "How glad I am to be here."
Then his body relaxed, the terror faded from his eyes, and that was the
end. He had answered the summons for his last journey and gone out into
the darkness without even the grace of repentance.
Only a cat! And one of the least commendable of all cats, and one that
could not be called, even by his most ardent admirer, a worthy cat.
Yet he possessed a personality, if not a soul, glowing with the great
American burning impulse of liberty, and he has left a memory, not as a
failure, but as one who made good. Born free, he kept his own free will
to the end, living his own life in an out-doors all his own, free from
enslavement and exultant in his freedom. He asked absolutely nothing
of the world, but took what came his way with unassuming composure,
rising above the temptation to yield his individuality in serving
those he loved, cherishing somewhere in his plucky brain a pre-natal,
God-implanted spirit of self-reliance to the end.
Is it against all religion that God might perhaps let such a pagan
bundle of unrepentance into Somewhere? _Suaviter in modo, fortiter
in re._
Is there aught of harm believing
That some newer form receiving,
They may find a wider sphere,
Live a larger life than here?
That the meek appealing eyes
Haunted by strange mysteries,
Find a more extended field,
To new destinies unsealed?
HERE ENDS THE GREAT SMALL CAT, AND OTHERS, BEING A COLLECTION OF
SEVEN TALES FOR CAT-LOVERS, BY MAY E. SOUTHWORTH, THE TYPOGRAPHICAL
APPEARANCE DESIGNED BY JOHN SWART, PUBLISHED BY PAUL ELDER AND COMPANY
AND PRINTED FOR THEM BY THE TOMOYE PRESS, SAN FRANCISCO, NINETEEN
HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN.