mouse, but I have a constitutional horror of the most harmless reptiles.
Watching the Blue Dryad as it glided across the patch of sunlight
streaming in from the open window, and knowing what it was, I confess to
being as nearly frightened out of my wits as I ever hope to be. If I had
been well, perhaps I might have managed to scream and run away. As it
was, I simply dared not speak or move a finger for fear of attracting
the beast's attention to myself. Thus I remained a terrified spectator
of the astonishing scene which followed. The whole thing seemed to me
like a dream. As the beast entered the room, I seemed again to hear my
cousin making the remark above mentioned about the cobra. _What_ animal,
I wondered dreamily, could he have meant? Not Ruby! Ruby was dead. I
looked at his stiff body again and shuddered. The whistle of a train
sounded from the valley below, and then an errand-boy passed along the
road at the back of the house (for the second or third time that day)
singing in a cracked voice the fragment of a popular melody, of which I
am sorry to say I know no more--
"I've got a little cat,
And I'm very fond of that;
But daddy wouldn't buy me a bow, wow, wow;"
the _wow-wows_ becoming fainter and further as the youth strode down the
hill. If I had been "myself," as the poor folk say, this coincidence
would have made me laugh, for at that very moment Stoffles, weary of
patting flies and spiders on the back, appeared gently purring on the
crest, so to speak, of the sofa.
It has often occurred to me since that if the scale of things had been
enlarged--if Stoffles, for example, had been a Bengal tiger, and the
Dryad a boa-constrictor or crocodile,--the tragedy which followed would
have been worthy of the pen of any sporting and dramatic historian. I
can only say that, being transacted in such objectionable proximity to
myself, the thing was as impressive as any combat of mastodon and
iguanodon could have been to primitive man.
Stoffles, as I have said, was inordinately vain and self-conscious.
Stalking along the top of the sofa-back and bearing erect the bushy
banner of her magnificent tail, she looked the most ridiculous creature
imaginable. She had proceeded half-way on this pilgrimage towards me
when suddenly, with the rapidity of lightning, as her ear caught the
sound of the hiss and her eyes fell upon the Blue Dryad, her whole
civilized "play-acting" demeanour vanished, and her body stiffened and
contracted to the form of a watchful wild beast with the ferocious and
instinctive antipathy to a natural enemy blazing from its eyes. No
change of a shaken kaleidoscope could have been more complete or more
striking. In one light bound she was on the floor in a compressed,
defensive attitude, with all four feet close together, near, but not too
near, the unknown but clearly hostile intruder; and to my surprise, the
snake turned and made off towards the window. Stoffles trotted lightly
after, obviously interested in its method of locomotion. Then she made a
long arm and playfully dropped a paw upon its tail. The snake wriggled
free in a moment, and coiling its whole length, some three and a half
feet, fronted this new and curious antagonist.
At the very first moment, I need hardly say, I expected that one short
stroke of that little pointed head against the cat's delicate body would
quickly have settled everything. But one is apt to forget that a snake
(I suppose because in romances snakes always "dart") can move but slowly
and awkwardly over a smooth surface, such as a tiled or wooden floor.
The long body, in spite of its wonderful construction, and of the
attitudes in which it is frequently drawn, is no less subject to the
laws of gravitation than that of a hedgehog. A snake that "darts" when
it has nothing secure to hold on by, only overbalances itself. With half
or two-thirds of the body firmly coiled against some rough object or
surface, the head--of a poisonous snake at least--is indeed a deadly
weapon of precision. This particular reptile, perhaps by some instinct,
had now wriggled itself on to a large and thick fur rug about twelve
feet square, upon which arena took place the extraordinary contest that
followed.
The audacity of the cat astonished me from the first. I have no reason
to believe she had ever seen a snake before, yet by a sort of instinct
she seemed to know exactly what she was doing. As the Dryad raised its
head, with glittering eyes and forked tongue, Stoffles crouched with
both front paws in the air, sparring as I had seen her do sometimes with
a large moth. The first round passed so swiftly that mortal eye could
hardly see with distinctness what happened. The snake made a dart, and
the cat, all claws, aimed two rapid blows at its advancing head. The
first missed, but the second I could see came home, as the brute,
shaking its neck and head, withdrew further into the jungle--I mean, of
course, the rug. But Stoffles, who had no idea of the match ending in
this manner, crept after it, with an air of attractive carelessness
which was instantly rewarded. A full two feet of the Dryad's body
straightened like a black arrow, and seemed to strike right into the
furry side of its antagonist--seemed, I say, to slow going human eyes;
but the latter shrank, literally _fell_ back, collapsing with such
suddenness that she seemed to have turned herself inside out, and become
the mere skin of a cat. As the serpent recovered itself, she pounced on
it like lightning, driving at least half a dozen claws well home, and
then, apparently realizing that she had not a good enough hold, sprang
lightly into the air from off the body, alighting about a yard off.
There followed a minute of sparring in the air; the snake seemingly
half afraid to strike, the cat waiting on its every movement.
Now, the poisonous snake when provoked is an irritable animal, and the
next attack of the Dryad, maddened by the scratchings of puss and its
own unsuccessful exertions, was so furious, and so close to myself, that
I shuddered for the result. Before this stage, I might perhaps, with a
little effort have escaped, but now panic fear glued me to the spot;
indeed I could not have left my position on the sofa without almost
treading upon Stoffles, whose bristling back was not a yard from my
feet. At last, I thought--as the Blue Dryad, for one second coiled close
as a black silk cable, sprang out the next as straight and sharp as the
piston-rod of an engine,--this lump of feline vanity and conceit is done
for, and--I could not help thinking--it will probably be my turn next!
Little did I appreciate the resources of Stoffles, who without a change
in her vigilant pose, without a wink of her fierce green eyes, sprang
backwards and upwards on to the top of me and there confronted the enemy
as calm as ever, sitting, if you please, upon my feet! I don't know that
any gymnastic performance ever surprised me more than this, though I
have seen this very beast drop twenty feet from a window-sill on to a
stone pavement without appearing to notice any particular change of
level. Cats with so much plumage have probably their own reasons for not
flying.
Trembling all over with fright, I could not but observe that she was
trembling too--with rage. Whether instinct inspired her with the
advantages of a situation so extremely unpleasant to me, I cannot say.
The last act of the drama rapidly approached, and no more strategic
catastrophe was ever seen.
For a snake, as everybody knows, naturally rears its head when fighting.
In that position, though one may hit it with a stick, it is extremely
difficult, as this battle had shown, to get hold of. Now, as the Dryad,
curled to a capital S, quivering and hissing advanced for the last time
to the charge, it was bound to strike across the edge of the sofa on
which I lay, at the erect head of Stoffles, which vanished with a
juggling celerity that would have dislocated the collar-bone of any
other animal in creation. From such an exertion the snake recovered
itself with an obvious effort, quick beyond question, but not nearly
quick enough. Before I could well see that it had missed its aim,
Stoffles had launched out like a spring released, and, burying eight or
ten claws in the back of its enemy's head, pinned it down against the
stiff cushion of the sofa. The tail of the agonized reptile flung wildly
in the air and flapped on the arched back of the imperturbable tigress.
The whiskered muzzle of Stoffles dropped quietly, and her teeth met
once, twice, thrice, like the needle and hook of a sewing-machine, in
the neck of the Blue Dryad; and when, after much deliberation, she let
it go, the beast fell into a limp tangle on the floor.
When I saw that the thing was really dead I believe I must have fainted.
Coming to myself, I heard hurried steps and voices. "Great heavens!" my
husband was screaming, "where has the brute got to?" "It's all right,"
said the Engineer; "just you come and look here, old man. Commend me to
the coolness of that cat. After the murder of your priceless specimen,
here's Stoffles cleaning her fur in one of her serenest Anglo-Saxon
attitudes."
So she was. My husband looked grave as I described the scene. "Didn't I
tell you so?" said the Engineer, "and this beast, I take it, is worse
than any cobra."
I can easily believe he was right. From the gland of the said beast, as
I afterwards learned, they extracted enough poison to be the death of
twenty full-grown human beings.
Tightly clasped between its minute teeth was found (what interested me
more) a few long hairs, late the property of Stoffles.
Stoffles, however--she is still with us--has a superfluity of long hair,
and is constantly leaving it about.
G. H. POWELL.
DICK BAKER'S CAT
One of my comrades there--another of those victims of eighteen years of
unrequited toil and blighted hopes--was one of the gentlest spirits that
ever bore its patient cross in a weary exile: grave and simple Dick
Baker, pocket-miner of Dead-Horse Gulch. He was forty-six, grey as a
rat, earnest, thoughtful, slenderly educated, slouchily dressed and
clay-soiled, but his heart was finer metal than any gold his shovel ever
brought to light--than any, indeed, that ever was mined or minted.
Whenever he was out of luck and a little downhearted, he would fall to
mourning over the loss of a wonderful cat he used to own (for where
women and children are not, men of kindly impulses take up with pets,
for they must love something). And he always spoke of the strange
sagacity of that cat with the air of a man who believed in his secret
heart that there was something human about it--maybe even supernatural.
I heard him talking about this animal once. He said:
"Gentlemen, I used to have a cat here, by the name of Tom Quartz, which
you'd 'a' took an interest in, I reckon--, most anybody would. I had him
here eight year--and he was the remarkablest cat _I_ ever see. He was a
large grey one of the Tom specie, an' he had more hard, natchral sense
than any man in this camp--'n' a _power_ of dignity--he wouldn't let the
Gov'ner of Californy be familiar with him. He never ketched a rat in
his life--'peared to be above it. He never cared for nothing but mining.
He knowed more about mining, that cat did, than any man _I_ ever, ever
see. You couldn't tell _him_ noth'n' 'bout placer-diggin's--'n' as for
pocket-mining, why he was just born for it. He would dig out after me
an' Jim when we went over the hills prospect'n', and he would trot along
behind us for as much as five mile, if we went so fur. An' he had the
best judgment about mining-ground--why you never see anything like it.
When we went to work, he'd scatter a glance around, 'n' if he didn't
think much of the indications, he would give a look as much as to say,
'Well, I'll have to get you to excuse _me_,' 'n' without another word
he'd hyste his nose into the air 'n' shove for home. But if the ground
suited him, he would lay low 'n' keep dark till the first pan was
washed, 'n' then he would sidle up 'n' take a look, an' if there was
about six or seven grains of gold _he_ was satisfied--he didn't want no
better prospect 'n' that--'n' then he would lay down on our coats and
snore like a steamboat till we'd struck the pocket, an' then get up 'n'
superintend. He was nearly lightnin' on superintending.
"Well, by an' by, up comes this yer quartz excitement. Everybody was
into it--everybody was pick'n' 'n' blast'n' instead of shovelin' dirt on
the hillside--everybody was putt'n' down a shaft instead of scrapin' the
surface. Noth'n' would do Jim, but _we_ must tackle the ledges, too, 'n'
so we did. We commenced putt'n' down a shaft, 'n' Tom Quartz he begin to
wonder what in the Dickens it was all about. _He_ hadn't ever seen any
mining like that before, 'n' he was all upset, as you may say--he
couldn't come to a right understanding of it no way--it was too many for
_him_. He was down on it too, you bet you--he was down on it
powerful--'n' always appeared to consider it the cussedest foolishness
out. But that cat, you know, was _always_ agin new-fangled
arrangements--somehow he never could abide 'em. _You_ know how it is
with old habits. But by an' by Tom Quartz begin to git sort of
reconciled a little, though he never _could_ altogether understand that
eternal sinkin' of a shaft an' never pannin' out anything. At last he
got to comin' down in the shaft, hisself, to try to cipher it out. An'
when he'd git the blues, 'n' feel kind o' scruffy, 'n' aggravated 'n'
disgusted--knowin' as he did, that the bills was runnin' up all the time
an' we warn't makin' a cent--he would curl up on a gunny-sack in the
corner an' go to sleep. Well, one day when the shaft was down about
eight foot, the rock got so hard that we had to put in a blast--the
first blast'n' we'd ever done since Tom Quartz was born. An' then we lit
the fuse 'n' clumb out 'n' got off 'bout fifty yards--'n' forgot 'n'
left Tom Quartz sound asleep on the gunny-sack. In 'bout a minute we
seen a puff of smoke bust up out of the hole, 'n' then everything let go
with an awful crash, 'n' about four million ton of rocks 'n' dirt 'n'
smoke 'n' splinters shot up 'bout a mile an' a half into the air, an' by
George, right in the dead centre of it was old Tom Quartz a-goin' end
over end, an' a-snortin' an' a-sneez'n, an' a-clawin' an' a-reach'n' for
things like all possessed. But it warn't no use, you know, it warn't no
use. An' that was the last we see of _him_ for about two minutes 'n' a
half, an' then all of a sudden it begin to rain rocks and rubbage an'
directly he come down ker-whoop about ten foot off f'm where we stood.
Well, I reckon he was p'raps the orneriest-lookin' beast you ever see.
One ear was sot back on his neck, 'n' his tail was stove up, 'n' his
eye-winkers was singed off, 'n' he was all blacked up with powder an'
smoke, an' all sloppy with mud 'n' slush f'm one end to the other. Well,
sir, it warn't no use to try to apologize--we couldn't say a word. He
took a sort of a disgusted look at hisself, 'n' then he looked at
us--an' it was just exactly the same as if he had said--'Gents, maybe
_you_ think it's smart to take advantage of a cat that ain't had no
experience of quartz-minin', but _I_ think _different_'--an' then he
turned on his heel 'n' marched off home without ever saying another
word.
"That was jest his style. An' maybe you won't believe it, but after that
you never see a cat so prejudiced agin quartz-mining as what he was. An'
by an' by when he _did_ get to goin' down in the shaft ag'in, you'd 'a'
been astonished at his sagacity. The minute we'd tetch off a blast 'n'
the fuse'd begin to sizzle, he'd give a look as much as to say, 'Well,
I'll have to git you to excuse _me_,' an' it was supris'n' the way he'd
shin out of that hole 'n' go f'r a tree. Sagacity? It ain't no name for
it. 'Twas _inspiration_!"
I said, "Well, Mr. Baker, his prejudice against quartz-mining _was_
remarkable, considering how he came by it. Couldn't you ever cure him of
it?"
"_Cure him!_ No! When Tom Quartz was sot once, he was _always_ sot--and
you might 'a' blowed him up as much as three million times 'n' you'd
never 'a' broken him of his cussed prejudice ag'in quartz-mining."
MARK TWAIN.
THE BLACK CAT
For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I
neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it in
a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet mad am I
not--and very surely do I not dream. But tomorrow I die, and today I
would unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the
world plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere
household events. In their consequences these events have
terrified--have tortured--have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to
expound them. To me they presented little but horror--to many they will
seem less terrible than _baroques_. Hereafter, perhaps, some intellect
may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the commonplace--some
intellect more calm, more logical, and far less excitable than my own,
which will perceive, in the circumstances I detail with awe, nothing
more than an ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects.
From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my
disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to make
me the jest of my companions. I was especially fond of animals, and was
indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent
most of my time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing
them. This peculiarity of character grew with my growth, and in my
manhood I derived from it one of my principal sources of pleasure. To
those who have cherished an affection for a faithful and sagacious dog,
I need hardly be at the trouble of explaining the nature or the
intensity of the gratification thus derivable. There is something in the
unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute which goes directly to
the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry
friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere _Man_.
I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition not
uncongenial with my own. Observing my partiality for domestic pets, she
lost no opportunity of procuring those of the most agreeable kind. We
had birds, gold-fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small monkey, and _a cat_.
This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely black,
and sagacious to an astonishing degree. In speaking of his intelligence,
my wife, who at heart was not a little tinctured with superstition, made
frequent allusion to the ancient popular notion which regarded all black
cats as witches in disguise. Not that she was ever _serious_ upon this
point, and I mention the matter at all for no better reason than that it
happens just now to be remembered.
Pluto--this was the cat's name--was my favourite pet and playmate. I
alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went about the house. It
was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from following me
through the streets.
Our friendship lasted in this manner for several years, during which my
general temperament and character--through the instrumentality of the
Fiend Intemperance--had (I blush to confess it) experienced a radical
alteration for the worse. I grew, day by day, more moody, more
irritable, more regardless of the feelings of others. I suffered myself
to use intemperate language to my wife. At length, I even offered her
personal violence. My pets of course were made to feel the change in my
disposition. I not only neglected but ill-used them. For Pluto, however,
I still retained sufficient regard to restrain me from maltreating him,
as I made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the monkey, or even the
dog, when by accident, or through affection, they came in my way. But my
disease grew upon me--for what disease is like Alcohol!--and at length
even Pluto, who was now becoming old, and consequently somewhat
peevish--even Pluto began to experience the effects of my ill-temper.
One night, returning home much intoxicated from one of my haunts about
town, I fancied that the cat avoided my presence. I seized him, when, in
his fright at my violence, he inflicted a slight wound upon my hand with
his teeth. The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no
longer. My original soul seemed at once to take its flight from my body,
and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fiber
of my frame. I took from my waistcoat-pocket a penknife, opened it,
grasped the poor beast by the throat, and deliberately cut one of its
eyes from the socket! I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen the
damnable atrocity.
When reason returned with the morning--when I had slept off the fumes of
the night's debauch--I experienced a sentiment half of horror, half of
remorse, for the crime of which I had been guilty, but it was at best a
feeble and equivocal feeling, and the soul remained untouched. I again
plunged into excess, and soon drowned in wine all memory of the deed.
In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost eye
presented, it is true, a frightful appearance, but he no longer appeared
to suffer any pain. He went about the house as usual, but, as might be
expected, fled in extreme terror at my approach. I had so much of my old
heart left as to be at first grieved by this evident dislike on the part
of a creature which had once so loved me. But this feeling soon gave
place to irritation. And then came, as if to my final and irrevocable
overthrow, the spirit of PERVERSENESS. Of this spirit philosophy takes
no account. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives than I am that
perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart--one of
the indivisible primary faculties or sentiments which gave direction to
the character of Man. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself
committing a vile or a silly action for no other reason than because he
knows he should _not_? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth
of our best judgment, to violate that which is _Law_, merely because we
understand it to be such? This spirit of perverseness, I say, came to my
final overthrow. It was this unfathomable longing of the soul to _vex
itself_--to offer violence to its own nature--to do wrong for the
wrong's sake only--that urged me to continue and finally to consummate
the injury I had inflicted upon the unoffending brute. One morning, in
cool blood, I slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the limb of
a tree; hung it with the tears streaming from my eyes, and with the
bitterest remorse at my heart; hung it _because_ I knew it had loved me,
and _because_ I felt it had given me no reason of offence; hung it
_because_ I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin--a deadly sin
that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it, if such a
thing were possible, even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of the
Most Merciful and Most Terrible God.
On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, I was aroused
from sleep by the cry of fire. The curtains of my bed were in flames.
The whole house was blazing. It was with great difficulty that my wife,
a servant, and myself, made our escape from the conflagration. The
destruction was complete. My entire worldly wealth was swallowed up, and
I resigned myself forward to despair.
I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and
effect between the disaster and the atrocity. But I am detailing a chain
of facts, and wish not to leave even a possible link imperfect. On the
day succeeding the fire, I visited the ruins. The walls with one
exception had fallen in. This exception was found in a compartment wall,
not very thick, which stood about the middle of the house, and against
which had rested the head of my bed. The plastering had here in great
measure resisted the action of the fire, a fact which I attributed to
its having recently spread. About this wall a dense crowd were
collected, and many persons seemed to be examining a particular portion
of it with very minute and eager attention. The words "Strange!"
"Singular!" and other similar expressions, excited my curiosity. I
approached and saw, as if graven in _bas relief_ upon the white surface
the figure of a gigantic _cat_. The impression was given with an
accuracy truly marvellous. There was a rope about the animal's neck.