Grey Puss’ milk tasted sour for a whole day following the adventure;
she was frightfully restless and upset. Several of the young ones had
wounds and had to be licked. Time after time she ran her glance over
the small, rolled-up patches of colour; greedily her eyes devoured
each little furry coat; but it was with no trace of the sweetness of
recollection or the joy of recognition.
Were they all there ... all? Their villain of a father she had already
forgotten; not until she was giving suck did she become suddenly
nervous. She felt that one of the swollen udders remained swollen, and
now she nuzzled with her nose along the row. Big, Red, White, Grey ...
yes, she found them all! But where was the little piebald one?...
The kittens buried their noses deep in her fur to get a good hold of
the small, sprouting milk-springs. All was quiet inside the willow
trunk; only now and again was heard the sucking of the eager little
lips....
Yes, to be sure, she missed a colour ... missed just that one which--in
spite of all--she unconsciously preferred to all the rest; that seemed
made up of bits of colour from all the other colours.... Then suddenly
a thin, feeble crying reached her ever-listening ears. It seemed to
her to come from under the willow bole. Perhaps there was a crevice in
the nursery?
Cautiously getting up, she begins to scratch a little with her forepaws
in the floor; but finds no hole.
She dismisses the thought that one of the young ones is really missing,
and lies down again and resumes her maternal duties. For a time all is
peace, and she abandons herself completely to the pleasure of being at
the mercy of her kitten flock, but again comes the faint cry for help.
This time it is so heart-rending that she springs up, and then, half
crouching, listens breathlessly.
“Mew, mew!” it tinkles to her from the distant depths. And now she
begins to answer in anxious, encouraging tones, meanwhile pushing her
snout among the young ones to count them. The tinkling from below
upsets and worries her; but presently she stifles her anxiety by
rolling right under the heap of kittens and congratulating herself that
she has so many dear children safe and sound.
Meanwhile from his living tomb by the side of the dead blackbird,
Tiny continues foghornlike, to emit at regular intervals his ceaseless
signals for assistance. He has lain for a long time buried alive;
but, accustomed as he is to having his brothers and sisters on top of
him, the thin layer of moss and earth over him does not embarrass him
particularly. Now he has recovered so much that he can not only squeal
but wriggle also--a fact which serves to increase the air supply in
his lungs, so that his weak cries gain momentarily in strength and
resonance.
Suddenly the heap of earth is swept from him, and he hears his mother’s
soft voice right in his ear. Oh, what a stream of happiness flows
through him! He stretches his tiny body towards the strong, comforting
miauw, and like a freezing man making for the fire, he puts his wet,
earth-cold head against the mother-cat’s soft neck and feels her warm
breath ripple over him.
Grey Puss’ eyes shine green and evil; they speak plainly of surprise
and emotion. She begins purring angrily, so that the young ones inside
the tree lift their ears anxiously and wonder, “What’s happening down
there at the foot of the tree?”
Tiny’s wound is licked, and the mother prepares to return. He must be
carried, of course, ... and the problem is to find a hold which will
not destroy the creature. She tries to grasp him by the scruff, but
here he is so sore that time after time the attempt fails. Cautiously
she presses her teeth into his back and shoulder; but cannot find a
hold, although he seeks instinctively to help her by stiffening his
body as she lifts.
However, it _must_ be done somehow; there is not the slightest doubt
that he is to be carried up! So she opens her mouth wide and puts
her jaws round his neck. Then, disregarding his lively protests, she
cautiously closes her mouth.
He becomes suddenly quite quiet. She needs all her presence of mind to
judge how tightly she may grip him without making it his last journey.
He hangs there in his mother’s jaws and closes his earth-clogged eyes,
clutching her body tightly with his little legs. But he surrenders
himself to her without complaint and without movement, bearing the pain
in blind faith in her omnipotence.
In two jumps she reaches the top, slides down into the bole, and a
moment later deposits him carefully on the ground among the others. A
healing warmth envelops him--and, as the kittens are already satisfied,
he secures an unusually large share of milk.