The fugitive little mother-cat had brought her kittens under cover
just in time. That night a storm broke loose and thunder crashed
incessantly, accompanying heavy showers of rain. Warm, heavy drops
streamed down in bucketfuls; the earth drank until the crevices in its
broken crust were filled to overflowing, while a slimy, bottomless
fluid filled all holes in the roads.
But not a drop found its way down to this century-old sepulchre--the
resting-place was too well built for that!
Towards morning the tempest died down. The June sun slowly swept the
warm, bluish haze from the landscape, and poured its white shining
beams over the fertile green cornfields. Strong, delicious odours, held
in bondage by the mist, are suddenly released, and float through the
air in small, scented clouds.
It was too wet for a cat to venture out; better wait a little and let
the sun dry things a bit!
In the farthest corner, where the darkness is deepest, Grey Puss is
sitting. She relaxes her muscular body completely on the leafy couch,
and stretches her forepaws lazily in front of her. The entire kitten
flock is lying in her lap.
Since daybreak she has had such a nice quiet time; the others have
all been sleeping soundly, tumbled in a heap. But now peace is at an
end; the dear children are all awake, and almost killing her in their
exuberant joy.
Not even Tiny spares her, but seizes the opportunity of pursuing the
exhausted milk-springs. Lying on his back, and using his hind legs as
levers, he toboggans in short slides from one nipple to another. It
couldn’t be true that there was not a drop left!
From the playful horde arise hissing and spitting, punctuated by
occasional dull bumps as they miss their footing and tumble on the
floor. All at once Grey Puss gets up from her corner, walks out into
the middle, and throws herself down in the thin streak of light which
fumbles its way through the roof. Look out--now she is going to play
their favourite game; now they are in for a treat! They shall play
“catch mouse” with the tip of her tail.
Comfortably stretched on her back with all four legs wide apart, she
lies perfectly still, not moving a limb, not a hair. Presently the
end-most tip of her tail begins very, very slowly to wriggle to and
fro; then it falls with a firm little thump on the floor.
It is the signal for the game to begin!
Immediately the tiny, living colours surround the tail. And in turn,
usually two at a time, they make their attempts.
The supple tail-end writhes and squirms at lightning speed over the
floor, the kittens’ eyes following its twists and bends in fascinated
silence. Suddenly it disappears from sight; there is a breathless
pause ... then the furry tip slowly emerges from under the heap of
leaves. They strike at it with their paws, rush at it, catch hold of
it, and--if it unfortunately escapes--rush upon it again. They bite
it, clutch it, shake it.... At last they have secured a firm grip. The
tables are suddenly turned! Now it is the tail which grips and shakes
and rocks _them_ to and fro in the air; they are fighting with a real,
live, reckless enemy of equal strength, and are permitted to experience
the joy of victory.
No spitting or growling is heard; all takes place in dead silence--only
the smacks of the tail and the bumps of the paws betray the presence of
living beings. They are like shadows tumbling about....
The game goes on in half-hour spells--until exhaustion overtakes first
one, then another, and sleep again sweeps them together into a lifeless
heap.
Now Grey Puss gets up and makes for the entrance--it is her turn to
play “catch mouse.”