Several weeks pass happily....
The corn round the burial-mound ripens, and all sorts of grasses
compete to lengthen its luxuriant green covering. The stones on the
top become more and more hidden from the field-path below.
The lark comes and trills at sunrise and midday; and in the evening the
whinchat twitters its mournful song. The little, low grass mound has
not yet betrayed its secret....
The kittens in its bowels are now about twice the size of moles; their
bodies have become a trifle longer and more elastic, and on their
short, plump hindquarters the worm-like appendages of childhood are
beginning to thicken into soft, furry tails. Their eyes shine like
stars, and on each of the small, bullet-shaped heads a little wrinkled
snout forms a centre for a bunch of stiff, shiny whiskers. It is about
time, the old cat thinks, that they begin to take solid food.
At first she brings them eggs and unfledged birds, which their baby
jaws soon learn to masticate. Later on their diet becomes coarser and
more varied.
Early one morning she appears with a small, greyish-brown creature in
her jaws, its white stomach shining like a puddle of water reflecting
the sun. Its short, little forepaws with the pink claws hang limp in
surrender, and its long hind legs stick out stiffly like stilts. A
thin, hairless tail dangling like a broken straw completes the picture.
The kittens at once respond to their mother’s food-signal, and, falling
over one another in their eagerness, rush headlong to the entrance.
With their small behinds stiffly elevated, they rub themselves
affectionately against the old cat’s legs and body; she positively
disappears in a forest of tails. Purring loudly, her head erect, she
remains standing before them, turning and twisting the interesting
creature to give them a full view of the spoil.
At last, after what seems an endless wait, each receives his mouthful.
Big crouches on his haunches and plays delightedly with the mouse’s
tail, which he holds in his paws. When, at a smack from him, it gives
a jump, his eyes glow and he hops round his new toy on his hind legs.
Suddenly he runs away to a corner and begins digging a hole--Grey Puss
sees that he has his father’s appetite!
The first few times she herself kills the mouse with a bite, but later
on the young ones are permitted to share in the fun. Soon also she
allows them to play a little with the unfortunates, so that they may
learn the first principles in the art of trapping. To encourage them
still further to forage for themselves, she buries her victims round
about the base of the burial-mound.
The struggle for food has left its mark upon the little mother-cat. She
has become noticeably thinner, and her coat no longer has its glossy
sheen. The crowd of rapidly growing children, who make constantly
increasing demands on her skill, is telling on her strength. It
is almost impossible for her to secure all the mice necessary for
them--and therefore, in her dilemma, she sometimes leaves the straight
path of virtue and does what second nature urges her.