The kittens are now compelled more and more to find their own food;
and in consequence are often reduced to a very meagre diet. Maybugs,
grasshoppers, and snails float about inside each of them!
Occasionally, however, the old cat gathers her flock around her.
When she has made an exceptionally big catch, which she herself cannot
eat up, she miauws them together for a great banquet. They behave in
exactly the same way as when they were small kittens: each of them
grabs a lump, and sits down gnawing it, always on the alert, growling,
scowling, and spitting--and, if necessary, fighting.
Black, especially, has developed extensively in the matter of
quarrelsomeness--and he is now the terror of his brothers and sisters
on account of his strength and brutality. He deprives both Grey and Red
mercilessly of their portions; he is not even afraid of letting Big’s
back make the acquaintance of his claws; which results as a rule in
that portion, also, dropping from its rightful owner’s jaws.
And if his claws do not suffice, his strong, pointed teeth are brought
into play, and infallibly succeed in convincing his victim that _part_
of the spoil is not what he is after; he wants the lot!
Naturally, everyone protests--and as a rule Big springs at his throat;
but when it is a question of fighting, Black is all there. He bites
hard, and has a habit of following it up at once with a second bite, if
the first does not take immediate effect.
As a result, he can take whatever liberties he chooses! One never knows
what he will do next: he tackles things which no ordinary cat would
dream of attempting; all his brothers and sisters, except Tiny, fight
shy of him.... As soon as they see him they shriek out “Fiew!” And
“fiew” is the cat language for “madness.”
Every morning and evening he takes his usual walk. Unseen and unheard,
he approaches his quarry, and before the luckless mouse or bird dreams
he is near, he is upon it with a spring. He never plays with his
victim, but disposes of it at once. Not until late in the morning does
he return home, for he never goes to rest except on a full stomach.
Just as Big is the scourge of all birds living in the field, so is
Black the scourge of all those living in hedge or wood. He wanders
from tree to tree, and not even the densest thicket can resist his
progress. He glides through the thorny, jealous heart of a hawthorn
copse like a panther, insensate and invulnerable. Tears in skin or
snout please him and urge him to greater efforts; it is as if his body
cannot feel pain. Black as the branch itself, he lies stretched at full
length, searching out the little birds’ homes--and once he catches a
glimpse of wings settling in hiding-place or treetop, he never rests
satisfied until he has made closer, thorough investigation.
But the old crow defies his strength and skill. It plays him all manner
of tricks, and uses every imaginable opportunity to bespatter him with
the foulest language.
One day it added to these an unspeakable insult!
It is early dawn.... All the birds are still half asleep, and flutter
clumsily as they flee from his path. Even the lark makes such a din in
rising that Black gives quite a jump.
He arrives with a young rat in his mouth at the entrance of the
village wood, when suddenly his old enemy the crow attacks him in his
usual unexpected, disconcerting manner.
He drops the rat for a moment and makes a foolhardy dash at the bird;
but it merely spreads its wings and, floating leisurely sideways a
short distance, settles on a big stone....
He would just run over there and shift the ugly devil!
His temper begins to get the better of him and he becomes more and more
foolhardy; the rat must look after itself for a bit, while he gives
that beast a real scare for once in its life! He races like a mad thing
after the bird, from grass tuft to mound, from stone to stone--and when
the cunning old crow has tempted the inexperienced hot-head far enough
away, it flaps back over his head and bags the spoil of war.
That _was_ a surprise; nay, more, an event unparalleled in the black
cynic’s whole experience! His back rises and his hair stands on end
with fury; but it does not bring back the young rat from the air.
* * * * *
Nevertheless, in spite of all, he felt very proud of himself. Big-cat
could catch birds and Grey could catch mice; but _he_ could catch
rats....
His short, strong jaws could inflict a terrible bite--and his teeth
gradually became his most formidable weapon. It seemed almost as if
there were weasel’s blood in him, so quickly did he fix in his teeth;
and he employed just the animal’s tactics: spring and bite--and then
back out of reach again.
As soon as he found that rats had teeth, he began to use this method of
attack regularly.
Grey Puss often sat looking doubtfully at him.... No, she was sure he
was not quite cat-normal in the head!