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PUSSY BLACK-FACE
or: the Story of a Kitten and Her Friends
_A Book for Boys and Girls_
By Marshall Saunders
Author of “Beautiful Joe,” “Beautiful Joe's Paradise,” “'Tilda Jane,”
etc.
_Illustrated by_
DIANTHA HORNE MARLOWE
“When I play with my cat, who knows whether I do not make her more sport
than she makes me?”
MONTAIGNE.
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Boston ❧ L. C. Page &
Company ❧ Mdccccxiii
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_Copyright_, 1913, _by_
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
_All rights reserved_
First Impression, May, 1913
Second Impression, June, 1913
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. SIMONDS & CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.
I DEDICATE THIS STORY OF A LITTLE CAT TO THAT WHOLEHEARTED
FRIEND OF ANIMALS—MRS. HUNTINGTON-SMITH
Of THE ANIMAL RESCUE LEAGUE,
51 CARVER STREET, BOSTON
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. BY THE FIRE 1
II. A CAT'S REFUGE 7
III. A SURPRISING CHANGE 22
IV. I VISIT MY FAMILY 36
V. THE CAT ON THE COMMON 53
VI. MY FIRST FIGHT 75
VII. A NEW SENSATION 101
VIII. SERENA ASTONISHES US 124
IX. ON THE TRAIN 139
X. WE REACH THE COUNTRY 162
XI. MAINE, LOVELY MAINE 176
XII. MY HEADSTRONG SISTER 196
XIII. PIGS, COWS AND CHICKENS 209
XIV. MY SISTER GIVES A LECTURE 228
XV. THE MOLE-HUNT 248
XVI. THE RETURN OF THE CHILDREN 263
XVII. THE MISCHIEVOUS GUINEA-HEN 273
XVIII. THE OWL AND THE CHICKENS 287
XIX. THE CLOSE OF THE SUMMER 295
XX. IN THE CITY AGAIN 307
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LIST ^{of} ILLUSTRATIONS
PUSSY BLACK-FACE _Frontispiece_
“MY MOTHER BEGAN TO POLISH OFF MY HEAD” 39
“SHE PUT HER HEAD FIRST ON ONE SIDE THEN ON THE OTHER, 50
TILL SHE CRACKED IT ALL TO PIECES”
“'MONA,' I SAID CONFIDENTIALLY, 'I AM HAVING A DREADFUL 80
TIME'”
“SHE SLIPPED BETWEEN THE BIG DOG'S FRONT PAWS, AND SAT 150
THERE COWERING AND TREMBLING”
“OUT ON THE PLOUGHED LAND UNDER THE APPLE TREES, A FURRY 188
BALL WAS ROLLING OVER AND OVER”
“'MY FRIENDS, ... I STAND BEFORE YOU THIS EVENING QUITE 244
UNPREPARED'”
“THE ROOSTER KEPT SO FAR AHEAD THAT NO ONE BUT OURSELVES 281
SUSPECTED THE MISCHIEF SHE WAS DOING”
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Pussy Black-Face
CHAPTER I
BY THE FIRE
My name is Pussy Black-Face, and I am a naughty young kitten. I wish I
were good like my mother. She is the best cat that I ever saw. I try to
be like her, and sometimes I succeed, but most times I don't.
My mother's disposition is really lovely, but then she has a weak back.
It seems to me that if I had a weak back I should be good, too, but when
there is a spring in my spine that makes me want to jump all the time,
and something curled up in my paws that makes me want to seize things,
what can I do? How can I be good?
My mother purrs wholesome advice into my ears, and tells me to try, to
try hard, and so I do, but usually it doesn't seem of any use. I might
as well be bad all the time, and not worry about it.
Every night, as we sit around the fire before we go to bed, I think
things over. You know how cats look and act when they are getting
sleepy. Some people say that cats are stupid and can't think or feel.
Don't you believe it. They are just as clever as any animals.
Well, I think the most beautiful sight in the world is our little family
on these chilly, east-windy nights as we gather in the sitting-room
about bedtime.
First there is our dear mistress, Mrs. Darley. She is a widow with two
adopted children—Billy and Margaret. After dinner they go to the study
to learn their lessons, and Mrs. Darley sits for a little while with us
before she goes to join them. We cats are allowed to run all over the
house, but we usually prefer the sitting-room, because there is the
broad window-seat for sunny mornings, and the cushions by the fire for
dull weather.
Mrs. Darley always takes my mother on her lap, because she is the chief
favorite, and because she has suffered so much. I am not ashamed to say
that my mother was an ash-barrel cat before Mrs. Darley rescued her.
That is, she was a poor cat who had to pick up her living in back yards.
She is a grayish, wistful-looking creature with a quiet manner. Her name
is Dust-and-Ashes. She knows a good deal, but she doesn't talk much.
My father, whose name is the Piebald Prince, is an Angora. He is very
handsome, very aristocratic, very dignified, but not at all proud. He
says he believes it is wrong to call any cat common or unclean. Persian
cats, and Angora cats, and New Mexico cats, and Manx cats, and all kinds
of cats should be treated in just the same way, and have an equal amount
of respect shown them.
He always makes my mother take a front seat if there is company, and he
treats her with as much consideration as if she, like himself, had come
from the celebrated farm up in Maine, where only pure bred cats are
raised, and where they cost great sums of money.
Many a cuff—a gentlemanly cuff—I have had from him for being
disrespectful to my mother. He believes in keeping us young ones in
order.
Besides myself there is my sister Serena, and my brother Jimmy Dory.
They are both much older than I am. Serena is a very clever little cat.
She has beautiful manners, and purrs a good deal to herself about
culture. She and Jimmy are both half Angora, and half common cat. So I
am, too, for that matter, but they are much better looking than I am. My
father is black and white, and we are black and white; but his black and
white and Serena and Jimmy Dory's black and white are laid on prettily.
I am a fright. Every one says so—cats and human beings—so it must be
true. I think myself, when I look in the glass that I am very ugly, but
I don't care a bit. Why should I worry? I can't see myself, unless I
look in a mirror. Let the other cats and people worry about me, and say
that my white face looks as if some one had thrown an ink bottle and
splashed me right across it. They are the ones that suffer, for they can
see me. I don't see myself.
My body is prettier than my face. I often laugh to myself when I am
creeping softly along, and some one says, “Oh! what a lovely black
kitten.” Then I turn round and the some one always shrieks, “You little
fright!” or “You ugly little thing!”
My mother says it is naughty in me to laugh, but I tell her that girl
squeals and cat squeals don't hurt me. The only things I am afraid of
are sticks and stones.
Then she smiles sadly, and says, “When you grow up to be a cat,
Black-Face, you will be sorry that your face does not please every one.”
I must say I don't believe her. I don't believe that my mother knows
half as much as I do. She is getting old and fussy, but I wouldn't say
this to any one but myself for the world. The kitten next door laughed
at my mother the other day, and I scratched him. I'd do it again, too. I
sha'n't let any one but myself criticise my mother while I have claws in
my velvet paws.
Well, I don't believe I'll think any more about myself to-night. I am
getting sleepy, and my head is sinking down on my pink cushion.
I wish I hadn't broken that pretty glass vase to-day. Mrs. Darley felt
very sorry. What was I doing on the mantelpiece? The dear only knows. It
looked tempting up there. It is such fun to twist between things and not
break them, and it is only once in a great while that I do have a smash.
I hope Billy will find his lead-pencils. I dropped them behind the
sofa—and what did I do with that dead mouse I was playing with? Did I
leave it on Margaret's bed? I believe I did. Well, she is a fat little
girl. It won't hurt her to scream a while. Mrs. Darley will run to her.
Good night, everybody—I am—so—sleepy.