And more tattered it grew from the kicks and the cuffs
He would get from the boys as he sought food to eat,
So he stayed in the alley and avoided the street.
And his life was so sad, that he soon pined away,
From the day he had run to the street just to play;
And one morning those boys threw a stone at his head,
It could not hurt Tatters, for the poor cat was dead.
JUST PLAIN CAT.
JENNIE PENDLETON EWING.
Our neighbor’s cat is Persian, the Jones’s cat Maltese;
Aunty’s big Angora has feathers to her knees
(At least they look like feathers), and a tail so big and white,
When that kitty meets a puppy dog, I tell you it’s a sight!
But when I ask, “What breed is mine—my pussy, sleek and fat?”
They laugh and pull my curls, and say, “I fear—just plain cat.”
It’s true her eyes aren’t yellow, her tail is rather small,
I don’t know if she ever had a ped-i-gree at all.
(That big word means her mother, her grandma, too, they say,
That they all took prizes at a show, were marked a special way.)
What do I care for markings, for prizes and all that?
My kitty’s just as precious if she is just plain cat.
She is the dearest kitten, all scamper and all fur!
Not one of all my other pets can make me laugh like her.
She may be very common, but I know she’s good and true,
For she meets me when I come from school with loving little mew;
And when she’s round we never see a teenchy mouse or rat,
And I b’lieve I love her better ’cause she’s just plain cat!
PUSSY’S DREAM.
Dame Puss fell asleep in the great arm-chair,
And she dreamed a dream that was strange and rare.
She dreamed that the mice were to give a grand ball,
And begged her to come and dance with them all.
Pussy said, in her dream, with a curtsy low,
“With pleasure, dear friends, to your ball I’ll go.”
But she said to herself with a sly little mew,
“I’ll dance with you, yes,—but I’ll eat you, too.”
When Pussy arrived at Castle Mouse
She really could hardly get into the house;
For the house it was small and the crowd it was great,
And besides Madame Puss was a whole hour late.
When she reached the great hall, which was really quite high,
The mice placed before her a huge, mammoth pie;
And they said, “Lady Puss, you are hungry, we fear,
So the best of our dainties we’ve brought for you here.”
So Puss with good-will set to work at the food,
For the smell of that pastry, oh, wasn’t it good?
She picked and she licked, and she gobbled away,
And wished it might last for a year and a day.
And when it was gone, Pussy thought with a sigh—
“Ah, how will the mice taste, now—after the pie.
However, I’ll eat them, of course, since they’re here.”
She looked up—no sign of a mouse anywhere.
No sign of a mouse,—and the door it was shut.
Pussy made every effort to open it, but,—
It was firm double locked, and the windows were barred,
With railings of iron all heavy and hard.
To make matters worse, as each window she tried,
She heard the mice giggling and squeaking outside.
By their shrill cries of triumph, they thought, it was plain,
That their enemy never could get out again.
At this Pussy’s courage at once did revive,—
“What, stay here,” she cried, “and be buried alive,—
Be eaten by mice when my sufferings are over,—
No—never—miow! I will break down the door.”
She gathered her strength for a terrible spring,
And flew at the door like a bird on the wing.
Crash, smash went the panels; one more frantic leap,
And, then—why Dame Pussy awoke from her sleep.
And there she was sitting in master’s arm-chair;
No castle, no pie, not a mouse anywhere.
She stretched herself yawning, and, rubbing her eyes,
And looked all around with the greatest surprise.
Ah, Pussy, t’was only a dream, dear, but still
’Twas a dream full of warning for good or for ill;
When you go to Mouse Castle, just take my advice,
Before touching the pastry, first eat up the mice.
DOGS AND CATS.
ALEXANDER DUMAS.
It is admitted that the dog has intelligence, a heart and perhaps
a soul, likewise it is agreed that the cat is a traitor, deceiver,
thief, an egotist, an ingrate. How many have we not heard say: “Oh,
I cannot abide a cat! it is an animal that loves not its master; it
is attached only to the house; one must keep it under lock and key. I
had one once, for I was in the country and there were mice. The cook
had the imprudence to leave upon the table a poulet that she had just
purchased; the cat carried it off, no morsel of it was ever seen after.
Since that day I have said: ‘I will have no cat.’” Its reputation is
detestable, the fact cannot be disguised, and one must acknowledge that
the cat does nothing to modify the opinion in which it is held. It is
entirely unpopular, but it cares as little about this as it does about
the Grand Turk. Must I confess it to you? It is for this that I love
it, for in this world one can remain indifferent to things the most
serious—if there are serious things, and this one knows only at the end
of his life; but he cannot evade the question of dogs and cats. There
is always a moment when he must declare himself. Well, then! I love
cats! Ah! the times they have said to me:
“What, you love cats?”
“Yes!”
“Do you not like dogs better?”
“No, I love cats much more.”
“That is extraordinary.”
I prefer certainly to have neither cat nor dog, but were I forced to
live with one of these two individuals, I would choose the cat. It
has for me the manners essential to social relations. At first, in
its early youth, it possesses all the graces, all the suppleness, all
the unexpectedness by which the most exacting, artistic fancy can
be amused! It is adroit, it always knows where it is. Prudent unto
caution, it goes everywhere, it examines without soiling, breaking
nothing; it is in itself a warmth and a caress; it has not a snout, but
a mouth—and what a mouth! It steals the mutton as does the dog, but,
unlike the latter, makes no delight of carrion; it is discreet and of
fastidious cleanliness, which might be well imitated by a number of its
detractors. It washes its face, and in so doing foretells the weather
into the bargain. One can entertain the idea of putting a ribbon
around its neck, never a collar; it cannot be enslaved. It permits no
modifications in its race; it lends itself to no combinations that
industries could attempt. The cat reflects, this is obvious, contrary
to the dog, a lackbrain whose rabies is his crowning idiocy. In short,
the cat is a dignified, proud, disdainful animal that hides its love
affairs in the shadows, almost within the clouds, upon the roofs,
in the vicinity of the night-working students. It defies advances,
tolerates no insults, it abandons the house in which it is not treated
according to its merits; in short, the cat is truly an aristocrat in
type and origin, whereas the dog is and ever will be naught but a
vulgar parvenu by dint of complaisance.
The sole argument at all plausible against the cat is that it destroys
the birds, the nightingales as well as the sparrows. If the dog does
not as much it is because he is too clumsy and stupid. He runs also
after the birds, but barking, the birds escape him, and he stays
behind completely dumbfounded, open-mouthed and with astonished tail.
He makes up for it upon the partridges and rabbits, after two years’
submission to the strong collar in order to learn this art, and it is
not for himself, but for the hunter, that he goes in quest of game.
The imbecile! He persecutes the animals, an animal himself, for the
profit of the man who beats him. At least, when the cat catches a bird
she has an excuse; it is to eat it herself. Why would that authorize
man to slander her? Let men regard one another! They will see in their
race, as in that of cats, those who have claws and have no other
preoccupation but to destroy those who have wings.
MISTRESS KITTY.
“Mistress Kitty, from the city,
How do your kittens grow?
With eyes so bright,
And fur so white,
And teeth a shining row?”
“My kittens white, my heart’s delight,
Their fur is just like snow;
They play and fight
From morn till night,
And _that’s_ the way they grow.”
[Illustration: WHAT’S DELAYING MY DINNER?]
[Illustration: From Painting by A. Rotta.]
THE FAMILY CAT.
I can fold up my claws
In my soft velvet paws,
And purr in the sun
Till the short day is done—
For I am the family cat.
I can doze by the hour
In the vine-covered bower,
Winking and blinking,
Through sunshine and shower—
For I am the family cat.
From gooseberry bush
Or where bright currants blush,
I may suddenly spring
For a bird on the wing;
Or dart up a tree,
If a brown nest I see,
And select a choice morsel
For dinner or tea;
And no one to blame me,
Berate me, or shame me—
For I am the family cat.
In the cold winter night,
When the ground is all white,
And the icicles shine
In a long silver line,
I stay not to shiver
In the moonbeam’s pale quiver,
But curl up in the house,
As snug as a mouse,
And play Jacky Horner
In the cosiest corner;
Breaking nobody’s laws,
With my chin on my paws,
Asleep with one eye, and
Awake with the other
For pats from the children,
Kind words from the mother—
For I am the family cat.
[Illustration]
DOCTOR TOM MEW.
This is the Schoolmaster, Doctor Tom Mew,
Who teaches young kittens, and birches them, too;
When he cries, “Silence!” each pupil turns pale,
And trembles right down to the tip of his tail.
WHERE IS MY KITTY?
_Action Poem._
[1]Kitty, kitty, kitty!
[2]Where can you be?
[3]Perhaps you’re in the garden;
[4]I’ll run out and see.
[5]She’s not in the garden;
And not in the shed;
[6]Oh, what shall I do
If my kitty is dead!
[7]I’ll look in mamma’s room;
[8]I’ll look in my chair;
[9]I’ll look on the table,
But no kitty is there.
[10]You’ve found her, the darling,
[11]What, there, you don’t say?
[12]Asleep in the barn,
Cuddled up in the hay,
My kitty.
DIRECTIONS.
[Footnote 1: Child runs in calling.]
[Footnote 2: Stops and looks about.]
[Footnote 3: As if thinking a moment, shakes head as she recites the
line.]
[Footnote 4: Recites fourth line and runs out a moment.]
[Footnote 5: Enters hurriedly and tells audience.]
[Footnote 6: Sorrowfully. Stands disconsolate a moment.]
[Footnote 7: Recites line, skips to entrance near R. front and looks
in; comes back, and stops a moment, as if thinking.]
[Footnote 8: Recites line; goes and looks in chair; stops a moment.]
[Footnote 9: Recites third line; goes and looks at table; seeing no
kitty, looks heartsick and ready to cry.]
[Footnote 10: Looks up and off L. suddenly; face brightens as she
listens. Recites line, full of joy and animation and love.]
[Footnote 11: Listens; speaks as if astonished. Takes kitten in her
arms very lovingly.]
[Footnote 12: Talks to kitty very lovingly, drawling out on “My Kitty.”
Gives kitty a loving squeeze.]
KATHIE’S STORY.
Now stay right still and listen, kitty-cat, and I’ll tell you a story:
Once there was a little girl. She was a pretty good little girl, and
minded her papa and mamma everything they said, only sometimes she
didn’t, and then she was naughty; but she was always sorry, and said
she wouldn’t do so any more, and her mamma’d forgive her.
So she was going to hang up her stocking.
“You’ll have to be pretty good, lest ’twon’t be filled,” said her mamma.
“’Less may be there’ll be a big bunch of sticks in it,” said her papa.
Do you think that’s a nice way to talk, kitty-cat? I don’t.
So the little girl was good as she could be, and didn’t cry nor slap
her little sister hardly any at all, and always minded her mamma,
specially when she came where the chimney was.
So she hung up her stocking. And in the night she got awake and wanted
it to come morning; but in the morning she didn’t get awake till ’twas
all sunshiny outdoor. Then she ran quick as she could to look at her
stocking where she’d hung it; and true’s you live, kitty-cat, there
wasn’t the leastest little mite of a scrimp!
Oh, the little girl felt dreadful!
How’d you feel s’pose it had been you, kitty-cat?
She ’menced to cry, the little girl did, and she kept going harder and
harder, till bymby she screeched orfly, and her mamma came running to
see what was the matter.
“Mercy me!” said her mamma. “Look over by the window ’fore you do that
any more, Kathie.”
That little girl’s name was Kathie, too, kitty-cat, just the same’s
mine.
So she looked over by the window, the way her mamma said, and—oh!
there was the loveliest dolly’s house you ever saw in all your born
life. It had curtains to pull to the sides when you wanted to play,
and pull in front when you didn’t. There was a bedroom, kitty-cat, and
a dinner-room and a kitchen and a parlor, and they all had carpets
on. And there was the sweetest dolly in the parlor, all dressed up in
blue silk. Oh, dear! And a penano to play real little tunes on, and a
rocking-chair and—O kitty-cat, I can’t begin to tell you half about it.
I can’t about the bedroom, either, nor the dinner-room. But the kitchen
was the very bestest of all. There was a stove—a teenty, tonty mite of
a one, kitty-cat—with dishes just ’zactly like mamma’s, only littler,
of course, and frying-pans and everything; and spoons to stir with,
and a rolling-pin and two little cutters-out, and the darlingest
baker-sheet ever you saw!
The first thing that little girl did was to make some teenty mites of
cookies, ’cause her mamma let her; and if you’ll come right downstairs,
kitty-cat, I’ll give you one, ’cause I was that little girl, kitty-cat,
all the time.
[Illustration]
READY FOR BREAKFAST.
Miou, miou, miou!
I’m ready for breakfast now.
I want to be fed
On milk and bread,
Miou, miou, miou!
MISS TABBY CAT’S RECEPTION.
ELIZABETH L. GOULD.
The eldest Miss Tabbycat gave an “at home,”
With music and choice recitations
By Signor Angora, quite lately from Rome,
Who rendered the “Yowls of All Nations.”
The “Squalls Without Words,” sung by Fräulein von Manx,
Were greeted with murmurs of “charming!”
While her “Chanson de Alley” elicited thanks
So loud they were almost alarming.
There was, too, a sonata, composed by C. Waul,
Which was classic and claimed the attention
For fully an hour. The themes one and all,
Were models of feline invention.
This piece and the trio, “Beloved Young Mouse,”
Were voted the evening’s successes,
The latter was purred by three guests of the house
Who wore solid tortoise shell dresses.
The pleasant refreshments were freely dispensed
At twelve. There were crumbs of long standing,
And milk in all possible forms, save condensed,
Set forth on the cellar way landing.
Now, little Miss Velvetpaw, pattering home
In a shower beneath the umbrella
Of Signor Angora, quite lately from Rome,
Said, “Wasn’t it nice in that cellar?”
“And wasn’t Miss Tabby the dearest old thing?
And weren’t those split milkings just splendid?
And didn’t that Manx creature know how to sing?
Though she looked—well, least said, soonest mended!”
But Fräulein von Manx, treading homeward alone
With a large book of songs, said (’twas spiteful,
Of course), “She was ready to gnaw a dry bone,
And the damp in that cellar was frightful!”
And the eldest Miss Tabbycat sank on the stair
Where she’d stood and reflected with sorrow
On the mess that her party had made ev’rywhere
And the bills that would come on the morrow.
FIVE KITTY CATS.
[For the baby fingers—to be played with open fingers
first—closing each as designated.]
Five little kitty cats on the kitchen floor,
This one saw a rolling ball,
Then there were four.
Four little kitty cats sleepy as can be,
This one smelled a creepy mouse,
Then there were three.
Three little kitty cats wondering what they’ll do,
This one heard the milk boy’s bell,
Then there were two.
Two little kitty cats sleeping in the sun,
Baby wanted one to love,
Then there was one.
One little kitty cat left all alone,
Along came a barky dog,
Then there was none.
MY KITTENS.
OLIVE STEVENS BROWN.
Do you want to see my kittens?
I found them in the shed;
They squirm so I can’t hold ’em,
I’ll haul ’em on my sled.
I guess I’d better name ’em,
’Cause some might get away.
Who’d ever thought of kittens
All cuddled in that hay?
I’ll call this white one “Muffy,”
He looks just like a muff;
This little spotted, fat one,
I guess I’ll call him “Puff;”
This black one with the boots on,
He looks so smart and brisk,
I’ll put a collar on him,
And put around it “Frisk.”
These gray ones—guess they’ll puzzle me,
They’re just as live as pins.
I’ll tell you what I think, sir,
These kittens must be twins.
I guess I needn’t name them,
It wouldn’t hardly pay,
’Cause I wouldn’t know to-morrow
Which one was which to-day.
TWO PUSSY-CATS.
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.
I.
THE PET CAT.
Dainty little ball of fur, sleek and round and fat,
Yawning through the lazy hours, some one’s household cat,
Lying on a bed of down, decked in ribbons gay,
What a pleasant life you lead, whether night or day.
Dining like an epicure, from a costly dish,
Served with what you like the best, chicken, meat or fish,
Purring at an outstretched hand, knowing but caresses,
Half the comforts of your life, pussy, no one guesses.
Romping through the house at will, racing down the hall,
Full of pretty, playful pranks, loved and praised by all,
Wandering from room to room to find the choicest spot,
Favored little household puss, happy is your lot.
Sleeping on my lady’s lap, or dozing by the grate,
Fed with catnip tea if ill, what a lucky fate!
Loved in life and mourned in death, and stuffed maybe at that,
And kept up on the mantel-shelf—dear pet cat.
II.
THE TRAMP CAT.
Poor little beggar cat, hollow-eyed and gaunt,
Creeping down the alley-way like a ghost of want,
Kicked and beat by thoughtless boys, bent on cruel play,
What a sorry life you lead, whether night or day.
Hunting after crusts and crumbs, gnawing meatless bones,
Trembling at a human step, fearing bricks and stones,
Shrinking at an outstretched hand, knowing only blows,
Wretched little beggar cat, born to suffer woes.
Stealing to an open door, craving food and heat,
Frightened off with angry cries and broomed into the street,
Tortured, teased and chased by dogs, through the lonely night,
Homeless little beggar cat, sorrow is your plight.
Sleeping anywhere you can, in the rain and snow,
Waking in the cold, gray dawn, wondering where to go,
Dying in the street at last, starved to death at that,
Picked up by the scavenger—poor tramp cat.
MATILDA MARTHA MAY.
FANNIE ROGERS WHITE.
Matilda Martha May
Played the livelong day.
When supper time came
This little dame
Was too sleepy to eat her whey.
Her head would go up and down,
Bobbing around and round,
While kitty puss sat
Just waiting for that,
Then up on the table she’d bound.
She’d eat all the whey in sight;
Now do you think that was right?
While this little yum yum
With an empty tum tum
Spent a very restless night.
AN OBJECT OF LOVE.
MARY E. WILKINS.
A tiny white-painted house, with a door and one window in front, and
a little piazza, over which the roof jutted, and on which the kitchen
door opened, on the rear corner. Squashes were piled up on this piazza
in a great yellow and green heap.
Ann Millet, her shawl pinned closely over her hair and ears, the small
oval of her solemn, delicate old face showing almost uncanny beneath
it, stood in the door, surveying the sky outside.
“There’s goin’ to be a heavy frost, sure enough,” she said. “I’ll hev
to git the squashes in. Thar’s Mis’ Stone comin’. Hope to goodness she
won’t stop an’ hinder me! Lor’ sakes! I’d orter hev more patience.”
A tall, stooping figure came up the street, and paused at the gate
hesitatingly.
“Good-evenin’, Ann.”
“Good-evenin’, Mis’ Stone.”
“Gettin’ in your squashes, ain’t you?” Mrs. Stone spoke in a very high
pitched tone. Ann was somewhat deaf.
“Yes. I didn’t dare resk ’em out to-night, it’s so cold.”
“Well, it’s a good deal colder than I hed any idea of when I come out.
Yes, I’d take ’em in. We got ourn in last week. We ain’t got more’n
half as many as you hev. I shouldn’t think you could use ’em all, Ann.”
“Well, I do. I allers liked squashes, an’ Willy likes ’em, too. You’d
orter see him brush round me, a-roundin’ up his back an’ purrin’ when
I’m a scrapin’ of ’em out of the shell. He likes ’em better’n fresh
meat.”
“Seems queer for a cat to like sech things. Ourn won’t touch ’em. How
nice an’ big your cat looks a-settin’ thar in the window!”
“He’s a-watchin’ of me. He jumped up thar jest the minute I come out!”
“He’s a good deal of company for you, ain’t he?”
“Yes, he is. What on airth I should do this long winter that’s comin’,
without him, I don’t know. Everybody wants somethin’ that’s alive in
the house.”
“That’s so. It must be pretty lonesome for you anyway.”
“Well, I don’t mean to complain. I’d orter be thankful. I’ve got my
Bible an’ Willy, an’ a roof over my head, an’ enough to eat an’ wear;
an’ p’rhaps some other woman ain’t lonesome because I am, an’ maybe
she’d be one of the kind that didn’t like cats, an’ wouldn’t hev got
along half as well as me. No, I never orter complain.”
“Well, if all of us looked at our mercies more’n our trials, we’d be a
good deal happier. But, sakes! I must be goin’. Good-night, Ann.”
“Good-night, Mis’ Stone.”
Mrs. Stone hitched rapidly down the street to her own home, and Ann
went on tugging in her squashes. She was a little woman and had to
carry them in one at a time. After they were all in she took off her
shawl and hung it on a nail behind the kitchen door. Then she gave her
cat his saucer of warm milk in a snug corner by the stove and sat down
contentedly to her own supper. The cat was a beautiful little animal,
with a handsome dark striped coat on his back, and white paws and face.
When he had finished lapping his milk, he came and stood beside his
mistress’s chair while she ate, and purred, and she gave him bits of
bread from her plate now and then. She talked to him.
“Nice Willy! nice cat. Got up on the window to see me bring in the
squashes, didn’t he? There’s a beautiful lot of ’em, an’ he shall hev
some stewed for his dinner to-morrow, so he shall.”
And the cat would purr, and rub his soft coat against her, and look as
if he knew just what she meant.
There was a prayer-meeting that evening, and Ann Millet went. She never
missed one. The minister, when he entered, always found her sitting in
the same place. She had a pretty voice when she was young, people said,
and she sang now in a sweet thin quaver the hymns which the minister
gave out. She listened in solemn enjoyment to the stereotyped prayers
and the speaker’s remarks.
After meeting Ann always went up and told him how much she had enjoyed
his remarks, and inquired after his wife and children. To her a
minister was an unpublished apostle, and his wife and family were set
apart on the earth.
When she had reached home and lighted her lamp, she called her cat.
She had expected to find him waiting to be let in, but he was not. She
stood out on her little piazza, and called, “Willy! Willy! Willy!”
She thought every minute she would see him bounding around the corner,
but she did not. She called over and over, “Willy! Willy! Kitty! Kitty!
Kitty!”
Finally she went into the house and waited awhile, crouching, shivering
with cold and nervousness, over the kitchen stove. Then she went
outside and called again, “Willy!” over and over, waiting between the
calls trembling, her dull old ears alert, her dim old eyes strained.
She ran out to the road, and looked and called. Once her heart leaped;
she thought she saw Willy coming; but it was only a black cat which
belonged to one of the neighbors. Over and over all night long she
called the poor little creature which was everything earthly she had
to keep her company in the great universe in which she herself was so
small.
In the morning she went over to Mrs. Stone’s, her small old face wild
and wan.
“Hev you seen anything of Willy?” she asked. “He’s been out all night,
an’ I’m afraid somethin’s happened to him. I never knowed him to stay
out so before.”
When they told her they had not seen him, she went on to the next
neighbors to inquire. But no one had seen anything of the cat. All that
day and night, at intervals, people heard her plaintive, inquiring
call, “Willy! Willy! Willy!”
The next Sunday, Ann was not out at church. Mrs. Stone went over to see
what was the matter.
“Why, Ann Millet, are you sick?” she asked.
“No, I ain’t sick.”
“You wa’n’t out to meetin’, an’ I didn’t know——”
“I ain’t never goin’ to meetin’ agin.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“I mean jest what I say. I ain’t never goin’ to meetin’ agin. Folks go
to meetin’ to thank the Lord for blessin’s, I s’pose. I’ve lost mine,
an’ I ain’t goin’.”
“What hev you lost, Ann?”
“Ain’t I lost Willy?”
“You don’t mean to say you’re makin’ such a fuss as this over a cat?”
“Yes, I do.”