parlors. If the animal would stay quietly in his pocket it might not be
so hard to conceal it during the meal, and he would excuse himself as
early as possible.
“Now, old man,” he said to the kitten, as they stood on the door-step,
“I have done you a good turn, you know, so I expect you to do me
another by lying low and keeping dark. Don’t give yourself away, if you
love me.”
Never was a dinner so long. They had allotted him to a little girl in
her first season, and he was far away from Miss Girton’s end of the
table.
With the third course came a new torment. That kitten was starving,
Dick had no doubt of it. He looked about him for something to slip into
his pocket. Chicken with truffles, or Roman punch was hardly the diet
any self-respecting cat would select for her offspring. Dick passed
three courses endeavoring to manufacture some excuse for leaving the
table, but finally gave up in despair, resolving to wait until the
ladies retired to the drawing-room.
When the cigars had been lighted and chairs pushed back, he felt his
hour had come.
“Leighton,” he said, addressing his host, “would you—could I—ah, that
is—would it be too much trouble to get me a glass of milk?”
An amazed silence fell upon the party.
“Milk!” said the host.
“Well, you see, the doctor ordered me after every meal——”
“Oh, of course, if you like,” and the butler brought a large tumbler
of milk and placed it solemnly before Dick, during a rather chilly
silence. He was forced to gulp down at least half the glass. Meanwhile,
how to get away?
“Leighton,” he said, “did I hear you say that Gladstone had been
criticized in the ‘Times’ for that last speech of his?”
“Yes,” said Leighton, “and of all the unwarrantable——”
The men pushed the bottles into the center of the table, squared their
elbows, and in ten minutes, as Dick had anticipated, were far too deep
in politics to observe his movements. With the half-finished glass of
milk in his hand, he rose and wandered out of the door and down the
hall to where his overcoat hung.
The kitten was awake and restless. Dick felt that he was just in time.
He held it under one arm, and carefully tilted the glass for it until
every drop was gone.
“There, old man, you feel better, don’t you? Have a cigar after you
drink?” The sound of chairs being pushed about in the dining-room
struck him with sudden panic. He spilled the kitten hastily into his
pocket again and sped back with the empty glass.
In the drawing-room Miss Girton was in her element, and Dick eyed her
from afar with a heavy heart.
Soon the people wandered out by twos and three, a few into the softly
lighted hall. Miss Girton was one of these, and Dick as a matter of
course joined the group of men gathered around her. The ribbon of
her bouquet had become untied, and she rolled it in her fingers, and
trailed it to and fro over the shining wood floor as she talked.
Suddenly there was a stir among the overcoats and two bright spots met
Dick’s eyes—two sparks of topaz fire. Oh, that fascinating blue ribbon!
How it curved and trailed about! What kitten could have resisted the
temptation?
Dick made a sudden plunge.
“Your ribbon is untied,” he said, offering it to Miss Girton, with
nervous politeness.
“Thank you,” she said. She let it dangle from her hand for a minute,
and then shook it out in a long curved line. No mortal kitten could
withstand that.
There was a bound and a rush and the scamper of four soft little
paws, and Dick’s unfortunate waif lay on its back under Miss Girton’s
very feet, kicking and clawing at the ribbon in an ecstacy of playful
excitement.
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Miss Girton. “Where did that come from?”
“It’s a cat, by Jove!” said somebody.
Then Dick, feeling cold and weak all over, made a step forward.
“It’s mine; I picked it up. It was so cold and wet, you know——”
“Did you find it?”—“Was it here all the time?”—“Where did it come
from?” Everybody crowded around, while the kitten made short charges at
the ribbon, batted at it with its paws, and kicked at it frantically
with its hind legs.
Dick told the story with a sinking heart. What would she think of him?
What would she say? She did not say anything, but nearly everybody else
did.
“Come, Eaton,” cried the host, laughing. “That milk——”
“Yes,” said Dick, scarlet, but sturdy, “it was for the kitten.”
There was a roar of laughter from the men, and then the joke had to be
explained to the ladies.
“And why did you not produce the beast right away,” said Leighton. “By
the way, there’s a smart fox-terrier of mine upstairs. Let’s introduce
them and have some fun.”
Dick made a dash for his protege.
“No, you don’t. This little beast’s had quite enough of that sort of
thing, I fancy. I’m going to take it home and make it comfortable. You
don’t mind living with me, old man? We’ll be pretty good chums so long
as you don’t smoke bad tobacco.”
He got on his overcoat and said good-bye to his hostess amid a fire of
good-natured chaff. Then he looked around for Miss Girton. She was
standing alone, and her face wore a curious expression. Dick, with his
prize cuddled up in his arms, came over to her.
“All that for a kitten?” she said. “Why was it?”
“Oh, well, it liked me, and it was so beastly wet, you know.”
She gave him her hand with a sudden dazzling smile.
“Won’t you come and see me to-morrow? I shall be quite alone all the
afternoon, and I do so want to hear about—about the kitten.”
THE DISHONEST CAT.
MRS. FREDERICK W. PENDER.
_Written expressly for this book._
A cat whose name, I’ve heard, was Tab,
Was known for being very bad.
Her home was good, her mistress kind,
But thieving seemed to fill her mind.
Her looks were rough, she was not neat,
From tip of nose to dirty feet;
And all her ways, they were so sly,
One could not bear to have her nigh.
Her greatest crime was from some dish
To steal the meat, or often fish;
And milk, if left in pan to cream,
If Tab was ’round she’d skim it clean.
One time she got herself in plight,
This naughty cat (it serv’d her right!)
She stuck her nose in soup so hot,
She ran out doors like she was shot.
And from the house, she stayed for days,
Though never mended her bad ways.
For she did steal from neighbors’ cats,
Their food left out upon the mat.
And often was she in disgrace,
And couldn’t look you in the face,
And came to grief at last, I’m told,
For thieving and from being bold.
MORAL.
Now boys and girls, a lesson learn,
From your nice ways, oh, never turn;
For if you do, perhaps like Tab,
Your fate may be—why, twice as bad.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR’S FAVORITE CAT, CHINCHINILLO.
_Addressed to His Child, Carlino._
Does Chinchinillo follow thee about?
Inverting one swart foot suspensively
And wagging his dread jaw at every chirp
Of bird above him on the olive branch?
Frighten him then away! ’Twas he who slew
Our pigeons, our white pigeons peacock-tailed,
That feared not you and me—alas nor him!
I flattened his striped sides along my knee,
And reasoned with him on his bloody mind,
Till he looked blandly and half-closed eyes
To ponder on my lecture in the shade.
I doubt his memory much, his heart a little,
And in some minor matters (may I say it?)
Could wish him rather sager.
HOMELESS KITTEN.
JANE CAMPBELL.
[Music:
1. A homeless little kitten
Came to the door one day,
“I’m cold and starved, oh, let me in!”
Its sad cries seemed to say.
I took it up and shut the door
Upon the bitter storm,
And put the little shiv’ring thing
Before the fire to warm.
2. I gave it milk to drink, and smoothed
Its pretty, soft grey fur,
“Poor pussy, stay with me,” I said,
It answered with a purr.
And ever since that winter day
I have so happy been;
I gained a merry playmate when
I let my pussy in.]
MY OLD GRAY CAT AND I.
JOE LINCOLN.
The wind blows shrill and the night is chill
And the black clouds hide the moon,
And the raindrops splash on the window sash
In a lazy, lonesome tune;
But the fire burns low, with a rosy glow,
As the sifting cinders die,
And we sit and dream in its cosy gleam,—
My old gray cat and I.
The smoke-wreaths curl from my pipe and whirl
Aloft in the dusky gloom,
And the buzzing burr of the cat’s soft purr
Hums low through the raftered room;
And the raging rout of the storm, without,
May scream in the chimney, high,
We’re blithe to-night, by the fire’s warm light,—
My old gray cat and I.
The squire may stand by his hearth so grand,
In his palace rich and old,
But his haughty breast has a deep unrest,
For he fears for his bonds and gold;
No wealth have we, so our hearts are free,
And our cot is warm and dry,
We feel no care, in our easy chair,—
My old gray cat and I.
From its well-worn hook, in the chimney’s nook,
I take my fiddle down,
And snugly in, ’neath my grizzled chin,
I cuddle its breast of brown;
And the strain that rings from the crooning strings,
Bids grief to the four winds fly,
While the sweet notes swell, we know so well,—
My old gray cat and I.
For Puss, old chum, whate’er may come,
You’re still a comrade true,
Through shine or rain you ne’er complain,
So here’s good health to you:
The best of luck, my ancient buck,
While old Time hurries by;
Till this world ends we’ll be fast friends,—
My old gray cat and I.
CAT AND FOX.
_A Fable._
A cat once met a fox in a forest. The fox bragged so much about the
many tricks he could do that the cat felt she must, in some way, reply.
Finally, she said, very modestly: “Well, I only know how to do one
thing. It’s my only trick.”
“You don’t say so!” replied the fox, patronizingly. “Why, I can do no
end of tricks.”
The cat stared at the fox, enviously, and was suddenly aroused by
hearing the horns of the king’s hunters and the barking of the dogs.
The cat ran up the tree and, sitting on a branch, watched the approach
of the cavalcade, with serenity.
“I thought you could do only one thing,” cried out the distracted fox
as he ran away.
“I can,” the cat answered. “But this happens to be my trick.”
Then the cat had the satisfaction to see the dogs, after barking about
the foot of the tree, run after the fox.
MISS EDITH’S MODEST REQUEST.
BRET HARTE.
My papa knows you, and he says you’re a man who makes reading
for books;
But I never read nothing you wrote, nor did papa—I know by his looks;
So I guess you’re like me when I talk, and I talk and I talk
all the day,
And they only say, “Do stop that child!” or, “Nurse, take
Miss Edith away!”
But papa said if I was good, I could ask you—alone by myself—
If _you_ wouldn’t write me a book like that little one up on the shelf.
I don’t mean the pictures, of course, for to make _them_ you’ve got
to be smart;
But the reading that runs all around them, you know—just the
easiest part.
You needn’t mind what it’s about, for no one will see it but me
And Jane—that’s my nurse—and John—he’s the coachman—just only us three.
You’re to write of a bad little girl, that was wicked and bold,
and all that;
And then you are to write, if you please, something good—very
good—of a cat!
This cat she was virtuous and meek, and kind to her parents, and mild,
And careful and neat in her ways, though her mistress was such
a bad child;
And hours she would sit and would gaze when her mistress—that’s
me—was so bad,
And blink, just as if she would say, “O Edith! you make my heart sad.”
And yet, you would scarcely believe it, that beautiful, angelic cat
Was blamed by the servants for stealing whatever, they said,
she’d get at,
And when John drank my milk—don’t you tell me! I know just the way
it was done—
They said ’twas the cat—and she sitting and washing her face
in the sun!
And then there was Dick, my canary. When I left the cage open, one day,
They all made believe that she ate it, though I know that the bird
flew away.
And why? Just because she was playing with a feather she found
on the floor.
As if cats couldn’t play with a feather without people thinking
’twas more.
Why, once we were romping together, when I knocked down a vase
from the shelf;
That cat was as grieved and distressed as if she had done it herself;
And she walked away sadly and hid herself, and never came out
until tea—
So they say, for they sent _me_ to bed, and she never came even to me.
No matter whatever happened, it was laid at the door of that cat.
Why, once, when I tore my apron—she was wrapped in it,
and I called “Rat!”—
Why, they blamed that on _her_. I shall never—no, not to my dying day—
Forget the pained look that she gave me when they slapped _me_ and
took me away.
Of course, you know just what comes next when a child is as lovely
as that.
She wasted quite slowly away—it was goodness was killing that cat.
I know it was nothing she ate, for her taste was exceedingly nice;
But they said she stole Bobby’s ice-cream, and caught a bad cold
from the ice.
And you’ll promise to make me a book like that little one up
on the shelf.
And you’ll call her “Naomi,” because it’s a name that she just
gave herself;
For she’d scratch my door in the morning, and whenever I’d call out
“Who’s there?”—
She would answer, “Naomi! Naomi!” like a Christian, I vow and declare.
And you’ll put me and her in a book. And, mind, you’re to say
I was bad;
And I might have been badder than that but for the example I had.
And you’ll say that she was a Maltese—And what’s that you asked?
“Is she dead?”
Why, please sir, _there ain’t any cat_! You’re to make one up out
of your head!
MISS KITTY MANX TO SIR THOMAS ANGORA.
MARY S. BOYD.
Sir Thomas, pardon me I pray,
But I would like to know
If you could not direct me to
The swamp where cat-tails grow?
A PRINCE OF NEWFOUNDLAND; OR, ONLY A DOG AND A KITTEN.
CELIA THAXTER.
The shower had ceased, but the city street
Was flooded still with drenching rain,
Though men and horses with hurrying feet
Swept on their busy ways again.
The gutter ran like a river deep;
By the clean-washed pavement fast it rushed,
As out of the spouts with a dash and a leap
The singing, sparkling water gushed.
A little kitten with ribbon blue
Crossed over the way to the gutter’s brink;
With many a wistful, plaintive mew,
She seemed at the edge to shudder and shrink.
And there she stood while her piteous cries
Were all unheard by the heedless throng,
Looking across with such longing eyes;
But the torrent was all too swift and strong.
Up the streets, o’er the pavements wide,
Wandered our Prince from Newfoundland,
Stately and careless and dignified,
Gazing about him on either hand.
The sun shone out on his glossy coat,
And his beautiful eyes, soft and brown,
With quiet, observant glance took note
Of all that was passing him, up and down.
He heard the kitten that wailed and mewed,
Stopped to look and investigate,
The whole situation understood,
And went at once to the rescue straight.
Calmly out into the street walked he,
Up to the poor little trembling waif,
Lifted her gently and carefully,
And carried her over the water safe.
And set her down on the longed-for shore,
Licked her soft coat with a kind caress,
Left her and went on his way once more,
The picture of noble thoughtfulness.
Only a dog and a cat, you say?
Could a human being understand
And be more kind in a human way
Than this fine old Prince of Newfoundland?
O children dear, ’tis a lesson sweet:
If a poor dumb dog so wise can be,
We should be gentle enough to treat
All creatures with kindness and courtesy.
For surely among us there is not one
Who such an example could withstand;
Who would wish in goodness to be outdone
By a princely dog from Newfoundland.
* * * * *
_Ques._—What kind of a cat do we usually find in a large library?
_Ans._—Catalogue.
_Ques._—Why are cats like unskillful surgeons?
_Ans._—Because they mew-till-late and destroy patience (patients).
THE DUEL.
EUGENE FIELD.
The gingham dog and the calico cat
Side by side on the table sat,
’Twas half past twelve, and what do you think,
Neither of them had slept a wink!
And the old Dutch clock and Chinese plate
Seemed to know, as sure as fate,
There was going to be an awful spat.
(I wasn’t there—I simply state
What was told to me by the Chinese plate.)
The gingham dog went “Bow-wow-wow!”
And the calico cat replied “Me-ow!”
And the air was streaked for an hour or so
With fragments of gingham and calico,
While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place
Up with its hands before its face,
For it always dreaded a family row!
(Now, mind, I’m simply telling you
What the old Dutch clock declares is true.)
The Chinese plate looked very blue
And wailed: “Oh, dear, what shall we do!”
But the gingham dog and the calico cat
Wallowed this way and tumbled that,
And utilized every tooth and claw
In the awfulest way you ever saw—
And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!
(Don’t think that I exaggerate—
I got my news from the Chinese plate.)
Next morning, where the two had sat,
They found no trace of dog or cat;
And some folks think unto this day
That burglars stole that pair away;
But the truth about that cat and pup
Is that they ate each other up—
Now, what do you really think of that?
(The old Dutch clock, it told me so,
And that is how I came to know.)
IN THE HAY-LOFT.
HELEN THAYER HUTCHESON.
Up in the hay-loft—kitten and I!
With a window open to the sky,
Curtained with boughs of the chestnut-trees
That toss and sway in the cool west breeze.
The dome of the sky with a cloud is lined,
And the rain comes down when it has a mind,
Pelting the leaves of the chestnut-tree;
Never the rain can touch kitten and me.
Up in the hay-loft—kitten and I!
The hay behind us is mountain high;
The beams across are dusty enough;
Darkness broods in the peak of the roof.
In pearly lines the daylight falls
Through the chinks of the boarded walls;
The air is fragrant with clover dried,
Brake and daisies and things beside.
Queer little spiders drop down from on high;
Softly we welcome them—kitten and I!
Swallows chirp in a lazy strain
Between the showers of the summer rain.
Let the rain come down from the clouded sky,
We’re quiet and cosy—kitten and I!
We muse and purr and think out a rhyme,
And never know what has become of time.
People down there in the world below,
They toil and moil and get dinner and sew;
Up in the hay we lazily lie;
We have no troubles—kitten and I!
Kitten purrs and stretches and winks,
She doesn’t speak, but I know what she thinks;
Never a king had a throne so high,
Never a bird had a cosier nest;
There is much that is good, but we have the best—
Kitten, kitten and I!
[Illustration: A TIGHT FIT.]
[Illustration: “’Twas but a dream.”]
EMBLEMATIC SIGNIFICATION OF CAT.
In hieroglyphics of ancient monuments of Egypt a cat represents false
friendship, or a deceitful, flattering friendship.
In heraldry, a cat is an emblem of liberty, because it dislikes to be
shut up.
In coat-of-arms, the cat must always be represented as full face—both
eyes and both ears to show. Three cats in pale sable is the coat of the
family of Kent of Devonshire.
The cat is always the emblematic animal of newspaper offices and
editors’ chairs of to-day.
[Illustration: Cat’s Duett
Miau! Miau!]
CAT’S DUET.
BERTHOLD
[Music: Miau [repeated by 1st and 2nd CAT to end]]
EVERY MOTHER’S LOVE THE BEST.
As I went over the hills one day,
I listened, and heard a mother sheep say,
“In all the green world there is nothing so sweet
As my little lammie with his nimble feet;
With his eyes so bright, and his wool so white,
Oh! he is my darling, my heart’s delight.
The robin that sings in yonder tree,
Dearly may dote on his darlings four,
But I love my one little lammie more.”
So the mother sheep and her little one,
Side by side, lay down in the sun,
And there let them lie on the hillside warm,
While my little darling lies here on my arm.
I went to the kitchen, and what did I see
But the old gray cat and her kittens three;
I heard her whispering soft and low,
“My kittens with their tails so cunningly curled,
Are the prettiest things in all the world.
The birds in the tree, and the old sheep, they
May love their babies exceedingly,
But I love my kittens from morn to night,
With their fur so soft, and clean and white.
Which is the prettiest, I cannot tell,
I cannot choose, I love all so well;
So I will take up these kittens I love,
And we’ll lie down together beneath the warm stove.”
There they snugly lie under the stove so warm,
While my little darling lies here on my arm.
I went to the yard and saw the old hen
Go clucking about with her chickens ten;
She clucked, and she scratched,
And she bristled away,
And what do you think I heard her say?
I heard her say, “The sun never did shine
On anything like these ten chickens of mine.
You may hunt the round moon
And the stars, if you please,
But you’ll never find any such chickens as these.
The cat loves her kittens,
The sheep loves her lamb,
But they do not know what a proud mother I am.
For lambs nor for kittens I won’t part with these,
Though the sheep and the cat should go down on their knees.
My dear, downy darlings, my sweet little things,
Come nestle now cosily under my wings.”
So the mother hen said, and the chickens all sped
As fast as they could to their warm feather-bed.
And there let them lie ’neath the feathers so warm,
While my little darling lies here on my arm.
ME AN’ BAB.
JOY VETREPONT.
Me an’ Bab we went to church, an’ Bab she saw a mouse. An’—course she
wanted to catch him. An’ she slipped out under my sack, where I’d hid
her when we went to church, an’ was out of the pew quicker’n no time.
Well, my pa’s a dicken, an’ he had a correction-box, an’ he was
a-leanin’ over with the correction-box stretched out so ’t Frankie
Hill, what sat in the farthest corner, could put in a cent, an’ all the
people was givin’ centses, top, an’ ten cents, too, an’ five cents,
too, and he was a-stretchin’ out the correction-box to Frankie, an’
just then the mouse ran right acrost his feet an’ Bab after him. An’
my papa he gave a queer sort of a cry, an’ dropped the correction-box,
an’ all the centses fell on the floor in Frankie Hill’s pew, an’—an’ my
pa’s face went redder’n red, an’ his ears, an’ his neck, an’ he turns
around an’ sees our Bab scamperin’ after the mouse, an’ he started
to go after her, an’ everybody on our side was a-lookin’ at Bab, an’
the people on the other side that couldn’t see Bab was lookin’ at my
pa, an’ then they all looked at Mr. Green—that’s the minister—an’ Mr.
Green he was lookin’ orful solemn. An’ the mouse ran acrost the raised
places covered with red carpet, where the minister sits, an’ he ran
under his chair, an’ Bab after him. An’ all the dickens had laid down
their correction-boxes an’ was goin’ there, too—not under the chair I
don’t mean—but up to the raised place with red carpet, an’ the mouse
he scampered to the door that’s one side of where the min’ster sits,
an’ he couldn’t get out, an’ there wasn’t no hole for him, an’ Bab
was after him lickety split, an’—an’—he comed back an’ ran into old
Miss Tromley’s pew, an’ she screamed an’ ran out, an’ then there was a
reg’lar scrimmage; an’ the dickens was all mixed up, an’ Bab was among
their feet, an’ my pa he stooped down, an’ then he came down ’tween the
pews with Bab in his arms, an’ his face was orful. An’ he went out with
Bab, an’ the other dickens went for their boxes.
An’ Mr. Green he dropped his hank-cher, and he was _orful long_ pickin’
it up; an’ then he coughed, an’ hid his face in his hank’cher, an’ he
shooked all over just like he did when my pa told that story about
the dicken what put the wrong plaster on his nose; an’ everybody was
laughin’, but _I_ was cryin’, ’cause I didn’t know what my pa would do
to Bab—or—or—_me_.
An’ Frankie Hill was pickin’ up centses in his pew when my pa comed
back; an’ he took me by the arm, an’ led me out of church, an’ says,
very stern—
“Go home!”
An’ our house is close by, so I went all by myself, an’ my pa went back
to his correction-box. An’ I don’t know what came of the mouse; but
Jemima Jane says it’s a good thing my ma’s away, an’ I’ll get a proper
“correction-box” when she gets home.
THE CATS’ MERRY, MERRY MEETING.
_Action Song for Six Boys and a Chorus._
STANLEY SCHELL.
_Written expressly for this book._
COSTUME: Every boy wears a different colored costume
made from cambric or cotton cloth. First a hood is made
perfectly tight-fitting and covering all except the eyes,
nose and mouth. Then ears are made and fastened to side
of head. The rest of costume is made like a little boy’s
night-suit, but perfectly tight-fitting and open at the
back. The suit is so made that feet and hands are covered
by the sleeves, and legs being of sufficient length to
form a sort of glove or stocking. To the lower back of the
costume is attached a tail made from the goods rolled in a
long coil and sewed together, then attached to suit. Every
boy wears a cat-mask fitted under hood.
STAGE SETTING: At stage center should be placed a table
with lighted lamp above it. On table a large pan of milk.
Music: “Merry, Merry Cats.”