You know it is New Year’s day,
The big folks are down in the parlor,
And mamma is just gone away.
We are all alone in the nursery,
And I want to talk to you, dear,
So you must come and sit by me,
And make believe you hear.
You see there’s a new year coming,
It only begins to-day,
Do you know I was often naughty
In the year that is gone away?
You know I have some bad habits;
I’ll mention just one or two,
But there really is quite a number
Of naughty things that I do.
You see, I don’t learn my lessons,
And, oh! I do hate them so,
I doubt if I know any more to-day
Than I did a year ago.
Perhaps I’m awfully stupid,
They say I’m a dreadful dunce.
How would you like to learn spelling?
I wish you would try it once.
And don’t you remember Christmas—
’Twas naughty, I must confess—
But while I was eating my dinner
I got two spots on my dress.
And they caught me stealing the sugar,
But I only got two little bits,
When they found me there in the closet,
And frightened me out of my wits.
And, Pussy, when people scold me,
I’m always so sulky then,
If they only would tell me gently,
I never would do it again.
O Pussy! I know I am naughty,
And often it makes me cry,
I think it would count for something,
If they knew how hard I try.
But I’ll try again in the New Year,
And, oh! I shall be so glad
If I only can be a good little girl
And never do anything bad!
WHAT BECAME OF THE KITTEN?
AUNTY.—What became of the kitten you had when I was here before?
NIECE [_in surprise_]. Why, don’t you know?
AUNTY.—I haven’t heard a word. Was she poisoned?
NIECE.—No’m.
AUNTY.—Drowned?
NIECE.—Oh, no.
AUNTY.—Stolen?
NIECE.—No, indeed.
AUNTY.—Hurt in any way?
NIECE.—No’m.
AUNTY.—Well, I can’t guess. What became of her?
NIECE.—She growed into a cat.
THE OUTING.
MRS. FREDERICK W. PENDER.
_Written expressly for this book._
Now, a stylish young cat and a little white pig,
And a duck who was black, and a goat who was big,
Were all playing around in some newly mown hay,
When they paused in their sport as the duck she did say:
“Come away to the woods for a nice sunny walk.
There’s a stream on whose banks we can rest as we talk,
For the day is so fine, ’tis a shame if we stay,
So we’ll hurry and dress, then away, all away.”
Now, the cat was so pleased that she bowed and she smiled,
While the piggie he squealed till he nearly went wild.
As for Billy, he did—why, a stunt that was fine,
For he stood on his head with his heels up behind.
They were proud and the pains they all took so each rig
“It would suit the complexion,” remarked the white pig;
And his hat it was pink, like the bow on his tail,
And he marched with the cat ’cause she wore a blue veil.
Now, gray Billy, the goat, wore a beard nearly white,
And a new linen duster a trifle too tight;
While a string with a bell on his neck he did twine,
As he said, “Now, my suit it is stunning and fine.”
As the duck was determined to dazzle them all,
She selected a gown that was fit for a ball;
Then she simpered and waddled in her silly way
Till the rest were disgusted, tho’ tried to look gay.
When the cat, with her paw on the pig, came the first,
Why, the duck (who was jealous) with envy near burst,
Still she walked with the goat, and they looked very trim,
And the calf, how he laughed, as they nodded at him.
When they reached the cool stream they sat down for a treat,
And the goodies they brought, they were hungry to eat;
And the cat was so dainty, the pig was so clean,
While the goat was polite, but the duck, she was mean.
For she gobbled the cake, and the berries so red;
Till they saw at a glance, she was very ill bred;
Then she told how she loved on the water to float,
And she blinked and she winked at the poor Billy-goat,
Who then told the white pig, how a pain in his back
Came from stooping to hear all the duck’s foolish quack;
While Miss Pussy she charmed with her sweet, modest air
As she wore the pink bow of the pig in her hair.
When they finished their lunch then all danced ’neath the trees
And the duck at the last, I will say, tried to please;
For she found a mistake in her greed she had made,
When her friends told her how she at home had best stayed.
When the stars were a-twinkling o’er each bright little head,
“Why, it’s time,” said the cat, “we were home and in bed.”
And the pig, to be friends with the duck, he walked back,
While the goat led the way, with the nice pussy-cat.
[Illustration: CONVALESCING.
“ROTOGRAPH”
SERIES]
[Illustration: From Painting by J. Adam.
WIDE AWAKE]
* * * * *
_Ques._—What is the difference between a cat and a comma?
_Ans._—A cat has its claws at the end of its paws; a comma its pause at
the end of a clause.
KITTEN THAT NEVER GREW OLD.
There once was a kitten who wished that he
Might never grow older, for “Don’t you see,”
Said Pussy, “I’m told
That when a cat’s old
He curls himself up on the hearth to sleep!”
Why, just the mere thought made this Pussy-cat weep,
“Meow—ow—ow—ow,
Meow—ow—ow—ow!”
And so, as he lay in his snug little bed,
He thought of the kittens’ good fairy, and said,
In a kittenish way—
Or a purr, I should say—
“Oh, fairy, dear fairy, just as I am now
I wish to be always, meow! meow!”
Now, wasn’t it queer!
The fairy was near,
And then and there took Mr. Puss at his word,
And said to him, “Pussy” (or so I have heard),
“With play you are smitten!
Be always a kitten!”
And so ever after, by night and by day,
That poor little kitten did nothing but play.
Just ask him for me,
Should ever you see
A playful old cat of diminutive size,
Whose friends have grown older and ever so wise,
If being the only
Puss left isn’t lonely?
He’ll tell you that fairies should never allow
A cat to be always a kitten, meow!
KITTENS’ DANCING LESSON.
STANLEY SCHELL.
_Written expressly for this book._
Now kitties, dear, come, form a square,
Right in the center of the room;
No, girlies here, and bubbies there,
Now, all face so and smile and bow.
[_Play music of Lancers from now on with variations._]
First, Tom and Nell and Will and Min,
Dance forward and then back again;
Next go Fred, Ned, Tootsy and Jane,
With Hey diddle-diddle and riddle-cum-ree!
All forward and then back; next ladies’ chain;
Up the middle and back again.
My dearest kitties, won’t you try,
The Hey diddle-diddle and riddle-cum-ree?
Balance to corners, all now bow,
Join arms and try a promenade.
For all who dance, as you can see,
Must Hey diddle-diddle and riddle-cum-ree!
Swing the next lady fast and low,
Now in a circle all must go;
Take partners all, all skip away,
For kitties’ dance is o’er to-day.
With Hey diddle-diddle and riddle-cum-ray!
* * * * *
“I don’t like that cat; it’s got splinters in its feet!” was the excuse
of a four-year-old for throwing the kitten away.
THE SOCIAL TEA.
MRS. FREDERICK W. PENDER.
_Written expressly for this book._
Now, a bundle of fun
With the sweetest of eyes,
Was Miss Kitty McGee,
Who had won the first prize
At a big country fair,
Where were kittens galore,
Who her rivals had been,
And she made them heart sore.
For the laurels they had,
Why, they could not compare
With the prize this dear pet
Wore with pride from the fair.
And the judges all said,
When they saw her sweet way,
She eclipsed all the cats
They had met the whole day.
And she mused as she blinked,
When she rode thro’ the town,
“There were few like herself,
Who had gained such renown.”
And to show she was kind,
As a kitten should be,
She planned to invite
Her three cousins to tea.
When Miss Kitty awoke
From her dreams the next day,
And her toilet was made
In her own dainty way,
Why, she drank all the milk
In her pretty new dish,
And she ate some nice bits
Till no more she could niche.
With a snuff of the air,
All so sweet and so clear,
Off she scampered to write
To her cousins most dear;
And the notes she perfumed
With a dash of catnip
And invited them all
To her home for a sip
Of the nicest of tea,
With a wafer or two,
And she tied all the notes
With pink ribbons and blue;
And a special dispatch
They all sent right away
And it said “they would come
To her house that same day.”
There was Queenie, so white,
With a sweet, dainty air,
And her brother Sir Tom,
With a dignity rare;
And dear little Snip,
Who was cute as could be,
And a prettier sight,
Why, you seldom do see.
Now, Miss Kitty, she served
At the table with ease,
And she tried, oh, so hard,
All her guests for to please;
And they drank to the health
Of their hostess, with tea,
And they said “she was good
And as sweet as could be.”
And they hoped she would care
All their love to retain,
For they wished, very soon,
To be with her again;
And they shook her soft paw,
Said the judges were right,
“You are worthy the prize,”
Then they bade her good night.
MATTHEW ARNOLD’S CAT ATOSSA.
_Elegy on a Canary._
Thou hast seen Atossa sage
Sit for hours beside thy cage;
Thou wouldst chirp, thou foolish bird,
Flutter, chirp—she never stirred!
What were now these toys to her?
Down she sank amid her fur—
Eyed thee with a soul resigned—
And thou deemedst cats were kind!
Cruel, but composed and bland,
Dumb, inscrutable, and grand;
So Tiberius might have sat,
Had Tiberius been a cat.
GIRL, CAT AND CUSTARD.
Dear Pussy, I love you, an’ I’s your true friend,
’Cause I saved you a whippin’ to-day,
When cook missed her custard, an’ every one said
It was puss that had stealed it away.
You know you are naughty sometimes, Pussy, dear,
So in course you got blamed, an’—all that!
An’ cook took a stick, an’ she ’clared she would beat
The thief out that mizzable cat!
But I—didn’t feel comfor’ble down in my heart,
So I saved you the whippin’, you see,
’Cause I went to mamma, an’ telled her I ’spect
She’d better tell cook to whip me.
’Cause the custard was stealed by a bad little girl
Who felt dreffely sorry with shame,
An’ it wouldn’t be fair to whip Pussy, in course,
When that bad little girl was to blame!
“Was it my little girlie?” my dear mamma said,
I felt dreffely scared, but I nodded my head,
An’ then mamma laughed. “Go find nurse, for I guess
There’s some custard to wash off a little girl’s dress.”
Well, then, ’course they knew
It was I, an’ not you,
Who stealed all the custard an’ then ran away.
But it’s best to be true
In the things that we do,
An’—that’s how I saved you a spankin’ to-day.
* * * * *
_Ques._—Why does a Maltese cat rest better in summer than winter?
_Ans._—Because summer brings a caterpillar (cat-a-pillow).
THE AUDACIOUS KITTEN.
OLIVER HERFORD.
“Hurrah!” cried the kitten, “hurrah!”
As he merrily set the sails;
“I sail o’er the ocean to-day,
To look at the Prince of Wales!”
“O kitten! O kitten!” I cried,
“Why tempt the angry gales?”
“I’m going,” the kitten replied,
“To look at the Prince of Wales!”
“I know what it is to get wet,
I’ve tumbled full oft in pails,
And nearly been drowned—and yet
I _must_ look at the Prince of Wales!”
“O kitten!” I cried, “the Deep
Is deeper than many pails!”
Said the kitten, “I shall not sleep
Till I’ve looked at the Prince of Wales!”
“O kitten! pause at the brink,
And think of the sea-sad tales.”
“Ah, yes,” said the kitten, “but think,
Oh, think of the Prince of Wales!”
“But, kitten,” I cried, dismayed,
“If you live through the angry gales,
You _know_ you will be afraid
To look at the Prince of Wales.”
Said the kitten, “No such thing!
Why should he make me wince?
If ‘_a cat may look at a king_,’
A kitten may look at a prince.”
CAT-LIFE.
LUCY LARCOM.
Dozing, and dozing, and dozing!
Pleasant enough,
Dreaming of sweet cream and mouse-meat,—
Delicate stuff!
Of raids on the pantry and hen-coop,
Or light, stealthy tread
Of cat-gossips, meeting by moonlight
On a ridge-pole or shed.
Waked by a somerset, whirling
From cushion to floor;
Waked to a wild rush for safety
From window to door.
Waking to hands that first smooth us,
And then pull our tails;
Punished with slaps when we show them
The length of our nails!
These big mortal tyrants even grudge us
A place on the mat.
Do they think we enjoy for our music
Staccatoes of “scat?”
What in the world were we made for?
Man, do you know?
By you to be petted, tormented?—
Are _you_ friend or foe?
To be treated, now, just as you treat us,—
The question is pat,—
To take just our chances of living,
Would you be a cat?
THE LANGUAGE OF CATS.
[Dialogue for four small girls. Each may have a cat, excepting the
last. All stand on line, facing audience.]
JEANNE. My cat speaks French, dear little friends,
As plainly as can be;
Says “s’il vous plait” (that’s if you please),
And thanks me with “merci!”
I know because I understand
Each word she says to me.
LISA. And mine speaks German, dearest friends,
And we live on the Rhine;
Says “bitte” when she wants a drink,
And “ja,” of course, and “nein”;
I wouldn’t have a cat that spoke
A different tongue from mine.
NORAH. That’s foine fer yees, you French and Dutch,
With faces so demure;
Me cat sphakes Oirish; whin I set
A saucer on the flure,
An’ ax her would she have some milk,
Me darlint tells me shure.
LILY. You may talk about your kittens,
May think they talk like you,
I’ve listened well to all they said—
And know that this is true;
Cats speak in English, every time,
And all they say is “Miaow.”
HOW PUSSY BATHES.
As Pussy sat washing her face by the gate,
A nice little dog came to have a good chat;
And after some talk about matters of state,
Said, with a low bow, “My dear Mrs. Cat,
I really do hope you’ll not think I am rude;
I am curious, I know, and that you may say—
Perhaps you’ll be angry—but, no, you’re too good—
Pray, why do you wash in that very odd way?
“Now, I, every day, rush away to the lake,
And in the clear water I dive and I swim;
I dry my wet fur with a run and a shake,
And am fresh as a rose and neat as a pin.
But you any day in the sun may be seen,
Just rubbing yourself with your red little tongue;
I admire the grace with which it is done—
But, really, now, are you sure you get yourself clean?”
And Pussy sat swelling with rage and surprise,
At this from her nice little doggie friend,
For she had always supposed herself rather precise,
And of her sleek neatness had bragged without end;
So she flew at that doggie and boxed both his ears,
Scratched his nose and his eyes, and spit in his face,
And set him off yelping from pain and disgrace.
CAT AND PAINTER.
ELEANOR H. PORTER.
“Me-ow-w!”
It was a plaintive wail that came from behind the ash barrel in the
alley-way.
It had been so delightful to scurry out the hall-door when Miss Dorothy
was not looking—out into the bright sunshine, where the red and yellow
leaves were chasing each other down the smooth walk in front of the
house.
Then there came a time when the sunshine fled and the leaves lay
quiet, refusing to play, even when she poked them with her little
insistent paw. She had run far down the street, and everything was new
and strange to her. A big dog bounced around the corner, and she was
obliged to scramble up a tree.
She had but just accomplished her fearsome descent when a group of
boys hailed her appearance with yells of delight. Then to her tail—her
beautiful fluffy tail—they tied a cruel cord with a jangling tin can at
the end. Down the street she wildly fled, around corners, through back
alleys, followed always by that deafening rattle dangling at the tip of
her tail.
The shouts of the boys grew fainter and fainter, and finally ceased
altogether. It was then that she stopped, and tugged and bit at the
knotted cord until at last she could switch her tail from side to
side—free from its hated burden.
“Me-ow-w!”
“Whew! little cat, is it so bad as all that?”
He was tall, wore a soft black hat, and carried a cane, which he
playfully twirled over the kitten’s head as he spoke.
The kitten’s tail came upright instantly, waving an appreciative
welcome to the kindly tones.
Two blocks down the street, the man ran up the steps of a house. His
latch-key was in his hand before he spied the kitten. She had sprung
lightly to the topmost step and was now facing him.
“Why—pussy!”
“Meow!”
Mechanically the man obeyed the obvious command, unlocked the door, and
pushed it open. The kitten was inside the hall with a bound.
“Oh, what a beauty, Mr. Heywood! Where did you get it?” asked the
landlady.
“That’s just the trouble, Mrs. Merriam; I didn’t get it at all—it came!”
“Came to you? How perfectly lovely! The very best sign of good luck
that you could possibly have! There’s not a bit of doubt now, Mr.
Heywood—your picture will be a certain success.”
“But what am I going to do with it?” asked Heywood.
“Do with it? Why, you’re going to keep it.”
The kitten had arrived with a bedraggled ribbon of what had once been
lustrous white satin around her neck. This forlorn bit of finery
Heywood at once consigned to the wastebasket, substituting a band of
blue cut from a roll of ribbon, after scrutiny of his guest’s eyes to
obtain just the proper shade; but the roll of ribbon soon began to show
signs of a rapid disappearance, so frequently was the necklet renewed.
This was owing to the fact that the kitten’s usual companions, during
her waking hours, were Heywood’s tubes of paints.
The first time she had jumped upon his low stand and poked her
inquisitive nose into his paint-box, he had looked on in dumb dismay. A
skirmish, a sweep of a yellow paw—and a tube of Rose Madder leaped from
the box and scurried across the floor with the kitten in full pursuit.
It was then that Heywood had caught up his crayon and drawn hurried
lines on the canvas before him; and it was that rough sketch that
became the first study for his famous picture “The Kittens’ Playground.”
After that he used every device in his power to interest the kitten in
that paint-box.
From the very first the little stranger had not lacked for a name. She
was always referred to as “Her Majesty,” and right royally she ruled
the household. It was two weeks before Her Majesty’s new surroundings
palled upon her and she longed for other worlds to conquer. Coincident
with this longing came the open back-yard gate. A wild scamper, and she
was free—out in the wide, wide world! Through the alley and across the
lot another open gate tempted her. Up the steps, through the kitchen
door and on into the dining-room pattered the little yellow feet.
“Why, Queenie!—you darling!” and she was in Miss Dorothy’s arms.
“Where have you been? You little dear—you’re as plump as a partridge,
anyway! Some one has appreciated you. But they’ve taken off your pretty
white ribbon and put on a horrid blue one. We’ll go and change it,
sweetheart. I never did like blue!”
Meanwhile on the other side of the square consternation reigned.
“Where’s Her Majesty?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll hunt her up,” responded Mrs. Merriam.
Perhaps the kitten missed her box of pigment playthings, or perhaps
she longed for the masculine homage she did not find at home; at any
rate, three days later, when she heard a familiar call from across the
open lot, she slipped through the back-yard gate, and hurried in the
direction of Mrs. Merriam’s voice.
“I’ve got her,” she announced breathlessly, “but I guess she’s found
her home, Mr. Heywood. I don’t know’s we ought to keep her—you see her
ribbon’s changed.”
“Yes, I see it is. But that’s easily remedied. I shan’t paint her in a
white one.”
“But—shall we keep her?” asked Mrs. Merriam timidly.
“We’ll try to—until the picture is done, anyway.”
When the kitten had first come to the house, Heywood had been engaged
upon an elaborate landscape, which he had intended to finish and
present to the judges of a forthcoming Art Exhibition. But since the
first study of “Her Majesty,” his interest in the landscape had waned.
Abandoning his original plan, he was now hard at work on “The Kittens’
Playground,” determined to exhibit that or nothing. For a week Her
Majesty was closely guarded and the picture grew apace; then one day
she disappeared. High and low they searched, but all in vain.
Across the square Miss Dorothy was tenderly caressing an animated ball
of yellow fur.
“Queenie, Queenie, what does this mean? What am I to think when you
run away from me so? Who are your new friends that insist on tying on
these odious blue ribbons around your neck? Here, just let me take off
the horrid thing and—why, what is this!” she exclaimed, interrupting
herself in amazement as a tiny crumpled paper dropped into her hand.
“Kindly leave the blue ribbon on. I like it better—it’s more artistic,”
she read.
“Well, really—impertinent creature!” Then she laughed, caught up a
pencil, and wrote on the back of the paper:
“So sorry, but I prefer white!”
When the small yellow cat and the big white bow appeared before Heywood
that night, he laughed outright. With careful fingers he undid the
knot, and then he laughed again.
“As I expected—graceful, in spite of disadvantages.”
When the blue again adorned the kitten’s neck, it bore with it this
message:
“I regret to be obliged a second time to call your attention to the
fact that blue is the only possible ribbon for this cat. Look at her
eyes!”
The picture was nearly done now. Her Majesty came and went much at her
own sweet will, and it was not two days before another huge white bow
appeared on her neck to mock Heywood’s gaze. His fingers shook a little
as he untied the knot and freed the tiny crumpled paper.
“I regret to be obliged a second time to call your attention to the
fact that I prefer white. Look at her—whiskers!” he read.
The time of the Exhibition arrived and Heywood had thoughts for but one
thing. At last his picture was hung, and so attractive did it prove to
be that it bid fair to realize his dearest hopes.
It represented the interior of an artist’s studio. The whole was but
the setting for four yellow kittens—the cleverest, most fascinating
yellow kittens in the world, peeping from behind curtains, tumbling
among rugs, rolling over tubes of paint—life-like, bewitching, and
altogether perfection.
It was on the third day of the Exhibition that a tall girl in drooping
feathers and rich furs stopped before the picture with an exclamation
of delight.
“It’s Queenie!—why, it’s Queenie to the very life!” “C.R. Heywood. Not
for sale,” she read disappointingly from her catalogue; then she sought
the manager.
“‘The Kittens’ Playground’—it is not for sale,” she asked.
“No, madam.”
“But the artist, Heywood—does he live in the city? Can you give me his
address?”
“Thirty-four Union Avenue, madam,” replied the man, consulting his book.
Dorothy Marsh was not a young woman who dallied. Once determined on
a course, action quickly followed. Her mother, always gentle and
pleasantly acquiescent, was hurried into the carriage and the order,
“Thirty-four Union Avenue,” given to the coachman.
Upon their arrival at the house, the two ladies were shown into the
studio, and in a moment Heywood appeared.
The girl was in the middle of the floor, turning round and round in
amazement.
“Why, they’re all Queenies, every one of them!” she exclaimed.
The man bowed, and a peculiar smile flickered across his face.
“They are, indeed, all—‘Her Majesty’s.’”
He had not time to say more, for at the first tones of the girl’s
voice, there was the crash of a falling vase and the scampering of
little feet from an inner room. Then with a spring and a bound a small
yellow kitten landed in Miss Dorothy’s outstretched arms.
There was a moment’s awkward silence. Mrs. Marsh unconsciously came to
the rescue.
“Why, it is our kitten, isn’t it? This must be where she goes so often,
daughter.”
The color deepened in the girl’s cheeks and she threw a quick glance at
Heywood.
“It evidently is, mother,” she laughed.
Mrs. Marsh turned to the artist.
“My daughter has taken a great fancy to your kitten picture at the
Exhibition, Mr. Heywood. We—er—I see that the catalogue states that it
is not for sale.”
“Indeed, madam, it _was_ my intention to keep the picture,” he began,
speaking to the mother, though looking at the daughter, “but—”—the
kitten jumped from the girl’s arms to the floor and began playing with
a tube of paint—“Well, there are circumstances,” he continued, then
paused again.
“Yes, there are circumstances,” repeated the girl softly, her eyes on
the kitten.
“Yes, circumstances which—which alter determinations,” he suddenly
concluded, following her gaze with his eyes.
Dorothy was strangely silent through the rest of the interview.
It was when the ladies were leaving that the artist placed Her Majesty
into Dorothy’s arms. His hand rested in a momentary caress on the round
yellow head, then his fingers just touched the white bow at the neck.
“The ribbon in the picture, Miss Marsh,” he began, closely studying the
girl’s face, “shall I change it to—er—white?”
“Thank you, no. I—I prefer the blue,” she answered, with a sudden flash
from her eyes and a dazzling smile.