and her eyes—once turquoise—gleam with shifting amber lights. Her
present realm is a certain mansion. Incidentally, it is also the home
of the artist, Heywood, and of his wife, Dorothy.
[Illustration: From Painting by Frank Paton.
“Witness my act and deed.”]
[Illustration: From “Life,” by courtesy of David Smith, Artist.
(See page 135.)
HOMELESS KITTEN.]
* * * * *
_Ques._—When is a tea-pot like a kitten?
_Ans._—When you’re teasin’ it (tea’s in it).
DIRTY KITTY-CAT.
STANLEY SCHELL.
_Written expressly for this book_.
You surely have heard of the bad kitty-cat,
A source of great grief to her mother,
I’m sorry to say if you search round about,
You’ll doubtless find many another.
She did love dirt, and she did not love soap,
And she certainly hated a tubbing,
And her mother declared if she did not keep clean,
She’d give her a thorough good scrubbing.
She won’t be happy when she gets it,
No, she won’t be happy when she gets it,
Now, just take my word,
’Tis the truth you have heard,
She won’t be happy when she gets it.
Kitty cared not a bit for her dear mother’s threat,
Too often she’d heard the same story,
Till one fated day to her home she returned,
All muddy, and dirty, and gory.
She’d just had a fall, she smilingly said,
When mother remarked her condition;
Then she walked to her rug and curled down for a nap,
And did nothing to show her contrition.
Oh, she’ll be happy when she gets it,
Now, won’t she be happy when she gets it?
For I saw her mother’s eye,
As kitty gaily passed her by,
And I know she’ll be happy when she gets it.
That mud and dirt and gore
Were really the last straw to break the camel’s back,
That mother watched that kit, then looked about her quick,
And decided that the time was very ripe for her to act.
She seized that little kit by the back of the neck,
And dragged her to a fast-running stream,
All in vain were her screams,
For into that stream was she hastily and speedily tossed.
Oh, wasn’t she happy when she got it!
I told you that she’d be so;
But she swam for her dear life,
To the shore where mother stood,
And promised ever more to be good,
For she wasn’t a bit happy when she got it.
DICKENS AND HIS KITTEN.
Charles Dickens was particularly fond of cats. One little deaf kitten
had the liberty of her master’s study. She followed him about like a
dog and sat beside him while he wrote.
One evening Dickens was reading by a small table upon which stood a
lighted candle. As usual, the cat was at his elbow. Suddenly the light
went out.
Dickens was deeply interested in his book, and he proceeded to relight
the candle, stroking the cat while he did so. Afterward he remembered
that puss had looked at him somewhat reproachfully while she received
the caress. It was only when the light again became dim that the reason
of her melancholy suddenly dawned upon him.
Turning quickly, he found her deliberately putting out the candle with
her paw, and again she looked at him appealingly. She was lonesome; she
wanted to be petted, and this was her device for gaining her end.
LINCOLN’S MOTHERLESS KITTENS.
MRS. FREDERICK W. PENDER.
_Written expressly for this book_.
[During one of President Lincoln’s visits to the Army of
the Potomac three tiny kittens were crawling about the
tent. The mother had died, and the little wanderers were
expressing their grief by mewing piteously. Mr. Lincoln
took them on his lap, stroked their soft fur, and murmured,
“Poor little creatures! Don’t cry; you’ll be taken good
care of;” and, turning to an officer, said: “Colonel, I
hope you will see that these poor, little, motherless waifs
are given plenty of milk and treated kindly.” The Colonel
replied: “I will see, Mr. President, that they are taken
in charge by the cook of our mess, and are well cared
for.” Several times during his stay, Mr. Lincoln was found
fondling these kittens. He would wipe their eyes tenderly
with his handkerchief, stroke them, and listen to them
purring their gratitude to him. It was a curious sight at
an army headquarters, upon the eve of a great military
crisis in the nation’s history, to see the hand that had
signed the Emancipation Proclamation tenderly caressing
these stray kittens.]
A mother cat with kittens three,
Was such a pretty sight to see;
All curled around her, soft and warm,
Those babies knew no fear or harm.
Their noses were a rosy pink;
Their tiny eyes, they tried to blink;
While pussy sang, as mothers do,
And babies tried to join her, too.
And, then, they were so happy there
All in a tent, without a care;
And oft the mother purred with pride,
When those wee mites were by her side.
She washed their faces and their feet,
With velvet paw, for she was neat;
And taught them how to run and play,
And they grew cunning ev’ry day.
But, oh! this good old pussy died,
And those wee babies cried and cried!
They did not know that she was dead,
And sorely begged they to be fed.
They crawled around both day and night,
No mother there, how sad their plight,
And how their little hearts did beat
At ev’ry sound of coming feet.
A man was passing by the tent,
He paused, then quickly in he went.
He saw those waifs, he picked them up
And called for milk for them to sup.
Then softly murmured “not to cry,”
A friend you have now I am nigh.
He stroked their fur, and soothed their fears,
And even wiped away their tears.
Those grateful babies purred and purred,
At kindly touch and gentle word;
For Lincoln was their friend in need,
And love shown in his ev’ry deed.
And he whose pen had freed a race,
Thought petting kittens no disgrace,
Nor stooping to a thing so small,
For God had made them, one and all.
His great heart beat for them, indeed,
As much as for the race he freed;
And in the years that faster come,
All love to think of this deed done.
* * * * *
_Ques._—Why is the world like a cat’s tail?
_Ans._—Because it is fur to the end of it.
MY OL’ BLACK CAT.
FLAVIA ROSSER.
You jes’ orter to see my ol’ black cat;
’E’s soft like a cushion, but nicer’n that.
’E’s made out o’ velvet, an’ stuffed ’ith springs,
An’ ther’s sumpin’ in ’im wot whizzes an’ sings.
’Is eyes ’r round ’s marbles, an’ bigger’n any o’ mine;
They’re jes’ chock full o’ meanness, an’ wink, an’ blink, an’ shine.
We ketch ’im an’ hol’ ’im in th’ dark, an’ rub ’im—my pa an’ I,
’N’ you orter to see them ’lectric sparks wot crackle, an’ snap,
an’ fly.
Sometimes my pa’ll take that cat an’ touch ’is nose to ’is——
I wouldn’t do it ’cause it hurts, and makes pa say, “Gee wiz’!”
But sometimes pa is differunt, and them is the times wot he
Takes me out to the woodshed an’ kinder wallops me.
It gets so dark in the woodshed ’at I sneak up near th’ door,
But th’ other children won’t come out, nor play ’ith me no more.
My ma, she works ’ith her head tucked down, so’s not to see me cry;
Them times I think how sorry this fambly ’ud be if I’d die.
But yip! ’cross th’ big, black garden, my cat comes hoppity-skip,
’E never even looks to see th’ place pa throwed the whip;
’E humps ’is back up ’gainst me, an’ snuggles, and sniffs an’ sings;
An’ stickles me ’ith ’is viskers, an’ talks ’bout other things.
O’ course I love my ol’ black cat; w’y it seems to me at times
like that
I love ’im better’n I love ma, ‘n’ a good deal better’n I love pa.
* * * * *
Spell live mouse-trap with three letters.
C-A-T (cat).
THE DEAD KITTEN.
SYDNEY DAYRE.
Don’t talk to me of parties, Nan; really, I can not go.
When folks are in affliction they don’t go out, you know.
I have a new brown sash, too; it seems a pity, eh?
That such a dreadful trial should have come just yesterday.
The play-house blinds are all pulled down as dark as it can be,
It looks so very solemn and so proper, don’t you see?
And I have a piece of crape pinned on my dolly’s hat;
Tom says it is ridiculous for only just a cat.
But boys are all so horrid! They always, every one,
Delight in teasing little girls and kitties, “just for fun.”
The way he used to pull her tail—it makes me angry now—
And scat her up the cherry-tree to make the darling “meow.”
I’ve had her all the summer. One day, away last spring,
I heard a frightful barking, and I saw the little thing
In the corner of a fence; ’twould have made you laugh outright
To see how every hair stood out, and how she tried to fight.
I shooed the dog away, she jumped upon my arm;
The pretty creature knew I wouldn’ do her any harm;
I hugged her close, and carried her to mamma, and she said
She should be my own Kitty, if I’d see that she was fed.
A cunning little dot she was, with silky, soft, gray fur;
She’d be for hours on my lap, and I could hear her purr,
And then she’d frolic after when I pulled a string about,
Or try to catch her tail or roll a marble in and out.
Such comfort she has been to me I’m sure no one can tell,
Unless some other little girl who loves her pussy well.
I’ve heard about a Maltese cross; but my dear little Kit
Was always sweet and amiable, and never cross a bit!
But, oh, last week I missed her! I hunted all around;
My darling little pussy cat was nowhere to be found,
I knelt and whispered softly, when nobody could see:
“Take care of little Kitty, _please_ and bring her back to me.”
I found her lying yesterday behind the lower shed;
I thought my heart was broken when I found that she was dead.
Tom promised me another one, but even he can see
No other Kitty ever will be just the same to me.
I can’t go to your party, Mamie. Macaroons, you say?
And ice-cream? I know I ought to try and not give way;
And I feel it would be doing wrong to disappoint you so,
Well, if I’m equal to it by to-morrow, I may go.
MY CAT AND DOG.
MARORI.
I have a cat; she’s as black as my hat.
Fur fifty times finer than silk,
And what e’er is occurring, she always is purring,
Especially over her milk.
And I have a dog, too, a wonderful dog,
Nobility beams in his eye;
And, early or late, for his master he’ll wait—
None such friends as dear doggie and I.
His dear, honest nose he shoves into my hand,
Yet growls if a rogue comes in view;
And his great wagging tail makes one quite understand
He’s a watchman both fearless and true.
A trio of jolly companions are we,
Together we pleasantly jog;
Indulge in no riot, but live very quiet—
Myself and my cat and my dog.
THE LOST MITTENS.
[Illustration]
Three little kittens lost their mittens,
And they began to cry,
“O mother dear,
We very much fear
That we have lost our mittens.”
“Lost your mittens!
You naughty kittens!
Then you shall have no pie.”
“Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.”
“No, you shall have no pie.”
“Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.”
The three little kittens found their mittens,
And they began to cry,
“O mother dear,
See here, see here,
See! we have found our mittens.”
“Put on your mittens,
You silly kittens,
And you may have some pie.”
“Purr-r, purr-r, purr-r,
Oh, let us have the pie.
Purr-r, purr-r, purr-r.”
The three little kittens put on their mittens,
And soon ate up the pie;
“O mother dear,
We greatly fear
That we have soiled our mittens.”
“Soiled your mittens!
You naughty kittens!”
Then they began to sigh,
“Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.”
Then they began to sigh,
“Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.”
The three little kittens washed their mittens
And hung them out to dry;
“O mother dear,
Do you not hear,
That we have washed our mittens?”
“Washed your mittens!
Oh, you’re good kittens.
But I smell a rat close by!”
“Hush, hush! mee-ow, mee-ow!
We smell a rat close by!
Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow!”
KITTYCAT AND THE MILKMAN.
Mr. Milkman, please to stop!
Fill my jug up to the top;
Half for mother, half for me,
Fresh and sweet milk let it be.
Mother told me, too, to say,
“Please to call here twice to-day.”
TWO HEARTS AND A KITTEN.
MABEL PREECE.
Timothy Dale, the blacksmith, sat beside the kitchen table in his tiny
cottage, laboriously penning his first love letter. He destroyed sheet
after sheet of writing paper in disgust at his misshapen letters and
poor composition, until only one remained.
“It’s got ter come right on this ’ere one, or it can’t be done at all.
The store’s closed fer th’ night an’ I ain’t got no more paper.”
“Dere Cynthia,” it read, “can you mete me bi the mill to morrow at 3. i
luv you and wood like to no if you do the same and will marrie me plese
not to forgit at 3 yours trooly Tim Dale.”
Cynthia Warden turned up the lamp and read the letter with no great
surprise, for Timothy was not an adept in concealing his feelings. But
Cynthia had been at boarding-school, and the honest but faulty epistle
somewhat jarred on her. And then there was Walter Hughes.
Walter Hughes was a traveling salesman and at times visited his uncle,
old Lawyer Hughes, the richest man in the place. At first the visits
were infrequent, prompted by duty and the thought of “uncle’s little
pile in the bank;” but after meeting Cynthia Warden he seemed to form
an attachment for the village and spent much time there. His city-bred
airs and refinement won Cynthia’s regards, and when he gave accounts of
his thrilling experiences, her heart warmed to this hero of her girlish
dreams. As she stood gazing out of her window, she almost laughed aloud
at the thought of marrying Timothy Dale.
“Of course, it’s absurd. I might have thought him all very well had not
Walter come;—but now it is out of the question.”
As Walter Hughes walked to Cynthia’s home the following afternoon his
thoughts were extremely pleasant.
“The little game is progressing very favorably,” he murmured, rubbing
his soft, flabby hands together in delight. “The girl is awfully
smitten with me. She’ll come in for a goodly share of old Warden’s
savings, and I might do worse than to marry her.”
He found Cynthia standing by the gate waiting for him.
“Come for a walk,” he suggested. “Cynthia,” he said, when they had
exhausted the minor topics of the day, “I love you, and I believe you
are not wholly indifferent to me. Will you marry me?”
Cynthia turned her eyes away that he might not see her great happiness,
and as she did so they fell on an object by the roadside.
It was a kitten that some cruel boys had stoned. With a cry of pity she
drew her hand from Hughes’s grasp and started toward the kitten, but he
pulled her roughly back.
“Never mind the fool cat, Cynthia. What if it is hurt? I guess I’m of
more importance than a kitten. Answer my question: will you marry me?”
It was as if a veil had been torn from her eyes. His cold,
unsympathetic words, and still more, his pitiless face, betrayed the
cruel, selfish nature of the man, and Cynthia’s face flushed with
indignation and shame at the thought of having cared for such as he.
“No,” she responded quietly, but firmly, “I will not.”
He turned on his heel and left her standing there, and she buried her
face in her hands, shuddering at the horror of what she had escaped.
A cheery voice roused her from her reverie.
“Well, Cynthia, girl, here you are! I’ve been looking by the mill for
you, but as you warn’t there I thought I’d take a turn up this ’ere way
an’ maybe I’d find—why, look at that pore little cat! Now, I’d jest
like ter know who could ha’ done that! Wouldn’t I larrup their hide,
though?”
He picked the kitten up and bound its wounded foot with his coarse red
pocket-handkerchief. The hands of the burly fellow became as tender as
a woman’s.
“I’ll jest take it home an’ fix it up,” he said carelessly, slightly
ashamed of showing his soft-heartedness. “It’ll be sort ’er company
’bout the house. An’ now, Cynthia, I jest wanted ter know ef you’d do
what I said in th’ letter—marry me—you know. I ain’t got much but a
heart full of honest love ter give you, girl, but I’ll do my best by
you an’ make you happy. I know I ain’t much, but—but—”
It was the longest speech the poor fellow had ever made and he broke
down confusedly. But Cynthia, looking up at him with glistening eyes,
said softly: “Will I marry you, Tim? Yes—with all my heart.”
Then, as with a low exclamation of surprise and joy he turned quickly
toward her,—
“Look out!” she cried, laughing through the tears sparkling in her
eyes, “Look out, or you’ll drop the kitten!”
LITTLE TURNCOATS.
GEORGIA A. PECK.
As passed the rector of All Saints’ one day,
Obsequiously an old man crossed his way,
And with “Good-mornin’, sir!” his head laid bare;
Then, steadying his basket with all care,
He turned its cover back to show within
Three sleeping kittens, saying, with a grin,
“I have some fine Episcopal kittens here
That you might like to buy,—they won’t come dear.”
“Look here, old man!” called out a passer-by,
“I see what you’re about, with half an eye!
You tried to sell that lot to me last night
As good, clean, Baptist kittens.”
“You are right,
My friend, and they were Baptist then, all three,
But ’twas before their eyes were opened! See?”
THE MISCHIEVOUS CAT.
MRS. E.J. CORBETT.
Little Pussy Pink-toes sat in the sun,
Blinking,
And thinking
What next could be done?
There wasn’t a mouse
To be found in the house,
Nor even a rat in the cellar—not one.
And Pussy said, “Mi-ow! I wish I could find
A nice bit of mischief just to my mind.”
Around the corner came Johnny McGee,
Aged four,
And no more,
Plump and rosy, and pleasant to see.
Not a moment he tarried,
But carefully carried
A pitcher of milk for his grandmother’s tea.
“Ho! ho!” cried the cat—
“I’d like to taste that;
I’ll frighten young Johnny, and then he will flee.”
So this wicked pussy-cat quickly uprose,
Raised her tail
Like a sail,
Showed the sharp claws in her little pink toes,—
And grew bigger and bigger,
A terrible figure—
Poor Johnny was frightened, as you may suppose.
And her tail, how it swelled—
And her voice, how she yelled—
’Twas so dreadful that poor little Johnny stood there
Quaking and shaking with fright and despair.
Pussy’s hair stood right up—her eyes were so green—
Her jaws,
And her claws,
Made the ugliest picture that ever was seen—
“I’m afraid—of that cat—” sobbed Johnny—“boo-hoo!”
Then down, with a smash,
The pitcher went—crash!
And poor Johnny McGee
Had lost all the milk for his grandmother’s tea.
So the milk was all spilled, and Pussy got none,
Of course;
She was cross,
As she sat there washing her face in the sun.
“Not even a taste
Of that milk—what a waste!”
“It wasn’t,” said Pussy, “the least bit of fun!”
DOWN TO ST. IVES.
As I went down to St. Ives
I met seven wives.
Each wife had seven sacks;
Each sack, seven cats;
Each cat, seven kits;
Kits, cats,
Sacks, wives,
How many went down to St. Ives?
_Ans._—One; the rest came from there.
* * * * *
She saw them weigh the baby, and nothing then would do,
But she must knot a handkerchief and weigh her kitty, too.
“Oh, mamma, come and look!” she cried; “you mustn’t speak or laugh!
My darling little kitty weighs a dollar and a half!”
KITTY AT SCHOOL.
KATE ULMER.
Come, Kitty dear, I’ll tell you what
We’ll do this rainy day;
Just you and I, all by ourselves,
At keeping school, will play.
The teacher, Kitty, I will be;
And you shall be the class;
And you must close attention give,
If you expect to pass.
Now, Kitty, “C-A-T” spells cat.
Stop playing with your tail!
You are so heedless, I am sure
In spelling you will fail.
“C-A” oh, Kitty! do sit still!
You must not chase that fly!
You’ll never learn a single word,
You do not even try.
I’ll tell you what my teacher says
To me most ev’ry day—
She says that girls can never learn
While they are full of play.
So try again—another word;
“L-A-C-E” spells “lace.”
Why, Kitty, it is not polite
In school to wash your face!
You are a naughty, naughty puss,
And keep you in I should;
But, then, I love you, dear, so much
I don’t see how I could!
O, see! the sun shines bright again!
We’ll run out doors and play;
We’ll leave our school and lessons for
Another rainy day.
[Illustration: I WISH IT WAS OVER!]
[Illustration: (See page 180.)
THE SOCIAL TEA.]
BOY BLUE AND HIS GUN.
NELLIE M. GARABRAUT.
“Rub-a-dub-dub,”
Said the boy in blue,
“I have got a big gun
And I will shoot you.”
“Oh, don’t shoot me,”
Said the little brown dog;
“Go down to the mill-pond,
And shoot at a frog.”
“Oh, no, no!”
Said the boy in blue;
“I’ve made up my mind
That I will shoot you.”
“I can’t shoot frogs,
They won’t stand still,
Ker-splash! they go under
The wheel of the mill.”
“I shan’t stand still,
No more than the frog,
So you can’t shoot me,”
Said the little brown dog.
He ran in a hole
Right under the house
And lay there as still—
As still as a mouse.
“Well, I don’t care,”
Said the boy in blue,
“I’ll shoot a robin, and
Bring him down, too.”
“Do,” cried the cat;
“That will be nice,
And I will crunch
All his bones in a trice.”
The blue boy took aim,
But aimed not aright,
Or like cock-sparrow
He shot in a fright.
The robin he missed
But killed the old cat;
His grandmother gave him
A thrashing for that.
* * * * *
A certain room has eight corners; in every corner sits a cat, on every
cat’s tail sits a cat, and before each cat is a cat. How many cats in
the room? _Ans._—Eight cats.
WHY THE CAT ALWAYS FALLS UPON HER FEET.
_A Legend._
LOUISE JAMISON.
One day a magician was traveling through a great forest. He was a very
good magician, and always ready to help any creature in need.
After he had gone a long way through the forest, he was very tired;
and, as the sun was growing hot, he lay down at the foot of a big tree,
and was soon asleep. While he slept, a great serpent came softly out of
the thicket, and, as soon as it saw the man, it began to hiss to itself:
“Ah, ha! ah, ha, I’ve got him now! He’ll not spoil my supper again in a
hurry. I could have eaten that cat last night if he had not driven me
away. I’ll kill him for it now.”
So it crept nearer and nearer, and the magician slept on, without any
thought of danger.
But it happened that the cat was watching. She was up in the tree, and
she had not forgotten how the magician had saved her from this cruel
serpent.
The serpent was very large and she was only a small cat, and she was
terribly afraid, but she meant to save her good friend if she could.
So, just as the serpent was about to spring, she leaped down upon his
back and stuck her paws deep into his head.
Wild with pain and anger, he tried to reach her with his deadly fangs,
but she was always too quick for him, and she used her claws to such
good purpose that her enemy soon lay dead.
Then she was so tired after her hard struggle that she had to lie down
herself.
The magician found her beside him when he awoke, and when he saw the
dead serpent he knew his life had been saved by his brave little
friend.
“Dear little cat,” he said, “what can I do to show how much I thank
you? Your eyes are quick to see, and your ears quick to hear; and for
running your feet have been made swift, but one thing I can give you.
All men shall know you as their friend, and your home shall be with
them, and for your sake all cats shall leap where they will, and fall
ever upon their feet.”
DAISY’S THANKSGIVING.
Now kitten-cat, Daisy, just hear me,
And ’tend to each word that I say,
And don’t frisk around so ’bout nothing,
To-morrow ’ll be Thanksgiving Day.
And if you don’t chew up your ribbon,
Nor dabble it round in the snow,
But behave all the time, just as pretty,
You’ll have something splendid, you know.
There’s another thing, Daisy, I’ll tell you,
Aunt Mary is coming to-day,
To show us a sweet, darling baby,
That’s named just like me—Allie May.
And if it should happen to squeeze you,
Or pull your long tail the least mite,
You are not to scratch her nor bite her,
For that wouldn’t be just polite.
We must do all we can that’ll please her,
She being our company so;
Besides, such a new little baby
Ain’t had time to learn better, you know.
So, if she does tease you, dear Daisy,
Though, of course, I don’t say it is right,
Please just get away from her easy,
Not scratching the least little mite.
I s’pose you don’t know ’bout Thanksgiving,
’Cause you haven’t had one before;
I’ll tell you: there’ll be a big turkey,
And pie made of chickens—and more.
And puddings all full of sweet raisins,
And jelly and jam—such a treat!
And if you’re a good kitten, Daisy,
You’ll get a whole plateful to eat.
THE NEWSBOY’S CAT; OR THE FAM’LY MAN.
E.T. CORBETT.
Want any paper, Mister?
Wish you’d buy ’em of me—
Ten years old, an’ a fam’ly,
An’ bizness dull, you see,
Fact, Boss! There’s Tom, an’ Tabby,
An’ Dad, an’ Mam, an’ Mam’s cat,
None on ’em earnin’ money—
What do you think of that?
Couldn’t Dad work? Why, yes, Boss,
He’s working for Gov’ment now—
They give him his board for nothin’—
All along of a drunken row.
An’ Mam? Well, she’s in the poorhouse—
Been there a year or so;
So I’m takin’ care of the others,
Doin’ as well as I know.