I would like to shoot that cat, for—for——
JAMES. For doing just what you have done so many times. [_Crosses to
brother._]
GEORGE [_stammering and looking ashamed_]. Well, I’ll—I’ll——
JAMES [_looking at him with pleading eyes_]. What?
GEORGE [_looking into_ JAMES’S _face with a more open face_]. I think I
shall have to own that I have been in the wrong, and I promise never to
shoot again in mere sport. [_They shake hands earnestly and gladly._]
JAMES. That’s a noble resolve, George. As to Elsie, I’m sure she’ll
forgive you when she learns of your resolve; but mind—no mental
reservations about that cat, or——
GEORGE [_smiling_]. Or what?
JAMES [_patting_ GEORGE _on shoulder as both move to leave room_]. Why,
a cat-astrophe will be sure to follow.
GRAY’S ELEGY ON HORACE WALPOLE’S CAT.
_Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes._
’Twas on a lofty base’s side,
Where China’s gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selina reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.
Her conscious tail her joy declared;
The fair, round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,
Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
She saw, and purred applause.
Still had she gazed; but ’midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The genii of the stream:
Their scaly armor’s Tyrian hue
Through richest purple to the view
Betrayed a golden gleam.
The hapless nymph with wonder saw:
A whisker first, and then a claw;
With many an ardent wish,
She stretched in vain to reach the prize.
What female heart can gold despise?
What cat is averse to fish?
Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
Again she stretched, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between.
(Malignant Fate sat by and smiled)
The slippery verge her feet beguiled,
She tumbled headlong in.
Eight times emerging from the flood,
She mewed to every watery god
Some speedy aid to send.
No dolphin came, no Nereid stirred;
Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard:
A favorite has no friend.
From hence, ye beauties undeceived;
Know, one false step is ne’er retrieved,
And be with caution bold.
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedless hearts is lawful prize,
Nor all that glistens gold.
NAUGHTY PUSSY.
Oh, Miss Pussy—Pussy-Cat,
Naughty pussy, what is that?
A little chicken—pretty thing!
There it hangs with broken wing!
Blackie says it’s very sad;
Fluffy thinks it’s just as bad;
Brownie lifts his paws up so,
Says: “Oh, pussy—bow, bow, wow.”
WISDOM.
Our kitty found a wasp to-day,
And with it thought that she would play;
Alas, she found that pretty things
Too often carry nasty stings!
“Oh, dear!” cried kitty, with a wail,
“I’ll play in future with my tail!”
REVENGE FOR POISONING A CAT.
A French lady by the name of Mme. de Bientruffé, whose departed husband
had left her enough money to live comfortably the rest of her life,
lived in quiet and happiness until her jealous neighbors began to
envy her good luck, and wrongly to gossip about her. Among her most
implacable enemies was a certain Mme. Galuchard, who burned with an
almost Carthaginian hatred, which included not only Mme. de Bientruffé,
but also her gray Angora cat, called Minouchon. Mme. Galuchard vowed
incessantly with set teeth that some day or other she would cook their
soup for them. The piano on which her old neighbor sometimes played
threw her into fits of mad rage, which were accentuated only by the
mewing of the cat. She had already several times demanded the execution
of the animal, and every time the poor old lady had formally refused
to comply with the demand, denying the charge that her pet attracted
all the tomcats of the neighborhood. Not being able to encompass by
open means the revenge which she desired, Mme. Galuchard resolved to
accomplish it by force, and by means of the darkest machinations.
One day—entirely by chance, of course—a piece of bread crust, soaked
in milk saturated with arsenic, was thrown in the way of the innocent
Minouchon, who was wandering over the stairs, and, incapable of
suspecting the perfidiousness of the human race, she thought she had
found a tidbit, and hastened to sample it.
Alas! An hour later she died in fearful agony, and her little white
Angora soul soared straight to the regions where there is no pain, and
the remembrance of the misery of this world is effaced and vanishes in
the vibrating splendor of the sky.
Her mistress mourned her as if she had been a human being. She had a
handsome wooden box made, and painted white, in which she placed her
idolized companion, with a new ribbon round her neck, and had her
secretly buried in a corner of the nearest park.
When these sad duties were accomplished she had only one thought—how to
punish the monster who had killed her pet.
Her suspicions soon fell on the repulsive Mme. Galuchard, who appeared
to be puffed up with satisfaction over some insolent and cruel victory.
Unfortunately, the latter had no pet animal through her love of which
she might be hit; besides, Mme. de Bientruffé was too good-hearted to
avenge the death of one innocent being by killing or injuring another.
If she thought over her plan for a long time, and at last fancied that
she had found a punishment equal to the crime, she gave no sign that
such was the case. The only thing to be noticed was that she bought one
day a dozen traps—rat traps and mouse traps—which she caused to be set
in her apartments. But then, since the assassination of the poor Angora
cat had left the rodent tribe the freedom of the house, it was, of
course, necessary for her to combat the animals, and the neighbors did
not trouble themselves about it, Mme. Galuchard least of all.
A week later, however, when the latter was at home, and busy thinking
what new injury she could do Mme. de Bientruffé, a uniformed messenger
brought her a large box, and withdrew, saying that it was paid for.
Thinking that she would find some beautiful gift—a shawl, a boa,
perhaps a gown—Mme. Galuchard hastened to open the box.
Horrors! Hardly had she lifted the cover before a swarm of little gray
animals, leaping, jumping, bounding, and giving piercing squeals,
dashed across the room and crowded together in the corners, leaving the
paralyzed woman half dead with fright. At the bottom of the box was a
note signed by Mme. de Bientruffé:
“Madame: You killed my cat by giving him arsenic. As this kindness
deserves another, I make you a present of my mice.”
* * * * *
_Ques._—What proves a minister to be the most affectionate of men?
_Ans._—In every church you will find a catechist (cat he kissed).
THE RETIRED CAT.
WILLIAM COWPER.
A poet’s cat, sedate and grave
As poet well could wish to have,
Was much addicted to inquire
For nooks to which she might retire,
And where, secure as mouse in chink,
She might repose, or sit and think.
I know not where she caught the trick—
Nature, perhaps, herself had cast her
In such a mould philosophique,
Or else she learned it of her master.
Sometimes ascending debonair
An apple-tree or lofty pear,
Lodged with convenience in the fork,
She watched the gardener at his work;
Sometimes her ease and solace sought
In an old empty watering-pot;
There wanting nothing but a fan
To seem some nymph in her sedan,
Apparelled in exactest sort,
And ready to be borne to court.
But love of change, it seems, has place
Not only in our wiser race;
Cats also feel as well as we
That passion’s force, and so did she.
Her climbing, she began to find,
Exposed her too much to the wind,
And the old utensil of tin
Was cold and comfortless within;
She therefore wished, instead of those,
Some place of more serene repose,
Where neither cold might come, nor air
Too rudely wanton with her hair,
And sought it in the likeliest mode
Within her master’s snug abode.
A drawer it chanced, at bottom lined
With linen of the softest kind;
With such as merchants introduce
From India, for the ladies’ use.
A drawer impending o’er the rest,
Half open in the topmost chest,
Of depth enough, and none to spare,
Invited her to slumber there.
Puss, with delight beyond expression,
Surveyed the scene, and took possession.
Recumbent at her ease, ere long,
And lulled by her own humdrum song,
She left the cares of life behind,
And slept as she would sleep her last;
When in came, housewifely inclined,
The chambermaid, and shut it fast;
By no malignity impelled,
But all unconscious whom it held.
Awakened by the shock (cried Puss)
“Was ever cat attended thus?
The open drawer was left, I see,
Merely to prove a nest for me;
For soon as I was well composed,
Then came the maid, and it was closed.
How smooth these kerchiefs, and how sweet!
Oh, what a delicate retreat!
I will resign myself to rest,
Till Sol, declining in the west,
Shall call to supper, when, no doubt,
Susan will come and let me out.”
The evening came, the sun descended,
And Puss remained still unattended.
The night rolled tardily away—
(With her, indeed, ’twas never day);
The sprightly morn her course renewed,
The evening gray again ensued,
And Puss came into mind no more
Than if entombed the day before.
With hunger pinched, and pinched for room,
She now presaged approaching doom,
Nor slept a single wink, nor purred,
Conscious of jeopardy incurred.
That night, by chance, the poet watching,
Heard an inexplicable scratching;
His noble heart went pit-a-pat,
And to himself he said “What’s that?”
He drew the curtain at his side,
And forth he peeped, but nothing spied;
Yet, by his ear directed, guessed
Something imprisoned in the chest;
And doubtful what, with prudent care
Resolved it should continue there.
At length a voice, which well he knew,
A long and melancholy mew,
Saluting his poetic ears,
Consoled him and dispelled his fears.
He left his bed, he trod the floor,
He ’gan in haste the drawers explore;
The lowest first, and without stop
The rest in order to the top.
For ’tis a truth well known to most,
That whatsoever thing is lost,
We seek it, ere it come to light,
In every cranny but the right.
Forth skipped the cat, not now replete
As erst with any self-conceit,
And in her own fond apprehension
A theme for all the world’s attention;
But modest, sober, cured of all
Her notions hyperbolical;
And wishing, for a place to rest,
Anything rather than a chest.
Then stept the poet into bed
With this reflection in his head:
Beware of too sublime a sense
Of your own worth and consequence.
The man who dreams himself so great,
And his importance of such weight,
That all around in all that’s done
Must move and act for him alone,
Will learn in school of tribulation
The folly of his expectation.
A STRANGE MOUSE.
As in the nursery Mrs. Puss was looking out for mice,
She threw a glance upon the shelf and there saw something nice.
A little mouse among the toys was standing very still.
“I’ll catch that mouse,” said Mrs. Puss, “most certainly I will.”
Then crouching down before the shelf, her instinct to obey,
She made a sudden upward spring and pounced upon her prey.
But what was this? In sudden fear her claws let go their hold
At coming into contact with a substance hard and cold.
Then frightened Mrs. Puss turned tail and fled from out the house,
While still her prey remained unmoved—he was a clockwork mouse!
HOW TO FEED AND CARE FOR CATS.
STANLEY SCHELL.
The cat is instinctively a cleanly animal, and, when housed, should be
provided with every means to keep herself clean. Articles necessary for
a cat are:
1. A flat, galvanized pan or box, with clean sand, earth or
sawdust.
2. Clean box or basket, filled with clean straw, excelsior,
or tissue paper, in summer; cut-up (waste) paper from
printer or binder, or a large, soft flannel blanket in
winter. This basket should be kept in the sunlight.
3. Absolutely clean dishes for food.
Brush the cat daily with a soft hair-brush or with a bath-mitten.
To wash a cat (which should be done every week) prepare a dish of good,
rather thick soft soap, and have ready two foot-tubs of tepid water. If
you have a small bath-tub, place a towel in bottom of tub, stand cat
on hind legs in tub and let her front legs rest on edge of tub. Hold
her by the neck or collar with one hand, and, talking to her nicely,
begin rubbing in gently but thoroughly the soft soap, beginning at the
hind quarters and tail and gradually working up toward the ears. When
soap is well applied, move soap-bowl aside and dip your free hand in
one dish of tepid water and gently apply water to lower part of cat’s
body, and so on up the body until all the tepid water in this bowl has
been used; then use second dish of tepid water to rinse cat, using, as
before, a little at a time.
When cat is thoroughly cleaned, wrap her in a clean turkish towel and
gently pat her so as to dry her as much as possible. Remove towel and
wrap cat in a warm flannel blanket and gently rub towel over her body
to dry her still more; then put her into her basket and let her finish
the drying for herself.
If you are afraid to wash your cat, you can clean her by rubbing her
with olive or cocoanut oil, or with cream; then, after partly drying
her, put her into her basket to do the rest.
Some of the articles of food good for a cat are:
Fresh milk,
Sour milk (in case of worms),
Fresh water daily,
Oatmeal porridge,
Bread, crackers, or oatmeal biscuit, soaked in milk,
Asparagus, celery, string beans, etc., occasionally,
Raw mutton, except on day you give her liver (which should
be given at least once in ten days), or on day you give her
fish (which should be once a week).
Add boiled rice to the milk if cat has diarrhœa.
Whenever a cat is sick, if possible learn and remove cause; if not
possible, give her one of the following:
Castor oil,
Grass,
Catnip,
Flowers of sulphur, or baking soda in milk.
A COMPOSITE CAT.
MARIA J. HAMMOND.
We took our pussy’s photograph, then one of a neighbor’s cat;
And then a third, and then a fourth—a dozen pussies sat.
And then we took the photograph of every photograph.
Oh, that is often done, you know; indeed, you needn’t laugh!
We showed mamma the last effect. “Here is the type,” we said,
“Of all the dozen pussy-cats—see what a splendid head!”
“Splendid? A terror!” cried mamma—quite frank, to say the least;
“Each puss would be a truer type than this composite beast!”
KITTY.
Here, and there, and everywhere,
Climbing, running, frisking;
On the table, in the chair,
Round the parlor whisking,
Kitty seems forever flitting.
Maids and mistress scold and laugh;
Now she’s in the basket sitting;
Let me take her photograph.
Most important person, Kitty!
Equal to a baby—nearly!
Full of mischief—more’s the pity,
Everybody sees that clearly!
See! She’s on the parlor table,
Breakfasting on milk and cream—
Steals as much as she is able,
Of the rest she makes a stream.
Scrambling up the window curtain,
To the mantel-piece she leaps;
Down go ornaments, that’s certain!
Broken fragments lie in heaps.
Kitty never feels she’s sorry—
Never has the slightest shock;
So she dozes, free from worry,
Sitting calmly on the clock!
Mrs. Pussy, her dear mother,
Watches her in mute delight;
Wondering at so much bother
With her kit from morn till night.
Kitty plumps on mother’s back,
Bites her ears, and pulls her tail,
Gets a scolding and a smack,
But it’s all of no avail.
Here, and there, and everywhere,
Kitty scampers through the house;
Mother shows her how to scare,
How to kill a captured mouse.
Up the trees, and on the wall,
Heedless she of all reproof;
Deaf to the maternal squall,
She is playing on the roof.
Oh, Miss Kitty! of to-morrow
Little know you, little care;
Never dream of coming sorrow,
How you may in future fare.
Happy now, and full of frolic,
Only eat and drink and play,
Never suffer gout or colic,
Or meet misery half way.
CATS RECOGNIZED BY CAT CLUBS OF TO-DAY.
1. SHORT-HAIRED CATS
Siamese
Blue (Maltese)
Manx
Foreign
Tabby
Spotted
Bicolor
Tricolor
Tortoise Shell
Black
White
Sable
Ticks
Abyssinian.
2. LONG-HAIRED CATS
Black
White
Blue
Orange
Cream
Sable
Smoke
Tabby
Spotted
Chinchilla
Tortoise Shell
Bicolor
Tricolor.
JIM WOLFE AND THE CATS.
MARK TWAIN.
We was all boys then, an’ didn’t care for nothin’ only how to shirk
school, an’ keep up a revivin’ state of devilment all the time. This
yah Jim Wolfe I was talkin’ about was the ’prentice, an’ he was the
best-hearted feller, he was, an’ the most forgivin’ an’ onselfish, I
ever see. Wall, there couldn’t be a more bullier boy than what Jim was,
take him heow you would; and sorry enough was I when I see him for the
last time.
Me an’ Henry was allers pesterin’ him, an’ plasterin’ hoss bills on his
back, an’ puttin’ bumble-bees in his bed, an’ so on, an’ sometimes we’d
jist creowd in an’ bunk with him not’standin’ his growlin’, an’ then
we’d let on to git mad, and fight acrost him, so as to keep him stirred
up like.
He was nineteen, he was, an’ long, an’ lank, an’ bashful, an’ we was
fifteen an’ sixteen, an’ pretty tolerabal lazy an’ wuthless.
So, that night, you know, that my sister Mary giv the candy-pullin’,
they started us off to bed airly, so as the comp’ny could have full
swing; an’ we swung in on to Jim to have some fun.
Wall, our winder looked out onter the ruff of the ell, an’ about ten
o’clock a couple of ole tom-cats got to raisin’ an’ chargin’ reound on
it, an’ carryin’ on just like sin.
There was four inches of snow on the ruff, an’ it froze so there was a
right smart crust of ice on it, an’ the moon was shinin’ bright, an’ we
could see them cats jist like daylight.
First they’d stand off, e-yow-yow-yow, jist the same as if they was
a-cussin’ one another, you know, an’ bow up their backs, an’ bush up
their tails, an’ swell around, an’ spit, an’ then all of a sudden the
gray cat he’d snatch a han’ful of fur off the yaller cat’s back, an’
spin him around jist like a button on a barn door. But the yaller cat
was game, an’ he’d come an’ clinch, an’ the way they’d gouge an’ bite
an’ howl, an’ the way they’d make the fur fly, was peowerful.
Wall, Jim he jist got disgusted with the row, an’ ’lowed he’d climb
out there an’ shake ’em off’n that ruff. He hadn’t reely no notion o’
doin’ it, likely, but we everlastingly dogged him, an’ bully-ragged
him, an’ ’lowed he’d allers bragged heow he wouldn’t take a dare, an’
so on, till bimeby he jist histed the winder an’ lo an’ behold you! he
went—went exactly as he was—nothin’ on but his——_ulster_. You ought to
’a’ seen him! You ought to seen him creepin’ over that ice, an’ diggin’
his toe-nails an’ finger-nails in, fur to keep him from slippin’; an’
’bove all, you ought to seen that——_ulster_ a-flappin’ in the wind, and
them long, ridicklous shanks of his’n a-glistenin’ in the moonlight.
Them company folks was down there under the eaves, an’ the whole squad
of ’em under that ornery shed o’ dead Wash’ton Bower vines—all settin’
reound two dozzen sassers o’ bilin’-hot candy, which they’d sot in the
snow to cool. An’ they was laughin’ an’ talkin’ lively; but, bless you!
they didn’t know nothin’ ’bout the panorammy that was goin’ on over
their heads.
Wall, Jim he just went a-sneakin an’ a-sneakin’ up unbeknown to
them tom-cats—they was a-swishin’ their tails, an’ yow-yowin’ an’
threatenin’ to clinch, you know, an’ not payin’ any attention—he went
a-sneakin’ an’ a-sneakin’ right up to the comb of the ruff, till he got
in a foot an’ a half of ’em, an’ then all of a sudden he made a grab
for the yaller cat! But by gosh he missed fire an’ slipped his holt,
an’ his heels flew up, an’ he flopped on his back, an’ shot off’n that
ruff just like a dart!—went a-smashin’ an’ a-crashin’ down through
them old rusty vines, an’ landed right in the dead center of all them
comp’ny people!—sot down jist like a yearthquake in them two dozen
sassers of red-hot candy, an’ let off a howl that was hark from the
tomb! They got—wall, they left, you know. They see he warn’t dressed
for comp’ny, an’ so they left—vamoosed.
All done in a sec’nd; it was jist one little war-whoop an’ a whish o’
their dresses, an’ blame not one of ’em was in sight anywhere!
Jim he war in sight. He was gomed with the bilin’ hot molasses candy
clean down to his heels, an’ more busted sassers hangin’ to him than if
he war a Injun princess—an’ he come a-prancin’ upstairs jist a-whoopin’
an’ a-cussin’, an’ every jump he giv he shed some sassers, an’ every
squirm he fetched he dripped some candy! an’ blistered! why, bless your
soul, that poor creeter couldn’t reely set down comfortable for as much
as four weeks.
KITTEN OF THE REGIMENT.
JAMES BUCKRAM.
This kitten, sir, of the Colonel’s? I’ll tell the story.
We were at Roanoke, a month ago.
Waiting the fleet, and camped the hill-side white.
One night, when sentinels were all at post,
We lay around the fires and talked of home.
The smoke wreathed up into the still blue sky,
The wind was whist, and all the stars shone clear—
Just such a night as sleeps above the hills
Of old New England when the frosts are hoar—
Talking not aloud, but soft, as soldiers talk,
After some months o’ the rolling drum and sight
Of blood. The sentinel’s sudden challenge came:
“Halt! Who goes there?”
We all leaped up and harked.
“Only Doll Brewster, sir; I’ve brought my kitty.”
What! a child’s voice?—a child at bayonet’s point?
Shame! Let her pass.
Into the fire-light then,
Led gently by two brave, kind soldier-boys,
Blushing, with downcast eyes, and pretty lip
Half-curled to cry, hair loose and all like gold,
A kitten on her breast, walked sweet Doll Brewster.
Well, sir, the regiment came on the run;
And such a wall of ’em, all of ’em looking down
At a ten-year girl, hair loose, lip curled to cry,
And a kitten, white as snow, curled under her chin.
“Just like my sister!” cried one; “And mine!” cried another,
Till the fire began to look dim to all of us.
Then, sir, the Colonel came, with his sword a-clanking.
“What’s this?” he cried, but stopped, and his face grew soft.
“Please, sir,” said Doll, “I’ve brought you my little kitty,
It’s all I had, and Papa is sick and poor.
(Mamma, you know, is dead.) We’re Northerners, sir,
And brother died for the flag. I loved him so!
Please take my kitty; I want to give something, sir.”
The Colonel? He stooped and caught her in his arms—
Caught kitten and Doll, and kissed ’em both. He did!
And every man of us would have done the same,
And mighty glad of the chance.
There wasn’t an eye
Could hold its tears, nor cheek that had kept dry,
And if it hadn’t been for the Colonel there,
A hundred of us would have kissed the child.
That’s all the story of the kitten, sir—
The Colonel’s kitten and the regiment’s.
We wouldn’t have a hair of it hurt for gold—
Nor blood, if it came to that!
Have you a sister?
You know how a man can feel for a bit of a child
With golden hair and eyes like the heaven’s blue;
And she’d a brother who died for the old flag, too!
Oh, sir, we dreamed of home the livelong night—
Sisters and sweethearts, mothers, and wives and daughters.
Never was sweeter sleep in a soldier’s camp.
And all because that little bright-haired child,
Doll Brewster, with a kitten on her breast
Came up the hill, marched by the sentinel’s gun,
Stood in the fire-light with her golden hair
All loose, and pretty lip half-curled to cry,
And said: “It is all I had. Please take it, sir—
Please take my little kitty; I want to give something.”
THE WATCH-CAT.
ELLIOT WALKER.
Othello sits at top of cellar stairs and gazes reflectively down into
the gloom. He has washed his paws and now is reflecting. Yes, he has
caught the mouse and eaten him—a most delicious mouse—a most exciting
moment—when, after long, patient wait behind the wood-box, his prey
suddenly darted across to the refrigerator. Othello had given one quick
spring—and now he lashes his long black tail from side to side at the
recollection—it had been a great satisfaction to catch that mouse at
last.
But now the mouse is gone, and so is Othello’s occupation. For three
successive nights he had crouched in patient watching. Now the mouse
is no more, and Othello almost wishes it back in its hole, so that he
might again pass long hours in delightful anticipation. And that was
the last mouse in the cellar! No use to go down again. Nothing to do,
and he may as well go to sleep.