turned round in the keyhole by itself! How funny! He will put up his
paw and play with it if it does that again. The door is opening and
cold air is coming in, and something else coming in, too—two such
creatures as you never have seen before—muffled creatures, with queer
black things over their faces and queer things in their hands. Yes,
they must be men, but very queerly dressed, and they cast searching
glances in every direction. What a queer little lamp they have
lighted—just a glare of light, then darkness, then light again that
moves here and there. Oh, they are going down cellar, to look in the
refrigerator, probably, or possibly to shake the furnace. That is all
the master goes down cellar for.
The cat crawled from his hiding-place to top of cellar stairs and again
gazed into the gloom. What! Are they talking about that beautiful
roast, and the pudding and the cold mashed potatoes? They are going
too far; they might have the potatoes, but the cold meat—that is too
much! He will tell his master, and the master will make them give it
back, even as he had made Othello give up the young robin, by choking
and blows. Yes, he shall know of this at once. But how to reach him?
The pantry doors to kitchen and dining-room are always locked now, ever
since the parrot came. Ah, he understands it now! Those creatures in
the cellar are friends of the parrot—probably invited by him to come
and gobble everything. That is the parrot all over, wanting everything
and getting it, and Othello, who formerly had the run of the house, and
went regularly to wake the master every morning, is now relegated to
the kitchen, with the pantry door locked.
Othello grins at recollection of the reason for locking that door.
When the parrot had arrived six months before and cast a shadow over
Othello’s position, hatred and jealousy filled his feline bosom. To be
sure, the parrot was talented and could say real words like people,
and Othello admired that, but his disposition was mean, and after he
had startled Othello by screeching “Scat!” and “Get out, Blacky!”
something had to be done. And now it pleases him much to remember the
scientific play of his claws on the parrot’s head and neck, and the way
the feathers flew, and the appalling screams. Well, Ephraim—that is the
parrot’s name—had no business to insult him. He began it by putting
his head through the bars of the cage and rasping out “Niggerhead!
Niggerhead! I chew niggerhead!” Ephraim had come over in a sailing
vessel, and the sailors had taught him many evil words and phrases. So
Othello had reached out one paw invitingly and Ephraim had struck at
it viciously. But Othello had pulled the paw back quickly and brought
the other one down on Ephraim’s head and held it there while he raked
him with the other. And all the people in the house had come running,
and he was cuffed and driven down-stairs.
The men in the cellar are coming toward the stairs now, and Othello
retires under the stove. Now they are in the kitchen again and have
put the food on the dresser. Othello would like some of that cold
meat—it smells delicious—but he fears to come out from under the stove.
He is suspicious. He will wait. What _are_ they doing? Unlocking the
door to the pantry. How excited they seem! Now they are unlocking
the dining-room door. What _are_ they after? He crawls quietly after
them—they cannot see him in the shadow, but _he_ can see everything.
Oh, they have laid a great nasty bag on the dining-room table, and
they are taking from the sideboard all of those bright things that the
family eat with and take such care of, and are putting them into the
bag very carefully. There goes little Jenny’s mug—the one she lets
him have milk from. No, that will not do. No meat, no milk! Now is
his chance. From the dining-room to the hall, then up-stairs to the
master’s room. How very easy, all in a minute!
What did that man say?—“Get the swag ready and leave it on the table;
we’ll step back and eat. Don’t move it now—it may rattle. We’ll carry
it off when we start—good haul!” Othello pricks up his ears. “Carry it
off!” Yes, he understands that. He has been cuffed often for carrying
off things—chops and slices of meat. These horrible men shall be
cuffed, too—the master will do it. Creep along, Othello, creep along!
Up the stairs now, down the hallway, into the master’s room. You will
rouse him and save what you little know the value of. Jump on him,
scratch him—anything! You have done it. He is wide awake now and
trembling; is out of his warm bed, and seems to understand. There is a
bright, shining thing in his hand and his face is white and set.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Why are you, brave Othello, cowering at top
of the attic stairs? Two short seconds ago you were on the master’s
bed, purring loudly. What is that awful rush below, out of the kitchen
where the clock ticks, out across the porch, across the lawn, into the
road? Bang! Bang! outside the house, then the sound of rapid running.
Why, what is it, Othello? What are people screaming for, and why is
little Jenny crying, why is Ephraim screeching atrociously, and why are
you, with your tail twice its natural size, wailing dismally? Fright,
Othello, general fright—and you brought it about with your notions of
the rights of property. Quiet down now and crawl down-stairs to see
what you get.
They are gathering in the dining-room, with all the lights going full
blast, as you, Othello, sneak down-stairs wondering what it all means.
The master has just come back from the outside, quite pale and shaky.
“Fired six times and never hit one of them,” he says. “Did they get
anything?” And the mistress, who has emptied the dirty bag on the
table, replies, “Not a thing, William.”
They are all quiet now, especially Othello, who feels the queer
experience deeply, and wonders how much abuse he will get when he is
discovered hiding by the sideboard. The master spies him, and lifts him
tenderly, with words of such affectionate appreciation that Othello
wonders still more, but sinks his claws gently through the thin
covering and purrs. “Ow!” says the man, and quickly extricates them.
He strokes the cat very gently, and turning to his wife, says, “Maria,
let’s get rid of that parrot. From this time forward the cat shall have
first place. I have thought lately of buying a watch-dog, but it is not
necessary. I’d rather have a watch-cat like Othello.”
* * * * *
_Ques._—Why does a cat look on first one side and then on another when
she enters a room?
_Ans._—Because she can’t look on both sides at the same time.
TOM.
M.T. HART.
“Dear Tom is dead, please come to-night!”
She telegraphed. With keen delight
I read the message.
Roses for consolation meant
I sent, but oh, with what content
I paid expressage!
Don’t think me heartless, till you know
Death has relieved me of a foe.
Tom was my rival.
When he began to pine away,
I scarcely was the one to pray
For his survival.
He’s hated me since first we met;
He was a most pronounced brunette,
While I am fair.
He was more favored of the two;
Of soft caresses very few
Fell to my share.
But now he’s dead, I feel no spite.
I hope his harp is tuned all right,
His robe a fit, his halo bright
With gems galore.
And just this once do I confess
The reason of my happiness—
Because on earth there’s one cat less,
In heaven one more.
MY PET CAT.
I want to tell you about my pet cat. I am sure it will interest you. He
is marked like a tiger, with white paws and a white pompon in the end
of his tail. I have never seen or heard of a cat who eats the things he
does. One day he knocked down a bottle of olives from the pantry shelf
and ate four. Other things he likes are red beets and baked beans;
sometimes he even prefers them to meat.
One of his bad habits is to lie in my flower garden. I have it in a bay
window, where the sun shines on it all the morning. As it is nice and
warm there, I have caught him a number of times trying to sleep among
the flowers.
He isn’t a bit afraid of dogs; indeed, they are more afraid of him, for
he often chases them out of the yard.
One morning last winter I could not find him anywhere. At last I heard
a faint mew. I listened, and heard it again, this time fainter than
before. I looked all over. At last I thought of the oven in the kitchen
stove. I opened it, and out walked my pet, more dead than alive. He
must have gone in when no one was looking, and so had the door shut on
him.
One place he enjoys to get in is the clean clothes basket, and it is
needless to say that the cook chases him. One day, after she had ironed
a whole basket of clothes he jumped in the basket and went to sleep. He
hasn’t gone into the kitchen since. I think he knows the reason why.
He hates to hear anyone whistle. When I begin he sits on his hind legs
and cries until I stop, sometimes even jumping into my lap and begging
me by rubbing against my arm.
We have another cat, who is kept in the kitchen. My pet seems to hate
him. I believe he does not think the other cat half as good as he is.
They are continually fighting, for “the kitchen cat,” as I call him,
tries to take my cat down a peg or two.
CATCHING THE CAT.
MARGARET VANDEGRIFT.
The mice had been in council;
They all looked haggard and worn,
For the state of things was too terrible
To be any longer borne.
Not a family out of mourning—
There was crape on every hat.
They were desperate; something must be done,
And done at once, to the cat.
An elderly member rose and said,
“It might prove a possible thing
To set the trap which they set for us—
That one with the awful spring!”
The suggestion was applauded
Loudly, by one and all,
Till somebody squeaked, “That trap would be
About ninety-five times too small!”
Then a medical mouse suggested—
A little under his breath—
They should confiscate the very first mouse
That died a natural death;
And he’d undertake to poison the cat,
If they’d let him prepare that mouse.
“There’s not been a natural death,” they shrieked,
“Since the cat came into the house!”
The smallest mouse in the council
Arose with a solemn air,
And, by way of increasing his stature,
Rubbed up his whiskers and hair.
He waited until there was silence
All along the pantry shelf,
And then he said with dignity,
“_I_ will catch the cat myself!
“When next I hear her coming,
Instead of running away,
I shall turn and face her boldly,
And pretend to be at play:
She will not see her danger,
Poor creature! I suppose;
But as she stoops to catch _me_,
I shall catch _her_ by the nose!”
The mice began to look hopeful,
Yes, even the old ones, when
A gray-haired sage said slowly,
“And what will you do with her then?”
The champion, disconcerted,
Replied with dignity, “Well,
I think, if you’ll all excuse me,
’Twould be wiser not to tell.
“We all have our inspirations—”
This produced a general smirk,
“But we are not all at liberty
To explain just how they’ll work.
I ask you, then, to trust me:
You need have no further fears—
Consider our enemy done for!”
The council gave three cheers.
“I do believe she’s coming!”
Said a small mouse, nervously.
“Run, if you like,” said the champion,
“But _I_ shall wait and see!”
And sure enough, she was coming;
The mice all scampered away
Except the noble champion,
Who had made up his mind to stay.
The mice had faith—of course, they had—
They were all of them noble souls,
But a sort of general feeling
Kept them safely in their holes
Until some time in the evening;
Then the boldest ventured out,
And saw, happily in the distance,
The cat prance gayly about!
There was dreadful consternation,
Till someone at last said, “Oh,
He’s not had time to do it—
Let us not prejudge him so!”
“I believe in him, of course, I do,”
Said the nervous mouse, with a sigh,
“But the cat looks uncommonly happy,
And I wish I _did_ know why!”
The cat, I regret to mention,
Still prances about that house,
And no message, letter, or telegram
Has come from the champion mouse.
The mice are a little discouraged;
The demand for crape goes on;
They feel they’d be happier if they knew
Where the champion mouse had gone.
This story has a moral—
It is very short, you see,
So no one, of course, will skip it,
For fear of offending me.
It is well to be courageous,
And valiant, and all that,
But—if you are mice—you’d better think twice
Before you catch the cat.
[Illustration:
VIRGINIA BELL (two years old),
Who posed with TOOTSY WOOTSY.]
[Illustration: TOOTSY WOOTSY AT THE SEASHORE.]
QUOUSQUE TANDEM, O CATILINE?
A.L. FRISBIE.
O ye feline brutes erotic,
Is there not some strong narcotic,
Some refined and rare hypnotic,
Some potent spell,
Soothing catnip, helleborus,
Anything to still the chorus
Of your piercing, wild, sonorous
Nocturnal yell?
Stirring wrath in souls pacific,
Thwarting agents soporific,
Blighting visions beatific
With horrid din;
Moving even spirits saintly
To utter, _almost_, low and faintly,
Words divided very scantly
From words of sin!
O ye brutes, my windows under,
Me and sleep ye widely sunder.
O for power, for once, to thunder
Annihilation!
O for boot-jacks half a hundred—
O for hand that never blundered,
Hurling, while the neighbors wondered,
Pacification!
O for catapults to smite ye!
O let catalepsy blight ye!
All catastrophes invite ye,
Cataclysmal!
Cataracts be on ye falling!
Curse, concatenate, appalling,
Stop your ghoulish caterwauling,
Paroxysmal!
WHAT I WANT.
DAVID L. PROUDFIT.
I want—I don’t know what I want; I’m tired of everything;
I’d like to be a queen or something—no, a bearded king,
With iron crown and wolfish eyes, and manners fierce and bold,
Or else a plumed highwayman or a paladin of old.
We girls are such poor creatures, slaves of circumstance and fate,
Denied the warrior’s glory and the conqueror’s splendid state;
And, puss, you are so mortal slow; I wish you could be changed
Into a catamount, with tastes quite violent and deranged.
I’d like an earthquake, that I would—O puss, I tell you what,
Some planets have two suns and different colors, too, at that;
Now there would be variety; two mornings every day—
One green or brown, for instance, and the other crimson, say.
What splendid lights, what curious shades, what transformation scenes!
What queer surprises, puss, just think, what lovely pinks and greens!
How funny Gus would look! He is so poky and so flat!
But such complexions! After all, I shouldn’t fancy that.
I’ll never marry Gus, of that I’m very sure, at least;
I’d sooner be a bandit’s bride, united by a priest.
Oh, there you are, sir! No, indeed! I’ll not be kissed at all!
No, sir. I’ve changed my mind; we _won’t_ be married in the fall.
Now _do_ be still! I’ve changed my mind. My privilege, I believe—
Oh, horrible! What’s this? A daddy-long-legs on my sleeve!
Oh, Gus, come quick! I’m deadly faint! Do take the thing away!
Yes, yes, I’ll promise _anything_! I’ll marry you to-day!
UNGRATEFUL CAT.
No, pussy, you naughty, ungrateful old cat,
To scratch me, because I just gave you a pat
When you would not draw dolly across the floor.
I had harnessed you tight with a scarlet cord,
And had promised to give you some cream as reward
And a couple of sardines—what could I do more?
Now, dolly’s as light as a feather, you know;
And the carriage almost of itself will go;
Yet you would not pull it, and tried to get loose,
And entangled yourself, and the carriage upset,
And then the wheel broke, and you got in a pet.
Now, for your behavior there was no excuse.
Just see how my finger is bleeding! Oh, dear!
How it hurts! It will not get well soon, I fear.
Now, are you not sorry I am in such pain?
No sardines or cream you shall have, puss, from me;
And a very long time you will find it will be
Before I play horses with you, puss, again.
IN LIQUOR.
A mouse, one day on frolic bent,
About a brewery roaming,
Into a beer vat sudden went,
And called, with sighs and groaning,
Upon a cat, which passed that way,
Though to its sight most hateful:
“Sweet puss, come, lift me out, I pray,
And I’ll prove ever grateful.”
“How would it help you in the least,”
Replied Grimalkin, grinning,
“When I at once would on you feast?—
And where would be the sinning?”
“And better so than here to drown,
Dear puss! So help me speedy,
And I’ll to you my life pay down,
And will not call you greedy.
“Quick! or you will be all too late!
I perish—I am freezing!”
Puss helped him out; but, luckless fate!
The beer fumes set her sneezing.
The mouse she dropped, which sped away,
And in its safe hole nestled.
Puss, disappointed of her prey,
With craft and anger wrestled.
“Come from that hole,” she cried, “and roam
With me in regions upper.”
“Excuse me, puss; I’ll keep at home.
Go elsewhere seek your supper.”
“You cheating rascal! Think, O think!
You promised I should eat you,
If I would help you. Now you shrink,—
Come out! let me entreat you.”
“I know I promised,” mousie said,
“Yet wonder not, nor bicker;
For when such promise it was made,
You know, _I was in liquor_!”
POET’S LAMENTATION FOR LOSS OF HIS CAT.
JOSEPH GREEN.
[Dr. Mather Byles (Boston, 1706-1788) an eloquent,
realistic, witty and genial preacher, had a favorite cat
called The Muse. After her death, the doctor’s friend,
Joseph Green, wrote the following elegy.]
Oppressed with grief, in heavy strains I mourn
The partner of my studies from me torn.
How shall I sing? What numbers shall I choose?
For in my favorite cat I’ve lost my Muse.
No more I feel my mind with raptures fired,
I want those airs that Puss so oft inspired;
No crowding thoughts my ready fancy fill,
Nor words run fluent from my easy quill.
She in the study was my constant mate;
There we together many evenings sate.
Whene’er I felt my towering fancy fail,
I stroked her head, her ears, her back and tail,
And as I stroked improved my dying song
From the sweet note of her melodious tongue:
Her purs and mews so evenly kept time,
She purred in metre, and she mewed in rhyme.
Ofttimes when lost amidst poetic heat,
She leaping on my knee there took her seat;
There saw the throes that racked my laboring brain,
And licked and clawed me to myself again.
Then, friends, indulge my grief, and let me mourn,
My cat is gone, ah! never to return!
Now in my study all the tedious night,
Alone I sit, and unassisted write;
Look often round (O greatest cause of pain!)
And view the numerous labors of my brain;
Those quires of words arranged in pompous rhyme,
Which braved the jaws of all-devouring time,
Now undefended, and unwatched by cats,
Are doomed a victim to the teeth of rats.
“WE’VE LOST OUR JOB.”
STANLEY SCHELL.
_Action Poem for Two Children._
_Written especially for this book._
We’ve lost our job, and can’t you see
The tears we both are shedding free?
No dainty rats or mice to get:
They’re killed to-day by rat biscuit.
Why are we wronged so, can you tell?
I’m sure you all do know so well
The fun we’ve lost, and good work too,
By catching rats and mice a few.
Do give us both another chance,
To catch your mice and make them dance;
I’m sure you all know just how hard
It is for us to lose our job.
SOUTHEY’S CATS WRITE THEIR MASTER.
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
[Southey conferred honor upon his cats according to their
services. He raised one to the highest rank in peerage,
promoting him through all its degrees by the following
titles: His Serene Highness the Archduke Rumpelstilzchen,
Marquis Macbum, Earl of Tomlemagne, Baron Raticide,
Waowhler, and Skaratch.]
_Dear Master_:
Let our boldness not offend,
If a few lines of duteous love we send;
Nor wonder that we deal in rhyme, for long
We’ve been familiar with the founts of song.
Nine thorougher tabbies you could rarely find
Than those who laurels round your temples bind;
For how with less than nine lives to their share
Could they have lived so long on poet’s fare?
Athens surnamed them from their mousing powers,
And Rome from that harmonious _mu_ of ours,
In which the letter _u_ (as we will trouble you
To say to Todd) should supersede _e w_.
This by the way. We now proceed to tell
That all within the bounds of home are well;
All but your faithful cats, who only pine;
The cause your conscience may too well divine.
Ah! little do you know how swiftly fly
The venomed darts of feline jealousy;
How delicate a task to deal it is
With a grimalkin’s sensibilities.
When Titten’s tortoise fur you smoothed with bland
And coaxing courtesies of lip and hand,
We felt as if (poor Puss’ constant dread)
Some schoolboy stroked us both from tail to head.
Nor less we suffered while with sportive touch
And purring voice you played with gray-backed Gutch.
And then with eager step you left your seat
To get a peep at Richard’s snow-white feet,
Himself all black; we longed to stop his breath
With something like his royal namesake’s death.
If more such scenes our frenzied fancies see,
Resolved we hang from yonder maple tree—
And were not that a sad catastrophe!
Oh! then return to your deserted lake,
Dry eyes that weep, and comfort hearts that ache.
Our mutual jealousies we both disown,
Content to share rather than lose a throne.
The parlor——Rumpel’s undisputed reign,
Hurly’s——the rest of all your wide domain.
Return, return, dear Bard,
Restore the happy days that once have been;
Resign yourself to Home, the Muse, and us.
Scratched
RUMPELSTILZCHEN,
HURLYBURLYBUSS.
LITTLE CAT MADE FUR FLY.
She was only a small black and white cat of humble birth, returning
from a little social party. It was rather late at night, but what of
that? Cats keep no count of the hour, and she was as dignified and
proper in her bearing as a mature black and white puss need be. There
was nothing about her to justify the insolent attitude of a Scotch
terrier, who suddenly confronted her with a snarl and a snap. Puss
tried to cross the street, but a trolley car was in the way, and the
impudent terrier made bold to chase her. She suddenly turned, and the
terrier stopped. Her back went up, her tail grew big, and she spat out
defiance at her tormentor. The terrier may have been rude, but he was
discreet—he kept at a safe distance. Two or three newsboys, a “red-hot”
man, and a police officer, were interested spectators. They most
ungallantly sided with the terrier, who was now barking ferociously,
but keeping well out of pussy’s reach. One of the boys threw a stone at
the combatants; it rolled between them, and the terrier’s attention was
diverted for a moment from his antagonist. It was his first mistake.
Puss saw her opportunity and leaped at the terrier, landing fairly
on his back. In a second she had her claws full of his hair, and he
was running for dear life down the street. Puss held on like a circus
rider, contriving to sink her sharp claws into his back at every jump.
The crowd followed, shouting. As they passed an alley puss jumped off
and disappeared in the darkness. _There is one terrier_ who has had
enough fun with cats to last him a lifetime.
TOODLEKINS AND FLIP.
FLIP [_wakens up, stretches and yawns_]—
“Mieu, mieu, mieu, mieu,
Our coats are clean, and our paws are, too;
And mammy’s gone around the house
To see if she can find a mouse.
Mieu, mieu, mieu, mieu,
Toodlekins sleeps the whole day through;
This world is so dull, there’s nothing to do—
Except, to doze again—mieu, mieu!
[_Yawns and curls up._]
TOODLEKINS [_wakens up_.]
“Mieu, mieu, mieu, mieu,
Flip’s sound asleep, and there’s nothing to do.
I wish I could catch a great big mouse,
Life is so dull in this old house!
Mieu, mieu, mieu, mieu,
There’s nothing at all for a kitten to do—
Except to doze again—mieu, mieu.”
FLIP—
“Toodlekins!”
TOODLEKINS—
“Flip!”
FLIP—
“Toodlekins! Mieu!”
TOODLEKINS—
“I hear a nibble!”
FLIP—
“I do, too!”
TOODLEKINS—
“Must be a rat! _Such_ a great big noise!”
FLIP—
“Maybe it’s one of those horrid boys!”
TOODLEKINS—
“No, it’s a mouse! I see its tail!”
FLIP—
“No, it’s a rat as big as a pail!”
TOODLEKINS—
“I see its eyes! I see its tail! It’s mine!”
FLIP—
“No, no! It’s mine! Take that!” [_Cuffs her._]
TOODLEKINS—
“It’s mine, you horrid, robber cat!”
FLIP—
“I saw it first! Take that, and _that_!” [_Slaps and scratches._]
TOODLEKINS—
“You horrid cat, take that! Take—that!”
THE MOTHER CAT—
“Meow, meow! Why, children dear!
Is _this_ what happens when I’m not here?
For shame! For shame! There’s a baby mouse—
The tiniest thing in all the house—
Has just slipped away.
Kittens must be quick and _quiet_
If they would have fat _mice_ for diet.”
CAT’S-MEAT MAN; OR, CUPBOARD LOVE.
Persian, Tom, and Tabby,
Every kind of cat;
Lank and long and shabby,
Short and sleek and fat;
Fresh from night of slumming,
Down my street they ran,
Waiting for the coming
Of the Cat’s-meat man.
Rogues of humble station,
Lathy ones and lean,
Eager expectation
In their eyes of green;
Swells, who set the fashions,
Purred of clique and clan,
Waiting for their rations
From the Cat’s-meat man.