It was late in the fall when Silvertip came to live in the big house,
and he was then a very small kitten. All through the winter which
followed, he was the pet of the Gentleman and the Lady, of the Maid,
and of the people who came there to visit. He liked the Gentleman best
and showed it very plainly, but that was only right, for it was the
Gentleman, you know, who first brought him into the house.
At night he slept on a red cushion in a basket in the kitchen, except
when he made believe catch Mice with a spool for a Mouse. Sometimes,
when the other people were in bed, they could hear him running and
jumping out there and having the finest kind of a time all by
himself. During the days he spent most of his time on a red
lamb’s-wool rug under a desk where the Lady kept her typewriter. He
thought the desk must be a Cathouse, for the room under it was just
large enough and just high enough to suit him, and there were walls on
three sides to make it warmer. He did not see why the Lady should sit
down at it nearly every day and thump-thump-thump on the queer-looking
little machine which she kept upstairs in this house. When she did
this he had to move farther back on his rug, and it bothered him to do
so when he was sleepy.
Sometimes, when he had been really awakened by the
thump-thump-thumping of the machine and the ringing of the little bell
on it, he would jump up behind it. Then he would peep over its top at
the Lady and chew the paper which stuck out in his face until he was
gently lifted or pushed away. Sometimes he sat by the side of it, and
then he would watch the little bell ringing until he learned to put up
one tiny white paw and ring it himself. After he had watched and
played in this way for a while, he would lie on the high part of the
desk, over where the drawers were, and sleep again. Yet he was never
too sleepy to pat with his paws every printed sheet which the Lady
took from the machine, or to play with every clean white one which she
fastened into it. He liked the white ones the better and didn’t see
why the Lady wanted to mark them all up so. Still, he thought it was
probably her way of playing, so it didn’t matter.
Sometimes, when she seemed tired, the Lady would bend over and put her
face down against his back and call him “her little collaborator.” He
did not know what that big word meant. He thought it might be
something about his tail. They were both interested in tales.
When the Lady was writing on her lap in the funny way that Ladies
sometimes have, he would cuddle down under her portfolio and sleep.
For these things he liked her, but she would hardly ever take time to
play with him. So, when he heard the latch-key rattle in the front
door, he listened, and if it were the Gentleman’s step which he heard,
he ran to the hall door and waited with his little pink nose to the
crack until the Gentleman came in. Then what romps they would have!
Back and forth from one room to another, with balls, spools tied onto
the most charming strings, and even yardsticks and tape-measures, and
things taken from the Lady’s sewing-stand.
He liked the Maid, too. She was always kind to him, although she did
shut him up one day when he stole a silvery little sardine from the
table. She would not let him have anything but milk to eat until he
was nearly grown-up. Whenever he smelled a roast or a fine juicy
steak he would beg as hard as he knew how, but not one taste did he
ever get until he had lost all his Kitten-teeth and his Cat-teeth were
growing in. When he was older and knew more about life, he understood
that this was to keep him from swallowing a loose tooth with a
mouthful of meat, and that Kittens who are given all sorts of food are
very likely to do this and bring on fits. You can just imagine what
trouble it would make to have a sharp tooth get into a Kitten’s
stomach.
This was probably the reason, too, why Silvertip grew so very large
and handsome. At Christmas time he was given a red ribbon to wear
around his neck, red being very becoming to his complexion. He did not
care very much for the ribbon, though, and went off into a corner and
scratched at it with his hind feet until it came off. Then he chewed
it into a wet wisp and left it.
This was Silvertip’s life during that first winter. Sometimes on
sunshiny days he sat out on the kitchen porch, and once in a while he
sunned himself on the broad rail of one of the front porches. Whatever
he wanted he had, except, of course, some kinds of food, which he
ought not to have anyway. Nobody was ever cross to him and many people
were doing things to make him happy. He had yet to learn that this
could not last forever.
When spring came he lived more out of doors, and followed the Hired
Man around barn and woodshed. He went into the ice-house once, but
found that too cold. In these places he saw his first Mice. He will
never forget the very first one which he caught. It was just at supper
time and he brought it into the kitchen. He could not understand why
the Maid should scream and act so queerly. He thought perhaps she
wanted it herself.
Whenever the Mouse wriggled or flirted its tail into his eyes he
jumped backward. It scared him dreadfully, but he would not let go.
Instead of that he would walk backward two or three times around the
kitchen range. He wanted to lay the Mouse down and play with it, only
he did not know just how to go about it. He tried to have the Maid
help him, but every time he went to lay it at her feet she jumped into
a chair. At last she called for the Lady. Then the Lady came out and
laughed at both of them. How it ended nobody but Silvertip knows, for
he walked around the kitchen with it in his mouth until late in the
evening, and the next morning there was not a sign of it to be found.
It was this spring, too, that he became acquainted with the Catbird.
He heard a queer Cat-like voice saying “Zeay! Zeay!” many times, and
yet could never find the Cat to whom it belonged. “Come out here!” he
would cry. “Come out here, and we will make believe fight!” When no
Cat came he couldn’t understand it. He had already become acquainted
with many Cats in the neighborhood, and whenever one came to call they
made believe fight. It was their favorite game. They would sit around
and glare at each other and growl a whole day at a time. So Silvertip
could not understand a Cat who said “Zeay!” instead of “Meouw!” and
would not fight.
One morning when Silvertip was sitting on the back porch, a slender
gray bird, with black crown, tail, bill, and feet, perched on the
woodbine over his head and said, “Zeay!” It sounded as though somebody
in the little apple-tree had said it, but Silvertip was looking at the
bird and saw him open and shut his bill.
“Pht!” said Silvertip, as he began to let his tail and the hair along
his back bristle. “Pht! Don’t you dare to mock me!”
“Zeay!” answered the bird. “Zeay! Zeay!”
“I don’t say it just that way, anyhow,” said Silvertip; “so quit!”
“Zeay!” answered the bird.
“I am the Cat who belongs here,” said Silvertip. “You quit mocking me
or go away!”
“Zeay!” replied the bird, putting his head upon one side. “I am the
Catbird who belongs here. I had a nest here last year before you were
born, and when I went south for the winter you were not here. Zeay!”
Now Silvertip, not having had a chance to learn much about birds,
thought that this one was not telling the truth, and he quite lost his
temper. “You deserve to be eaten,” he cried, and he began to climb up
the woodbine, feeling his way along without taking his eyes from the
Catbird. The Catbird sat there and twitched his tail until Silvertip
had almost reached him. Then he said, “Zeay!” and flew off. A few
minutes later he was sitting on the top twig of a fir tree and singing
wonderfully. This was what he sang: “Prut! Prut! Coquillicot! Really!
Really! Coquillicot! Hey, Coquillicot! Hey! Victory!”
[Illustration: “YOU DESERVE TO BE EATEN.” _Page 218_]
Silvertip walked back and forth on the kitchen porch. He was too angry
to sit down at once. When at last he did, and began to wash himself,
he was thinking all the time how mean the Catbird was.
Every day the Catbird came and flirted around and said, “Zeay! Zeay!”
till Silvertip lost his temper. He just ached to get his claws into
that bird, and that even when his stomach was full. He did not care so
much about eating him, you see, although he would undoubtedly have
done so if he had had the chance, but he wanted to stop his teasing.
One day he was looking out through a screen door and happened to see
the Catbird mocking another bird. He was surprised to hear the other
say: “Mock away, if it is any fun! It doesn’t hurt me any.” Then he
heard the Catbird laugh and saw him fly away.
“I wonder what he would do if I were to try that?” said Silvertip. “I
believe I will the next time.”
That very day, when Silvertip was sunning himself on the porch and
heard the same teasing voice say, “Zeay!” above his head, he opened
his thick eyelids and slid the other ones about half-way to one side,
and looked lazily up. “Pretty good!” he said. “You do a little better
every day I think. If you keep at it you can say ‘Meouw’ after a
while.” Then he began to shut his eyes again.
“Prut!” exclaimed the Catbird. “It’s no fun teasing you any more! You
don’t care enough about it! Good-by!” And that was the last time that
Silvertip ever saw him nearer than the top of a tree. So Silvertip
learned one of the great lessons of life, which is not to pay any
attention to people who make fun of you, or to mind when you are
teased.