enemy, and failed to get out of the way in time. He was all off the
track but one hind leg, when he was struck by the locomotive and
knocked into a ditch,--that one hind leg being pretty badly mashed,
you may believe. The poor little fellow set up a great outcry, but the
unfeeling engineer never stopped the train to attend to him, and the
railroad folks kept the accident out of the papers. Fido made his way
home all alone, dragging his mashed leg behind him. Though greatly
shocked, his mistress did not scold him, but sent for a surgeon, who,
after a careful examination, and consulting his books, decided that
an amputation was necessary. Then the good, brave lady held her poor,
dear pet on her lap while the dreadful operation was performed. She
asked a gentleman of the family to hold him, but he had not the nerve.
After the stump had been skilfully dressed, the little dog evidently
felt better, soon ceased to bemoan his loss, and took kindly to a
light supper. He rested well that night, and in the morning the doctor
pronounced him better. His kind mistress nursed him faithfully till
he was restored to perfect health. He never seemed to fret about his
maimed condition, but hopped around on three legs as merry and active
as ever. It was observed, however, that he gave a wide berth to
railway trains, and howled whenever he heard the whistle of the engine,
ever after. Still the fight wasn’t out of him. He was as jealous of his
honor and as fiery and plucky as before his disaster.
One afternoon, while taking a quiet three-legged stroll some distance
away from home, he encountered on the highway a big, surly bull-dog,
who presumed on the spaniel’s diminutive size and crippled condition
to insult him and rail at him. Brave Fido dashed at once at the ugly
bully’s throat, and bit and hung on in the most furious and desperate
way. It was a gallant fight he made, and it did seem for a while as
though he must come off victorious, like David after his engagement
with Goliah. But at last the infuriated bull-dog tore himself free, and
then proceeded to make mince-meat of the poor spaniel. He tore his ears
half off, and his eyes half out, and mangled his head generally, till
it was disfigured to the last degree. Then he bit and chewed the left,
the only _left_ hind leg, till one might say that he was next to a
locomotive and a whole train of cars at the mangling business. At this
desperate stage of the combat a woman came out of a farm-house near by,
drove the bull-dog away with a poker, and took up poor Fido. As he had
become insensible, she thought him dead, and flung him down in a fence
corner, out of the way of travel, and there left him, meaning, let us
hope, to have him decently buried in the morning. But Fido was not yet
ready to give up this life. The cool evening dew revived him; brought
him to his senses, in part at least. He could not yet see, but, guided
by some mysterious instinct, he made his sure way, dragging himself
by his _fore_ legs, which were only _two_ you know, across the fields
to his home. His mistress was awakened in the night by hearing him
scratching and whining at the door, and made haste to arise and take
in the poor crippled, blinded, bleeding creature, who laid himself
panting and moaning at her feet. I hope I need not tell you that she
did not give him up. She prepared a soft bed for him in an old basket,
washed and dressed his wounds, and though every body, especially the
doctor, said he must die, that he was as good as dead then, she was
sure she could fetch him round, and she did fetch him round amazingly.
But alas! Fido’s troubles were not over, even when he got so that he
could hobble about on his three legs, and see tolerably well; for one
cold morning, as he lay curled up in his basket near the kitchen stove,
he was, I grieve to say, terribly scalded by a careless cook, who
spilled a kettle of hot water over him. Even then his mistress refused
to give him up to die, but dressed his burns with sweet oil, or applied
a pain-killer, or “Dalley’s Salve,” and administered Mrs. Winslow’s
Soothing Syrup, perhaps,--anyhow she nursed him so skilfully and
faithfully that she fetched him round again. He is no beauty nowadays,
but alive, and alive like to be. It is my opinion that, like the great
Napoleon, that dog bears a charmed life.
CAT TALES.
FAITHFUL GRIMALKIN.
Many years ago, when my parents lived in old Connecticut, my mother
had a pet cat, a pretty graceful creature, frisky and arch and gay,
though clad in sober gray. She was a favorite with all the large
household, but especially attached herself to my mother, following her
about everywhere,--“up stairs, down stairs, and in my lady’s chamber,”
accompanying her in her walks, hiding behind every bush, and prancing
out upon her in a surprising, not to say startling, manner.
At last she grew out of kittenhood, laid aside, in a measure, kittenish
things, and became the happiest, fondest, proudest feline mamma ever
beheld. She caressed and gloated over her little, blind, toddling,
mewing, miniature tigers in a perfect ecstasy of maternal delight.
Just at this interesting period of pussy’s life our family moved from
the old place to a house in the country, about a mile away. My mother
was ill, and was carried very carefully on a bed from one sick-room to
another. In the hurry, trouble, and confusion of that time, poor pussy,
who lodged with her family in an attic, was quite forgotten. But early
in the morning of the first day in the new house,--a pleasant summer
morning, when all the doors and windows were open,--as my mother lay on
her bed, in a parlor on the first floor, she saw her cat walk into the
hall and look eagerly around. The moment the faithful creature caught
sight of her beloved mistress, she came bounding into the room, across
it, and on to the bed, where she purred and mewed in a delighted, yet
reproachful way, quite hysterical, licking my mother’s hand and rubbing
up against her cheek in a manner that said more plainly than words,
“Ah! my dear madam, didst thou think to leave thy faithful Grimalkin
behind? Where thou goest, I will go.”
She was taken into the kitchen and treated to a cup of new milk; but
after a few moments given to rest and refreshment she disappeared. Yet
she went only to come again in the course of an hour, lugging one of
her kittens, which she deposited on the bed, commended to my mother’s
care, and straightway departed. In an almost incredibly short time
she came bounding in with a second kitten. She continued her journeys
till the whole litter had been safely transported, over hill and
dale, ditches and stone-walls, through perils of unfriendly dogs and
mischievous boys, and the family flitting was complete.
After this, our noble puss was loved and respected more than ever. She
dwelt long in the land, and her kits grew up, I believe, to be worthy
of such a mother.
OBEDIENT THOMAS.
Now I want to give you an instance of filial respect and submission in
a young cat. When we first came to Washington, nearly two years ago,
I took to petting a handsome cat belonging to the relatives with whom
we then lived. I fed and caressed her, and she became very fond of me,
always running to meet me when I entered the garden which she haunted,
or the barn in which she lodged. She was rather wild in her ways, and
so stole a nest, in which she finally hid away some kittens, that she
afterwards reared to be wilder than herself. These somehow disappeared,
all but one, which, when he was about half grown, I undertook to tame.
It was a difficult, tedious job; but I persevered, and at last found
him a more affectionate, docile pet than ever his mother had been.
She had seemed fond of him in his wild, unregenerate days, but as
soon as he became domesticated, and I began to show a partiality for
him, she grew very severe with him, scratching his face and boxing his
ears whenever she saw me caressing him. I soon noticed that when she
was near he was shy, pretending not to be on intimate terms with me;
while, if she was out of the way, I had only to call his name, to have
him come galloping up from the furthest part of the long garden, to
rub against me, to lick my hand, and show every feline fondness and
delight. Now we live at another house, and I seldom see my pets, mother
and son; but they are loving and constant still, proving that the poet
Coleridge didn’t know every thing when he talked about “the little
short memories” of cats.
Master Thomas has grown large and strong, and is accounted a gallant
young fellow by all the young pussies in the neighborhood. But while
toward cats of his own sex he is fierce and combative, he is just as
meek and deferential to his mother as he was in his tender kittenhood.
The other day I encountered him in the old garden, and was surprised to
find how stalwart he had become. I stooped to caress him, and he seemed
as susceptible to gentle overtures as ever, arched his back, switched
his tail, and purred rapturously. Suddenly the mother cat stole out
from behind a tree, and confronted us. “Good morning, madam,” I said,
for I always talk to cats and dogs just as I talk to other people.
“You have a fine son here; a handsome young fellow, that favors you,
I think.” But she wasn’t to be softened by the compliment. She walked
straight up to him, and boxed him first on one ear and then on the
other, quite in the old motherly way. As for him he never thought of
resenting the old lady’s act, or opposing her will, but drooped his
lordly tail, and hastily retreated. Now that is what I call good family
discipline.
This city of Washington is a place where the wits of people are
sharpened, if anywhere, and perhaps even cats and dogs become
uncommonly clever and knowing here. Only yesterday I was told of a
Washington cat which had just been found out in a wonderful trick.
Observing that, when the door-bell rang, the one servant of the
household was obliged to leave the kitchen, she managed to slyly ring
the bell, by jumping up against the wire, and invariably, when her
enemy, the cook, went to the door, she would slip into the kitchen, and
help herself to whatever tempting article of food was within reach. At
last some one watched, and caught her at her secret “wire-pulling.”
Poor puss retired with a drooping tail and a most dejected aspect,
evidently realizing that the game was up.
Another cat I know of was of so amiable and benevolent a disposition
that she actually adopted into her own circle of infant kits a poor,
forlorn little foundling of a _rat_. As her nursling he grew and
thrived, seeming quite as tame as the others; and when a mischievous
boy set a rat-terrier on him, and so finished him, cat and kittens
really seemed to mourn for their foster son and brother.
KATRINA AND KATINKA.
Once on a time--no matter when--in a certain beautiful city--no matter
where--there lived two lovely twin sisters, with the brightest eyes,
and the cunningest little roly-poly figures, and the slenderest ears
with the softest pink satin lining, and the spryest motions imaginable.
They were brunettes in complexion, with white breasts and tail-tips,
and they were kittens. Katrina and Katinka were their names, if I
remember rightly,--maybe I don’t, but anyhow they _might_ have had
those names, which, to my thinking, are very pretty and appropriate
for kittens.
Well, these same twin pussies were singularly fond of each other,
and more singularly good to each other. They never called names,
or scratched, or spat in each other’s pretty faces, or pulled each
other’s little smellers, or quarrelled over their meals. They were so
marvellously alike that it was always difficult to tell them apart; and
when they slept, as they always did, hugged close in each other’s arms,
you couldn’t have told to save you where one kitten left off and the
other kitten began.
They not only slept, ate, and played together, but, as they grew older,
took their strolls for health and recreation and their mouse-hunts
in the same close and loving companionship. They were very curious
and wide-awake little bodies, and liked to see all they could of the
great, busy world; so every pleasant afternoon, when there was much
driving and walking up and down the fine street on which they lived,
they could be seen strolling down the long walk to the gate, always
exactly side by side,--“neck and neck,” as the horse people say,--as
even in their pace, and as perfectly matched in their action, as ever
were a pair of trained ponies in Hyde Park. Reaching the gate, they
would pause and stand quite still for a half-hour or so, gravely
gazing through the palings at the passers,--pedestrians, equestrians,
and drivers of fast horses,--like a pair of dear little brigadiers
reviewing their brigades marching by. Then, with the air of having
discharged a public duty to the entire satisfaction of the community,
they would wheel exactly together, and again, precisely neck and neck
and tail and tail, trot gently homeward.
So they lived on, in and for each other, almost as much united as if
they had been a pair of small feline female Siamese twins, amiable,
loving, and virtuous, and grew in knowledge and stature up to a
comely young cathood. At last it happened that a very interesting
event occurred to the twin sisters at precisely the same time,--they
became happy mothers, were blessed with three or four fine kittens
apiece. But alas! before the little strangers had got fairly to
feel their legs, before they had got their eyes open, all save one
mysteriously disappeared from each nest. It was one fatal morning
when the twin sisters had slipped out of their happy attic apartment
for a little air,--to take their “Constitutional” in a trot down the
long gravel walk to see how the world would look to them now they were
mothers,--that this kit-napping occurred. When they returned to their
families, they found them strangely thinned out; but they were mothers
for all that, and did not seem to fret much, or abate their maternal
pride a jot.
You see the ruling power in the human household in which they were
domesticated, and who was to them as a providence, had ordered
a little hydropathy for their poor, feeble, sprawling, blind
darlings,--beginning with what is called in water-cures “the heroic
treatment,” a cold plunge; and it didn’t agree with them,--it never
does with any but the healthy and hardy patients,--so it was they never
came back. But under the blue waves they sleep well, though never a
mew or a purr comes bubbling up to the surface to tell the spot where
they lie on beds of tangled sea-grass. “_Requies-cat in pace_,” as old
tombstones say.
The next mournful event in this true family history was the untimely
death of Katrina’s one darling. This had proved to be but a frail
flower of kittenhood; very pretty she was,--“too sweet to live,” people
said. Her constitution was defective, her nervous system was extremely
delicate. Before she was a week old she had something alarmingly like
a fit of _cat_alepsy. Suddenly, while imbibing nourishment, with her
fond mother purring over her, and two or three children looking on
in smiling sympathy, she gave a piteous wild mew, rolled over on her
back, and stuck up her four little legs and laid out her little tail
stiff as a poker! On the ninth day of her little life she opened her
blinking blue eyes on this great wonderful world, in which she had as
good a right to be as you or I; but she didn’t seem to like the looks
of things, for she soon closed those small eyes again, and never opened
them more. Life was evidently too hard a conundrum for her poor, weak
little brain, and she gave it up.
Of course Katrina was greatly afflicted, but she did not abandon
herself utterly to grief. Had not her sister a kitten left? and had
not they two always had every thing in common? So as soon as the
sympathetic children had buried her dead out of her sight under a
lilac-bush, she went straightway to Katinka, and, with her full
consent, began to divide with her the duties and joys of maternity.
All three just cuddled down together in one nest; from mamma or
auntie Master Catkin took nourishment, just as it suited his whim
or convenience, and, as you might suppose, he grew and thrived
astonishingly. So equal and perfect was this partnership in the kitten,
that it was impossible for a stranger to tell which of the two cats was
the real mother. One day all three were brought down to the parlor to
amuse some visitors. Both mammas seemed equally nervous about having
the baby kitten handled, and presently one of them caught it by the
neck,--the cat’s usual, immemorial way of transporting her young,--and
started with it for the attic; when, to the surprise and immense
amusement of all present, the other caught hold of the tail, and so the
two bore it away in triumph.
After this I am afraid the children gave the little kitten rather more
travelling than he liked. It was such fun to see the two anxious cats
following him, mewing, and at the first chance catching him up, and
lugging him home in that absurd manner. Generally the real certain true
mother seized on the head, but sometimes she was magnanimous enough to
yield the post of honor to the aunt, and take to the tail herself.
So things went on for a few weeks, and then there happened to this
estimable cat-family another sad event,--for this is a tragedy I am
writing, though you may not have suspected it,--Katinka died! What
of has never yet been decided; physicians differed about it, and the
coroner could not make it out. But this much is certain, Katinka
died. The grief of Katrina was and is very affecting to behold.
She mopes, she mews, and her slender tail, which she used to carry
erect with such a jaunty air, droops dolefully. She takes no longer
the “Constitutional” trot down the walk to the front gate. Life
seems to have grown dull and wearisome to her, and the pleasures of
mouse-hunting and tree-climbing appear to have lost their zest. If she
remembers at all the halcyon period when much of her precious time
was spent in a dizzy round of gayety, in a swift pursuit of a ball of
cotton, or a futile pursuit of her own tail, it is in sad wonder that
she could ever have been so merry and thoughtless. She grows thin,
neglects her toilet, and often refuses food; but when the children
offer her catnip, she turns languidly away. If she were acquainted with
Shakespeare, she would doubtless say,--“_Canst thou minister to a mind
diseased?_” “_Throw physic to Bose and Jowler,--I’ll none of it!_”
Friendly cat-neighbors call in occasionally, but they cannot console
her. All the petting of the household fails thus far to make her cheery
and playful as once she was. She is fed on the very “milk of human
kindness,” but grief has licked the cream off.
She seems to find her only consolation in her care and affection for
the motherless catkin, and in his fondness for her. I am sorry to
say that he does not show a very deep sense of his loss; perhaps he
is too young to realize it. His good aunt seems sufficient for all
his needs, and he thrives finely, is fat and jolly, and full of all
kittenish pranks and mischievous tricks. Poor Katrina will have a time
with him, I fear, as he is sadly petted and indulged. Such a lazy
rascal as he is too,--don’t earn the salt of his porridge, that is,
if he took it salted,--and, though quite old enough to “go on the war
path,” has never yet killed his mouse, or brought home a rat’s scalp,
or a ground-squirrel’s brush, or as much as a feather from a tomtit’s
wing. Ah! of all the darlings in the world, an aunty’s darling is the
likeliest to be spoiled.
This is all I know about this curious cat-family. I hope, dear
children, that my true story may not sadden you, for I really wish you,
one and all, the merriest of merry Christmases, and the happiest of
happy New Years.
All I can say in the way of a moral to my little story is: How
beautiful is love! even when shown in the fortunes and sorrows of cats
and kittens, how beautiful is love!
FEATHERED PETS.
OUR COUSINS THE PARROTS.
These strangely interesting birds, according to natural history,
belong to the second bird family, the _Psittacidæ_. I never knew how
many wonderful and splendid varieties this family contained until
I saw living varieties of all, or nearly all, in the known world,
in the Zoölogical Gardens of London, where they are kept in a great
gallery,--a beautiful parrot paradise, all by themselves. They were
a wonder to behold, but a perfect astonishment to listen to. The
confusion of tongues was something almost distracting. The Tower of
Babel, in its talkingest day, never approached it, I am sure. A large
sewing-circle of elderly ladies might come nearer the mark. The colors
of their plumage I have no words to describe. They fill my memory with
tropic splendors whenever I think of them, to this day.
’Tis strange that but one species of parrots was known to the ancient
Greeks and Romans,--the Parakeet of India,--at least up to the time of
Nero. That gentle prince, with his amiable love of pets, is said to
have sent emissaries far up the Nile to collect new varieties for the
gratification of his royal whim and dainty appetite; for, when the poor
little captives ceased to amuse him by their conversational powers, he
ate them. I hope they lay hard on his stomach, and made him talk in his
sleep!
The early Portuguese navigators found parrots at the Cape of Good
Hope, and at other points on the African coast; and the very first
creatures that welcomed Columbus to the isles of the New World were
Parakeets. The Macaws of South America are very handsome birds, but
not remarkably tractable or agreeable. They are fond of old friends,
but are fierce to strangers, and have a singular dislike to children.
The gray and scarlet parrot, called the Yaco, is a charming bird for a
pet. It is clever and docile, and learns readily to talk, preferring
to imitate the voices of children. The Cockatoos of New Guinea are
very pretty and graceful pets. They do not like to be caged, but may
be safely allowed to have the range of the premises, as they will
immediately come when called; thus setting an excellent example to
rebellious children. The green parrot, most common in this country, is
a native of Africa.
Dear old Dr. Goldsmith, whose Natural History is all out of fashion
now, except with us old folks, tells some amusing stories about
parrots. Among these is an anecdote of a famous fellow, belonging to
King Henry the Seventh, Queen Elizabeth’s grandfather. This bird,
sitting on his perch in the palace-yard at Westminster, used to
hear the talk of gentlemen who came to the river to take boats. And
one day, while overlooking the busy traffic of the Thames, he fell
from a tree into the water; and while there, floating helplessly, he
cried: “A boat! twenty pounds for a boat!” A waterman rescued him, and
took him to the king, demanding his twenty pounds. The king, who was
not remarkably generous, hesitated about giving so large a sum; but
finally agreed to leave the amount of the reward to the parrot. That
ungrateful fellow, who sat on his perch, still shaking the water from
his feathers, when appealed to, turned his head slyly on one side, and
said, “Give the knave a groat” (about fourpence). I hope, children,
you won’t doubt the truth of this story; it isn’t good to get into
sceptical habits of mind in early life.
For many years there lived in the porter’s lodge of the old
Pennsylvania Hospital a distinguished and venerable citizen,--a parrot
of rare cleverness and intelligence. This famous bird belonged to the
porter, and was one of many feathered pets, the chief favorite and
familiar. A remarkable affection and sympathy existed between these
two friends; yet I am sorry to say their relations were not altogether
pleasant and peaceful. Innumerable were their quarrels and make-ups.
The bird was very knowing, and almost supernaturally gifted as a
talker, especially, like some human orators, in the language of railing
and taunting. The old man, his master, had one deplorable weakness,--he
would occasionally drink too much whiskey; so much that, getting quite
beside himself, he would leave his lodge and his innocent feathered
family, and go off on a desperate spree, which sometimes lasted for
days. Now, Master Paul Parrot thought this weakness, through which he
suffered in loneliness and neglect, very reprehensible and not to be
winked at, and when the fit of dissipation was coming on his master,
it is said, would remonstrate with him, in a friendly way, like a very
Mentor. When this proved in vain, and he saw the misguided old man
leave the lodge for some of his disreputable haunts, he would endeavor
to put a good face on the matter, would hop about on his perch in great
excitement, and call out to the other birds: “The old man has gone on a
spree!--on a spree! He won’t be back for a week! Let’s have a time. Ha,
ha!”
When the old porter came home, this naughty bird would be very apt
to mock and taunt him, calling out: “So you’ve come back,--have you?
O, how drunk you are! Now we’ll have a row.” And there always was a
row; for the indignant porter never failed to beat Mr. Paul, for his
impudence, soundly. Then the bird, seeking the dignified retirement of
the darkest corner of the lodge, sulked and muttered, till, the old
porter’s good-humor returning, he made friendly overtures. The two were
reconciled, and “every thing was lovely” again.