CONCERNING STILL OTHER PEOPLE'S CATS
The nearest approach to the real French Salon in America is said to be
found in Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton's Boston drawing-room. In former
days, at her weekly Fridays, Sir Richard Coeur de Lion was always
present, sitting on the square piano amidst a lot of other celebrities.
The autographed photographs of Paderewski, John Drew, and distinguished
litterateurs, however, used to lose nothing from the proximity of Mrs.
Moulton's favorite maltese friend, who was on the most intimate terms
with her for twelve years, and hobnobbed familiarly with most of the
lions of one sort or another who have visited Boston and who invariably
find their way into this room. If there were flowers on the piano,
Richard's nose hovered near them in a perfect abandon of delight.
Indeed, his fondness for flowers was a source of constant contention
between him and his mistress, who feared lest he knock the souvenirs of
foreign countries to the floor in his eagerness to climb wherever
flowers were put. He was as dainty about his eating as in his taste for
the beautiful, scorning beef and mutton as fit only for coarser mortals,
and choosing, like any _gourmet_, to eat only the breast of
chicken, or certain portions of fish or lobster. He was not proof
against the flavor of liver, at any time; but recognized in it his one
weakness,--as the delicate lady may who takes snuff or chews gum on the
sly. When Mrs. Moulton first had him, she had also a little dog, and the
two, as usual when a kitten is brought up with a dog, became the
greatest of friends.
That Richard was a close observer was proved by the way he used to wag
his tail, in the same fashion and apparently for the same reasons as the
dog. This went on for several years, but when the dog died, the fashion
of wagging tails went out, so far as Richard Coeur de Lion was
concerned.
He had a fashion of getting up on mantels, the tops of bookcases, or on
shelves; and his mistress, fearing demolition of her household Lares and
Penates, insisted on his getting down, whereupon Richard would look
reproachfully at her, apparently resenting this treatment for days
afterward, refusing to come near her and edging off if she tried to make
up with him.
When Richard was getting old, a black cat came to Mrs. Moulton, who kept
him "for luck," and named him the Black Prince. The older cat was always
jealous of the newcomer, and treated him with lofty scorn. When he
caught Mrs. Moulton petting the Black Prince, who is a very affectionate
fellow Richard fiercely resented it and sometimes refused to have
anything to do with her for days afterward, but finally came around and
made up in shamefaced fashion.
Mrs. Moulton goes to London usually in the summer, leaving the cats in
the care of a faithful maid whom she has had for years. After she
sailed, Richard used to come to her door for several mornings, and not
being let in as usual, understood that his beloved mistress had left him
again, whereupon he kept up a prolonged wailing for some time. He was
correspondingly glad to see her on her return in October.
Mrs. Moulton tells the following remarkable cat story:--
"My mother had a cat that lived to be twenty-five years old. He was
faithful and fond, and a great pet in the family, of course. About two
years before his death, a new kitten was added to the family. This
kitten, named Jim, immediately conceived the greatest affection for old
Jack, and as the old fellow's senses of sight and smell failed so that
he could not go hunting himself, Jim used to do it for both. Every day
he brought Jack mice and squirrels and other game as long as he lived.
Then, too, he used to wash Jack, lapping him all over as a mother cat
does her kitten. He did this, too, as long as he lived. The feebler old
Jack grew the more Jim did for him, and when Jack finally died of old
age, Jim was inconsolable."
Twenty-five years might certainly be termed a ripe old age for a cat,
their average life extending only to ten or twelve years. But I have
heard of one who seems to have attained even greater age. The mother of
Jane Andrews, the writer on educational and juvenile subjects, had one
who lived with them twenty-four years. He had peculiar markings and
certain ways of his own about the house quite different from other cats.
He disappeared one day when he was twenty-four, and was mourned as dead.
But one day, some six or seven years later, an old cat came to their
door and asked to be let in. He had the same markings, and on being let
in, went directly to his favorite sleeping-places and lay down. He
seemed perfectly familiar with the whole place, and went on with his
life from that time, just as though he had never been away, showing all
his old peculiarities. When he finally died, he must have been
thirty-three years old.
Although in other days a great many noted men have been devoted to cats,
I do not find that our men of letters to-day know so much about cats.
Mr. William Dean Howells says: "I never had a cat, pet or otherwise. I
like them, but know nothing of them." Judge Robert Grant says, "My
feelings toward cats are kindly and considerate, but not ardent."
Thomas Bailey Aldrich says, "The only cat I ever had any experience with
was the one I translated from the French of Émile de La Bédolliérre many
years ago for the entertainment of my children." [Footnote: "Mother
Michel's Cat."] Brander Matthews loves them not. George W. Cable answers,
when asked if he loves the "harmless, necessary cat," by the Yankee method,
and says, "If you had three or four acres of beautiful woods in which were
little red squirrels and chipmunks and fifty or more kinds of nesting
birds, and every abutting neighbor kept a cat, and none of them kept their
cat out of those woods--_would you like cats?_" which is, indeed,
something of a poser.
Colonel Thomas W. Higginson, however, confesses to a great fondness for
cats, although he has had no remarkable cats of his own. He tells a
story told him by an old sailor at Pigeon Cove, Mass., of a cat which
he, the sailor, tried in vain to get rid of. After trying several
methods he finally put the cat in a bag, walked a mile to Lane's Cove,
tied the cat to a big stone with a firm sailor's knot, took it out in a
dory some distance from the shore, and dropped the cat overboard. Then
he went back home to find the cat purring on the doorstep.
Those who are familiar with Charles Dudley Warner's "My Summer in a
Garden" will not need to be reminded of Calvin and his interesting
traits. Mr. Warner says: "I never had but one cat, and he was rather a
friend and companion than a cat. When he departed this life I did not
care to do as many men do when their partners die, take a 'second.'" The
sketch of him in that delightful book is vouched for as correct.
Mr. Edmund Clarence Stedman, too, is a genuine admirer of cats and
evidently knows how to appreciate them at their true value. At his home
near New York, he and Mrs. Stedman have one who rejoices in the name
"Babylon," having originated in Babylon, Long Island. He is a fine large
maltese, and attracted a great deal of attention at the New York Cat
Show in 1895. "We look upon him as an important member of our family,"
says Mrs. Stedman, "and think he knows as much as any of us. He despises
our two other cats, but he is very fond of human beings and makes
friends readily with strangers. He is always present at the family
dinner table at meal-time and expects to have his share handed to him
carefully. He has a favorite corner in the study and has superintended a
great deal of literary work." Mrs. Stedman's long-haired, blue Kelpie
took a prize in the show of '95.
Gail Hamilton was naturally a lover of cats, although in her crowded
life there was not much time to devote to them. In the last year of her
noble life she wrote to a friend as follows: "My two hands were eager to
lighten the burden-bearing of a burdened world--but the brush fell from
my hand. Now I can only sit in a nook of November sunshine, playing with
two little black and white kittens. Well, I never before had time to
play with kittens as much as I wished, and when I come outdoors and see
them bounding toward me in long, light leaps, I am glad that they leap
toward me and not away from me, little soft, fierce sparks of infinite
energy holding a mystery of their own as inscrutable as life. And I
remember that with all our high art, the common daily sun searches a man
for one revealing moment, and makes a truer portrait than the most
laborious painter. The divine face of our Saviour, reflected in the pure
and noble traits of humanity, will not fail from the earth because my
hand has failed in cunning."
One would expect a poet of Ella Wheeler Wilcox's temperament to be
passionately fond of cats, just as she is. One would expect, too, that
only the most beautiful and luxurious of Persians and Angoras would
satisfy her demand for a pet. This is also justifiable, as she has
several magnificent cats, about whom she has published a number of
interesting stories. Her Madame Ref is quite a noted cat, but Mrs.
Wilcox's favorite and the handsomest of all is named Banjo, a gorgeous
chinchilla and white Angora, with a silken coat that almost touches the
floor and a ruff, or "lord mayor's chain," that is a finger wide. His
father was Ajax, his mother was Madame Ref, and Mrs. Wilcox raised him.
She has taught him many cunning tricks. He will sit up like a bear, and
when his mistress says, "Hug me, Banjo," he puts both white paws around
her neck and hugs her tight. Then she says, "Turn the other cheek," and
he turns his furry chops for her to kiss. He also plays "dead," and
rolls over at command. He, too, is fond of literary work, and
superintends his mistress's writing from a drawer of her desk. Goody
Two-eyes is another of Mrs. Wilcox's pets, and has one blue and one
topaz eye.
Who has not read Agnes Repplier's fascinating essays on "Agrippina" and
"A Kitten"? I cannot quite believe she gives cats credit for the
capacity for affection which they really possess, but her description of
"Agrippina" is charming:--
"Agrippina's beautifully ringed tail flapping across my copy distracts
my attention and imperils the neatness of my penmanship. Even when she
is disposed to be affable, turns the light of her countenance upon me,
watches with attentive curiosity every stroke I make, and softly, with
curved paw, pats my pen as it travels over the paper, even in these
halcyon moments, though my self-love is flattered by her condescension,
I am aware that I should work better and more rapidly if I denied myself
this charming companionship. But, in truth, it is impossible for a lover
of cats to banish these alert, gentle, and discriminating little
friends, who give us just enough of their regard and complaisance to
make us hunger for more. M. Fee, the naturalist, who has written so
admirably about animals, and who understands, as only a Frenchman can
understand, the delicate and subtle organization of a cat, frankly
admits that the keynote of its character is independence. It dwells
under our roofs, sleeps by our fire, endures our blandishments, and
apparently enjoys our society, without for one moment forfeiting its
sense of absolute freedom, without acknowledging any servile relation to
the human creature who shelters it.
"Rude and masterful souls resent this fine self-sufficiency in a
domestic animal, and require that it shall have no will but theirs, no
pleasure that does not emanate from them.
"Yet there are people, less magisterial, perhaps, or less exacting, who
believe that true friendship, even with an animal, may be built up on
mutual esteem and independence; that to demand gratitude is to be
unworthy of it; and that obedience is not essential to agreeable and
healthy intercourse. A man who owns a dog is, in every sense of the
word, its master: the term expresses accurately their mutual relations.
But it is ridiculous when applied to the limited possession of a cat. I
am certainly not Agrippina's mistress, and the assumption of authority
on my part would be a mere empty dignity, like those swelling titles
which afford such innocent delight to the Freemasons of our severe
republic.
"How many times have I rested tired eyes on her graceful little body,
curled up in a ball and wrapped round with her tail like a parcel; or
stretched out luxuriously on my bed, one paw coyly covering her face,
the other curved gently inwards, as though clasping an invisible
treasure. Asleep or awake, in rest or in motion, grave or gay, Agrippina
is always beautiful; and it is better to be beautiful than to fetch and
carry from the rising to the setting of the sun.
"But when Agrippina has breakfasted and washed, and sits in the sunlight
blinking at me with affectionate contempt, I feel soothed by her
absolute and unqualified enjoyment. I know how full my day will be of
things that I don't want particularly to do, and that are not
particularly worth doing; but for her, time and the world hold only this
brief moment of contentment. Slowly the eyes close, gently the little
body is relaxed. Oh, you who strive to relieve your overwrought nerves
and cultivate power through repose, watch the exquisite languor of a
drowsy cat, and despair of imitating such perfect and restful grace.
There is a gradual yielding of every muscle to the soft persuasiveness
of slumber: the flexible frame is curved into tender lines, the head
nestles lower, the paws are tucked out of sight: no convulsive throb or
start betrays a rebellious alertness: only a faint quiver of unconscious
satisfaction, a faint heaving of the tawny sides, a faint gleam of the
half-shut yellow eyes, and Agrippina is asleep. I look at her for one
wistful moment and then turn resolutely to my work. It were ignoble to
wish myself in her place: and yet how charming to be able to settle down
to a nap, _sans peur et sans reproche_, at ten o'clock in the
morning."
And again: "When I am told that Agrippina is disobedient, ungrateful,
cold-hearted, perverse, stupid, treacherous, and cruel, I no longer
strive to check the torrent of abuse. I know that Buffon said all this,
and much more, about cats, and that people have gone on repeating it
ever since, principally because these spirited little beasts have
remained just what it pleased Providence to make them, have preserved
their primitive freedom through centuries of effete and demoralizing
civilization. Why, I wonder, should a great many good men and women
cherish an unreasonable grudge against one animal because it does not
chance to possess the precise qualities of another? 'My dog fetches my
slippers for me every night,' said a friend, triumphantly, not long ago.
'He puts them first to warm by the fire, and then brings them over to my
chair, wagging his tail, and as proud as Punch. Would your cat do as
much for you, I'd like to know?' Assuredly not. If I waited for
Agrippina to fetch me shoes or slippers, I should have no other resource
save to join as speedily as possible one of the barefooted religious
orders of Italy. But after all, fetching slippers is not the whole duty
of domestic pets.
"As for curiosity, that vice which the Abbé Galiani held to be unknown
to animals, but which the more astute Voltaire detected in every little
dog that he saw peering out of the window of its master's coach, it is
the ruling passion of the feline breast. A closet door left ajar, a box
with half-closed lid, an open bureau drawer,--these are the objects that
fill a cat with the liveliest interest and delight. Agrippina watches
breathlessly the unfastening of a parcel, and tries to hasten matters by
clutching actively at the string. When its contents are shown to her,
she examines them gravely, and then, with a sigh of relief, settles down
to repose. The slightest noise disturbs and irritates her until she
discovers its cause. If she hears a footstep in the hall, she runs out
to see whose it is, and, like certain troublesome little people I have
known, she dearly loves to go to the front door every time the bell is
rung. From my window she surveys the street with tranquil scrutiny, and
if the boys are playing below, she follows their games with a steady,
scornful stare, very different from the wistful eagerness of a friendly
dog, quivering to join in the sport. Sometimes the boys catch sight of
her, and shout up rudely at her window; and I can never sufficiently
admire Agrippina's conduct upon these trying occasions, the well-bred
composure with which she affects neither to see nor to hear them, nor to
be aware that there are such objectionable creatures as children in the
world. Sometimes, too, the terrier that lives next door comes out to sun
himself in the street, and, beholding my cat sitting well out of reach,
he dances madly up and down the pavement, barking with all his might,
and rearing himself on his short legs, in a futile attempt to dislodge
her. Then the spirit of evil enters Agrippina's little heart. The window
is open and she creeps to the extreme edge of the stone sill, stretches
herself at full length, peers down smilingly at the frenzied dog,
dangles one paw enticingly in the air, and exerts herself with quiet
malice to drive him to desperation. Her sense of humor is awakened by
his frantic efforts and by her own absolute security; and not until he
is spent with exertion, and lies panting and exhausted on the bricks,
does she arch her graceful back, stretch her limbs lazily in the sun,
and with one light bound spring from the window to my desk."
And what more delightful word did ever Miss Repplier write than her
description of a kitten? It, she says, "is the most irresistible
comedian in the world. Its wide-open eyes gleam with wonder and mirth.
It darts madly at nothing at all, and then, as though suddenly checked
in the pursuit, prances sideways on its hind legs with ridiculous
agility and zeal. It makes a vast pretence of climbing the rounds of a
chair, and swings by the curtains like an acrobat. It scrambles up a
table leg, and is seized with comic horror at finding itself full two
feet from the floor. If you hasten to its rescue, it clutches you
nervously, its little heart thumping against its furry sides, while its
soft paws expand and contract with agitation and relief:--
"'And all their harmless claws disclose,
Like prickles of an early rose.'
"Yet the instant it is back on the carpet it feigns to be suspicious of
your interference, peers at you out of 'the tail o' its e'e,' and
scampers for protection under the sofa, from which asylum it presently
emerges with cautious, trailing steps as though encompassed by fearful
dangers and alarms."
Nobody can sympathize with her in the following description better than
I, who for years was compelled by the insistence of my Pretty Lady to
aid in the bringing up of infants:--
"I own that when Agrippina brought her first-born son--aged two
days--and established him in my bedroom closet, the plan struck me at
the start as inconvenient. I had prepared another nursery for the little
Claudius Nero, and I endeavored for a while to convince his mother that
my arrangements were best. But Agrippina was inflexible. The closet
suited her in every respect; and, with charming and irresistible
flattery, she gave me to understand, in the mute language I knew so
well, that she wished her baby boy to be under my immediate protection.
"'I bring him to you because I trust you,' she said as plainly as looks
can speak. 'Downstairs they handle him all the time, and it is not good
for kittens to be handled. Here he is safe from harm, and here he shall
remain,' After a few weak remonstrances, the futility of which I too
clearly understood, her persistence carried the day. I removed my
clothing from the closet, spread a shawl upon the floor, had the door
taken from its hinges, and resigned myself, for the first time in my
life, to the daily and hourly companionship of an infant.
"I was amply rewarded. People who require the household cat to rear her
offspring in some remote attic or dark corner of the cellar have no idea
of all the diversion and pleasure that they lose. It is delightful to
watch the little, blind, sprawling, feeble, helpless things develop
swiftly into the grace and agility of kittenhood. It is delightful to
see the mingled pride and anxiety of the mother, whose parental love
increases with every hour of care, and who exhibits her young family as
if they were infant Gracchi, the hope of all their race. During Nero's
extreme youth, there were times when Agrippina wearied both of his
companionship and of her own maternal duties. Once or twice she
abandoned him at night for the greater luxury of my bed, where she slept
tranquilly by my side, unmindful of the little wailing cries with which
Nero lamented her desertion. Once or twice the heat of early summer
tempted her to spend the evening on the porch roof which lay beneath my
windows, and I have passed some anxious hours awaiting her return, and
wondering what would happen if she never came back, and I were left to
bring up the baby by hand.
"But as the days sped on, and Nero grew rapidly in beauty and
intelligence, Agrippina's affection for him knew no bounds. She could
hardly bear to leave him even for a little while, and always came
hurrying back to him with a loud, frightened mew, as if fearing he might
have been stolen in her absence. At night she purred over him for hours,
or made little gurgling noises expressive of ineffable content. She
resented the careless curiosity of strangers, and was a trifle
supercilious when the cook stole softly in to give vent to her fervent
admiration. But from first to last she shared with me her pride and
pleasure; and the joy in her beautiful eyes, as she raised them to mine,
was frankly confiding and sympathetic. When the infant Claudius rolled
for the first time over the ledge of the closet and lay sprawling on the
bedroom floor, it would have been hard to say which of us was the more
elated at his prowess."
What became of these most interesting cats, is only hinted at; Miss
Repplier's sincere grief at their loss is evident in the following:--
"Every night they retired at the same time and slept upon the same
cushion, curled up inextricably into one soft, furry ball. Many times I
have knelt by their chair to bid them both good night; and always when I
did so, Agrippina would lift her charming head, purr drowsily for a few
seconds, and then nestle closer still to her first-born, with sighs of
supreme satisfaction. The zenith of her life had been reached. Her cup
of contentment was full.
"It is a rude world, even for little cats, and evil chances lie in wait
for the petted creatures we strive to shield from harm. Remembering the
pangs of separation, the possibilities of unkindness or neglect, the
troubles that hide in ambush on every unturned page, I am sometimes glad
that the same cruel and selfish blow struck both mother and son, and
that they lie together, safe from hurt or hazard, sleeping tranquilly
and always, under the shadow of the friendly pines."
Probably no modern cat has been more written about than Miss Mary L.
Booth's Muff. There was a "Tippet," but he was early lost. Miss Booth,
as the editor of _Harper's Bazar_, was the centre of a large circle
of literary and musical people. Her Saturday evenings were to New York
what Mrs. Moulton's Fridays are to Boston, the nearest approach to the
French salon possible in America. At these Saturday evenings Muff always
figured prominently, being dressed in a real lace collar (brought him
from Yucatan by Madame la Plongeon, and elaborate and expensive enough
for the most fastidious lady), and apparently enjoying the company of
noted intellectual people as well as the best of them. And who knows, if
he had spoken, what light he might have shed on what seemed to mere
mortals as mysterious, abstruse, and occult problems? Perhaps, after
all, he liked that "salon" because in reality he found so much to amuse
him in the conversation; and perhaps he was, under that guise of
friendly interest in noted scientists, reformers, poets, musicians, and
litterateurs, only whispering to himself, "O Lord, what fools these
mortals be!"
"For when I play with my cat," says Montaigne, "how do I know whether
she does not make a jest of me?"
But Muff was a real nobleman among cats, and extraordinarily handsome.
He was a great soft gray maltese with white paws and breast--mild,
amiable, and uncommonly intelligent. He felt it his duty to help
entertain Miss Booth's guests, always; and he more than once, at the
beginning of a reception, came into the drawing-room with a mouse in his
mouth as his offering to the occasion. Naturally enough "he caused the
stampede," as Mrs. Spofford puts it, "that Mr. Gilbert forgot to put
into 'Princess Ida' when her Amazons wild demonstrate their courage."
As one of Miss Booth's intimate friends, Mrs. Spofford was much at her
house and became early a devoted admirer of Muff's.
"His latter days," she says, "were rendered miserable by a little silky,
gray creature, an Angora named Vashti, who was a spark of the fire of
the lower regions wrapped round in long silky fur, and who never let him
alone one moment: who was full of tail-lashings and racings and leapings
and fury, and of the most demonstrative love for her mistress. Once I
made them collars with breastplates of tiny dangling bells, nine or ten;
it excited them nearly to madness, and they flew up and down stairs like
unchained lightning till the trinkets were taken off."
In a house full of birds Muff never touched one, although he was an
excellent mouser (who says cats have no conscience?). He was, although
so socially inclined toward his mistress's guests, a timid person, and
the wild back-yard cats filled him with terror.
"But as one must see something of the world," continues Mrs. Spofford,
"he used to jump from lintel to lintel of the windows of the block, if
by chance his own were left open, and return when he pleased."
Muff died soon after the death of Miss Booth. Vashti, who was very much
admired by all her mistress's literary friends, was given to Miss Juliet
Corson.
Miss Edna Dean Proctor, the poet, is another admirer of fine cats. Her
favorite, however, was the friend of her childhood called Beauty.
"Beauty was my grandmother's cat," says Miss Proctor, "and the delight
of my childhood. To this far-off day I remember her as distinctly as I
do my aunt and cousins of that household, and even my dear grandmother
herself. I know nothing of her ancestry and am not at all sure that she
was royally bred, for she came, one chill night, a little wanderer to
the door. But a shred of blue ribbon was clinging to her neck, and she
was so pretty, and silky, and winsome that we children at once called
her Beauty, and fancied she had strayed from some elegant home where she
had been the pet of the household, lapping her milk from finest china
and sleeping on a cushion of down. When we had warmed, and fed, and
caressed her, we made her bed in a flannel-lined box among our dolls,
and the next morning were up before the sun to see her, fearing her
owners would appear and carry her away. But no one arrived to claim her,
and she soon became an important member of the family, and grew
handsomer, we thought, day by day. Her coat was gray with tiger
markings, but paws and throat and nose were snowy white, and in spite of
her excursions to barns and cellars her constant care kept them
spotless--indeed, she was the very Venus of cats for daintiness and
grace of pose and movement. To my grandmother her various attitudes had
an undoubted meaning. If in a rainy day Beauty washed her face toward
the west, her observant mistress would exclaim: 'See, kitty is washing
her face to the west. It will clear.' Or, even when the sky was blue, if
Beauty turned eastward for her toilet, the comment would be: 'Kitty is
washing her face to the east. The wind must be getting "out" (from the
sea), and a storm brewing.' And when in the dusk of autumn or winter
evenings Beauty ran about the room, chasing her tail or frolicking with
her kittens instead of sleeping quietly by the fire as was her wont, my
grandmother would look up and say: 'Kitty is wild to-night. The wind
will blow hard before morning.' If I sometimes asked how she knew these
things, the reply would be, 'My mother told me when I was a little
girl.' Now her mother, my great-grandmother, was a distinguished
personage in my eyes, having been the daughter of Captain Jonathan
Prescott who commanded a company under Sir William Pepperell at the
siege of Louisburg and lost his life there; and I could not question the
wisdom of colonial times. Indeed, to this hour I have a lingering belief
that cats can foretell the weather.
"And what a mouser she was! Before her time we often heard the rats and
mice in the walls, but with her presence not one dared to peep, and
cupboard and pantry were unmolested. Now and then she carried her forays
to hedge and orchard, and I remember one sad summer twilight that saw
her bring in a slender brown bird which my grandmother said was the
cuckoo we had delighted to hear in the still mornings among the alders
by the river. She was scolded and had no milk that night, and we never
knew her to catch a bird again.
"O to see her with her kittens! She always hid them in the haymows, and
hunting and finding them brought us no end of excitement and pleasure.
Twice a day, at least, she would come to the house to be fed, and then
how we watched her returning steps, stealing cautiously along the path
and waiting behind stack or door the better to observe her--for pussy
knew perfectly well that we were eager to see her darlings, and enjoyed
misleading and piquing us, we imagined, by taking devious ways. How well
I recall that summer afternoon when, soft-footed and alone, I followed
her to the floor of the barn. Just as she was about to spring to the mow
she espied me, and, turning back, cunningly settled herself as if for a
quiet nap in the sunny open door. Determined not to lose sight of her, I
threw myself upon the fragrant hay; but in the stillness, the faint
sighing of the wind, the far-off ripple of the river, the hazy outline
of the hills, the wheeling swallows overhead, were blended at length in
an indistinct dream, and I slept, oblivious of all. When I woke, pussy
had disappeared, the sun was setting, the cows were coming from the
pastures, and I could only return to the house discomfited. That
particular family of kittens we never saw till a fortnight later, when
the proud mother brought them in one by one, and laid them at my
grandmother's feet.
"What became of Beauty is as mysterious as the fate of the Dauphin. To
our grief, she disappeared one November day, and we never saw her more.
Sometimes we fancied she had been carried off by an admiring traveller:
at others we tortured ourselves with the belief that the traditional
wildcat of the north woods had devoured her. All we knew was that she
had vanished; but when memory pictures that pleasant country home and
the dear circle there, white-throated Beauty is always sleeping by the
fire."
Miss Fidelia Bridges, the artist, is another devoted cat lover, and at
her home at Canaan, Ct., has had several interesting specimens.
"Among my many generations of pet cats," says Miss Bridges, "one
aristocratic maltese lady stands out in prominence before all the rest.
She was a cat of great personal beauty and independence of character--a
remarkable huntress, bringing in game almost as large as herself,
holding her beautiful head aloft to keep the great wings of pigeons from
trailing on the ground. She and her mother were fast friends from birth
to death. When the young maltese had her first brood of kittens, her
mother had also a family in another barrel in the cellar. When we went
to see the just-arrived family, we found our Lady Malty's bed empty, and
there in her mother's barrel were both families and both mothers. A
delightful arrangement for the young mother, who could leave her
children in the grandmother's care and enjoy her liberty when it pleased
her to roam abroad. The young lady had an indomitable will, and when she
decided to do a thing nothing would turn her aside. She found a favorite
resting-place on a pile of blankets in a dark attic room. This being
disapproved of by the elders, the door was kept carefully closed. She
then found entrance through a stove-pipe hole, high up on the wall of an
adjoining room. A cover was hung over the hole. She sprang up and
knocked it off. Then, as a last resort, the hole was papered over like
the wall-paper of the room. She looked, made a leap, and crashed through
the paper with as merry an air as a circus-rider through his papered
hoop. She had a habit of manoeuvring to be shut out of doors at
bed-time, and then, when all was still, climbing up to my window by
means of a porch over a door beneath it, to pass the night on my bed. In
some alterations of the house, the porch was taken away. She looked with
dismay for a moment at the destruction of her ladder, then calmly ran up
the side of the house to my window, which she always after continued to
do.
"Next in importance, perhaps, is my present intimate companion, now ten
years old and absolutely deaf, so that we communicate with signs. If I
want to attract his attention I step on the floor: if to go to his
dinner, I show him a certain blue plate: to call him in at night, I take
a lantern outside the door, and the flash of light attracts his
attention from a great distance. On one occasion he lived nine months
alone in the house while I made a trip to Europe, absolutely refusing
all the neighbors' invitations to enter any other house. A friend's
gardener brought him his daily rations. As warm weather came, he spent
his days in the fields, returning in the night for his food, so that at
my return it was two or three days before he discovered that the house
was open. The third evening he entered the open door, looked wildly
about for a moment, but when I put my hand on him suddenly recognized me
and overwhelmed me with affectionate caresses, and for two days and
nights would not allow me out of his sight, unable to eat or sleep
unless I was close at hand, and following me from room to room and chair
to chair. And people say that cats have no affection!"
At the Quincy House in Boston may be seen in the office an oil painting
of an immense yellow cat. The first time I noticed the picture, I was
proceeding into the dining room, and while waiting for dinner, was
amused at seeing the original of the picture walk sedately in, all
alone, and going to an empty table, seat himself with majestic grace in
a chair. The waiter, seeing him, came forward and pushed up the chair as
he would do for any other guest. The cat then waited patiently without
putting his paws on the table, or violating any other law of table
etiquette, until a plate of meat came, cut up to suit his taste (I did
not hear him give his order), and then, placing his front paws on the
edge of the table, he ate from his plate. When he had finished, he
descended from his table and stalked out of the room with much dignity.
He was always regular at his meals, and although he picked out a good
seat, did not always sit at the same table. He was in appearance
something like the famous orange cats of Venice, and attracted much
attention, as might be expected, up to his death, at a ripe old age.
Miss Frances Willard was a cat-lover, too, and had a beautiful cat which
is known to all her friends.
"Tootsie" went to Rest Cottage, the home of Frances Willard, when only a
kitten, and there he lived, the pet of the household and its guests,
until several years ago, when Miss Willard prepared to go abroad. Then
she took Tootsie in her arms, carried him to the Drexel kennels in
Chicago, and asked their owner, Mrs. Leland Norton, to admit him as a
member of her large cat family, where he still lives. To his praise be
it spoken, he has never forgotten his old friends at Rest Cottage. To
this day, whenever any of them come to call upon him, he honors them
with instant and hearty recognition. Miss Willard was sometimes forced
to be separated from him more than a year at a time, but neither time
nor change had any effect upon Tootsie. At the first sound of her voice
he would spring to her side. He is a magnificent Angora, weighing
twenty-four pounds, with the long, silky hair, the frill, or lord
mayor's chain, the superb curling tail, and the large, full eyes of the
thoroughbred. Then he has proved himself of aristocratic tendencies, has
beautiful manners, is endowed with the human qualities of memory and
discrimination, and is aesthetic in his tastes.
Being the privileged character that he is, Tootsie always eats at the
table with the family. He has his own chair and bib, and his manners are
said to be exquisite.