Part 11

“Now, I, every day, rush away to the lake, And in the clear water I dive and I swim; I dry my wet fur with a run and a shake, And am fresh as a rose and neat as a pin. But you any day in the sun may be seen, Just rubbing yourself with your red little tongue; I admire the grace with which it is done— But, really, now, are you sure you get yourself clean?”

And Pussy sat swelling with rage and surprise, At this from her nice little doggie friend, For she had always supposed herself rather precise, And of her sleek neatness had bragged without end; So she flew at that doggie and boxed both his ears, Scratched his nose and his eyes, and spit in his face, And set him off yelping from pain and disgrace.

CAT AND PAINTER.

ELEANOR H. PORTER.

“Me-ow-w!”

It was a plaintive wail that came from behind the ash barrel in the alley-way.

It had been so delightful to scurry out the hall-door when Miss Dorothy was not looking—out into the bright sunshine, where the red and yellow leaves were chasing each other down the smooth walk in front of the house.

Then there came a time when the sunshine fled and the leaves lay quiet, refusing to play, even when she poked them with her little insistent paw. She had run far down the street, and everything was new and strange to her. A big dog bounced around the corner, and she was obliged to scramble up a tree.

She had but just accomplished her fearsome descent when a group of boys hailed her appearance with yells of delight. Then to her tail—her beautiful fluffy tail—they tied a cruel cord with a jangling tin can at the end. Down the street she wildly fled, around corners, through back alleys, followed always by that deafening rattle dangling at the tip of her tail.

The shouts of the boys grew fainter and fainter, and finally ceased altogether. It was then that she stopped, and tugged and bit at the knotted cord until at last she could switch her tail from side to side—free from its hated burden.

“Me-ow-w!”

“Whew! little cat, is it so bad as all that?”

He was tall, wore a soft black hat, and carried a cane, which he playfully twirled over the kitten’s head as he spoke.

The kitten’s tail came upright instantly, waving an appreciative welcome to the kindly tones.

Two blocks down the street, the man ran up the steps of a house. His latch-key was in his hand before he spied the kitten. She had sprung lightly to the topmost step and was now facing him.

“Why—pussy!”

“Meow!”

Mechanically the man obeyed the obvious command, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. The kitten was inside the hall with a bound.

“Oh, what a beauty, Mr. Heywood! Where did you get it?” asked the landlady.

“That’s just the trouble, Mrs. Merriam; I didn’t get it at all—it came!”

“Came to you? How perfectly lovely! The very best sign of good luck that you could possibly have! There’s not a bit of doubt now, Mr. Heywood—your picture will be a certain success.”

“But what am I going to do with it?” asked Heywood.

“Do with it? Why, you’re going to keep it.”

The kitten had arrived with a bedraggled ribbon of what had once been lustrous white satin around her neck. This forlorn bit of finery Heywood at once consigned to the wastebasket, substituting a band of blue cut from a roll of ribbon, after scrutiny of his guest’s eyes to obtain just the proper shade; but the roll of ribbon soon began to show signs of a rapid disappearance, so frequently was the necklet renewed. This was owing to the fact that the kitten’s usual companions, during her waking hours, were Heywood’s tubes of paints.

The first time she had jumped upon his low stand and poked her inquisitive nose into his paint-box, he had looked on in dumb dismay. A skirmish, a sweep of a yellow paw—and a tube of Rose Madder leaped from the box and scurried across the floor with the kitten in full pursuit.

It was then that Heywood had caught up his crayon and drawn hurried lines on the canvas before him; and it was that rough sketch that became the first study for his famous picture “The Kittens’ Playground.”

After that he used every device in his power to interest the kitten in that paint-box.

From the very first the little stranger had not lacked for a name. She was always referred to as “Her Majesty,” and right royally she ruled the household. It was two weeks before Her Majesty’s new surroundings palled upon her and she longed for other worlds to conquer. Coincident with this longing came the open back-yard gate. A wild scamper, and she was free—out in the wide, wide world! Through the alley and across the lot another open gate tempted her. Up the steps, through the kitchen door and on into the dining-room pattered the little yellow feet.

“Why, Queenie!—you darling!” and she was in Miss Dorothy’s arms.

“Where have you been? You little dear—you’re as plump as a partridge, anyway! Some one has appreciated you. But they’ve taken off your pretty white ribbon and put on a horrid blue one. We’ll go and change it, sweetheart. I never did like blue!”

Meanwhile on the other side of the square consternation reigned.

“Where’s Her Majesty?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll hunt her up,” responded Mrs. Merriam.

Perhaps the kitten missed her box of pigment playthings, or perhaps she longed for the masculine homage she did not find at home; at any rate, three days later, when she heard a familiar call from across the open lot, she slipped through the back-yard gate, and hurried in the direction of Mrs. Merriam’s voice.

“I’ve got her,” she announced breathlessly, “but I guess she’s found her home, Mr. Heywood. I don’t know’s we ought to keep her—you see her ribbon’s changed.”

“Yes, I see it is. But that’s easily remedied. I shan’t paint her in a white one.”

“But—shall we keep her?” asked Mrs. Merriam timidly.

“We’ll try to—until the picture is done, anyway.”

When the kitten had first come to the house, Heywood had been engaged upon an elaborate landscape, which he had intended to finish and present to the judges of a forthcoming Art Exhibition. But since the first study of “Her Majesty,” his interest in the landscape had waned. Abandoning his original plan, he was now hard at work on “The Kittens’ Playground,” determined to exhibit that or nothing. For a week Her Majesty was closely guarded and the picture grew apace; then one day she disappeared. High and low they searched, but all in vain.

Across the square Miss Dorothy was tenderly caressing an animated ball of yellow fur.

“Queenie, Queenie, what does this mean? What am I to think when you run away from me so? Who are your new friends that insist on tying on these odious blue ribbons around your neck? Here, just let me take off the horrid thing and—why, what is this!” she exclaimed, interrupting herself in amazement as a tiny crumpled paper dropped into her hand.

“Kindly leave the blue ribbon on. I like it better—it’s more artistic,” she read.

“Well, really—impertinent creature!” Then she laughed, caught up a pencil, and wrote on the back of the paper:

“So sorry, but I prefer white!”

When the small yellow cat and the big white bow appeared before Heywood that night, he laughed outright. With careful fingers he undid the knot, and then he laughed again.

“As I expected—graceful, in spite of disadvantages.”

When the blue again adorned the kitten’s neck, it bore with it this message:

“I regret to be obliged a second time to call your attention to the fact that blue is the only possible ribbon for this cat. Look at her eyes!”

The picture was nearly done now. Her Majesty came and went much at her own sweet will, and it was not two days before another huge white bow appeared on her neck to mock Heywood’s gaze. His fingers shook a little as he untied the knot and freed the tiny crumpled paper.

“I regret to be obliged a second time to call your attention to the fact that I prefer white. Look at her—whiskers!” he read.

The time of the Exhibition arrived and Heywood had thoughts for but one thing. At last his picture was hung, and so attractive did it prove to be that it bid fair to realize his dearest hopes.

It represented the interior of an artist’s studio. The whole was but the setting for four yellow kittens—the cleverest, most fascinating yellow kittens in the world, peeping from behind curtains, tumbling among rugs, rolling over tubes of paint—life-like, bewitching, and altogether perfection.

It was on the third day of the Exhibition that a tall girl in drooping feathers and rich furs stopped before the picture with an exclamation of delight.

“It’s Queenie!—why, it’s Queenie to the very life!” “C.R. Heywood. Not for sale,” she read disappointingly from her catalogue; then she sought the manager.

“‘The Kittens’ Playground’—it is not for sale,” she asked.

“No, madam.”

“But the artist, Heywood—does he live in the city? Can you give me his address?”

“Thirty-four Union Avenue, madam,” replied the man, consulting his book.

Dorothy Marsh was not a young woman who dallied. Once determined on a course, action quickly followed. Her mother, always gentle and pleasantly acquiescent, was hurried into the carriage and the order, “Thirty-four Union Avenue,” given to the coachman.

Upon their arrival at the house, the two ladies were shown into the studio, and in a moment Heywood appeared.

The girl was in the middle of the floor, turning round and round in amazement.

“Why, they’re all Queenies, every one of them!” she exclaimed.

The man bowed, and a peculiar smile flickered across his face.

“They are, indeed, all—‘Her Majesty’s.’”

He had not time to say more, for at the first tones of the girl’s voice, there was the crash of a falling vase and the scampering of little feet from an inner room. Then with a spring and a bound a small yellow kitten landed in Miss Dorothy’s outstretched arms.

There was a moment’s awkward silence. Mrs. Marsh unconsciously came to the rescue.

“Why, it is our kitten, isn’t it? This must be where she goes so often, daughter.”

The color deepened in the girl’s cheeks and she threw a quick glance at Heywood.

“It evidently is, mother,” she laughed.

Mrs. Marsh turned to the artist.

“My daughter has taken a great fancy to your kitten picture at the Exhibition, Mr. Heywood. We—er—I see that the catalogue states that it is not for sale.”

“Indeed, madam, it _was_ my intention to keep the picture,” he began, speaking to the mother, though looking at the daughter, “but—”—the kitten jumped from the girl’s arms to the floor and began playing with a tube of paint—“Well, there are circumstances,” he continued, then paused again.

“Yes, there are circumstances,” repeated the girl softly, her eyes on the kitten.

“Yes, circumstances which—which alter determinations,” he suddenly concluded, following her gaze with his eyes.

Dorothy was strangely silent through the rest of the interview.

It was when the ladies were leaving that the artist placed Her Majesty into Dorothy’s arms. His hand rested in a momentary caress on the round yellow head, then his fingers just touched the white bow at the neck.

“The ribbon in the picture, Miss Marsh,” he began, closely studying the girl’s face, “shall I change it to—er—white?”

“Thank you, no. I—I prefer the blue,” she answered, with a sudden flash from her eyes and a dazzling smile.

Her Majesty is older now. She is plump, sleek, and of stately dignity, and her eyes—once turquoise—gleam with shifting amber lights. Her present realm is a certain mansion. Incidentally, it is also the home of the artist, Heywood, and of his wife, Dorothy.

* * * * *

_Ques._—When is a tea-pot like a kitten?

_Ans._—When you’re teasin’ it (tea’s in it).

DIRTY KITTY-CAT.

STANLEY SCHELL.

_Written expressly for this book_.

You surely have heard of the bad kitty-cat, A source of great grief to her mother, I’m sorry to say if you search round about, You’ll doubtless find many another. She did love dirt, and she did not love soap, And she certainly hated a tubbing, And her mother declared if she did not keep clean, She’d give her a thorough good scrubbing.

She won’t be happy when she gets it, No, she won’t be happy when she gets it, Now, just take my word, ’Tis the truth you have heard, She won’t be happy when she gets it.

Kitty cared not a bit for her dear mother’s threat, Too often she’d heard the same story, Till one fated day to her home she returned, All muddy, and dirty, and gory. She’d just had a fall, she smilingly said, When mother remarked her condition; Then she walked to her rug and curled down for a nap, And did nothing to show her contrition.

Oh, she’ll be happy when she gets it, Now, won’t she be happy when she gets it? For I saw her mother’s eye, As kitty gaily passed her by, And I know she’ll be happy when she gets it.

That mud and dirt and gore Were really the last straw to break the camel’s back, That mother watched that kit, then looked about her quick, And decided that the time was very ripe for her to act. She seized that little kit by the back of the neck, And dragged her to a fast-running stream, All in vain were her screams, For into that stream was she hastily and speedily tossed.

Oh, wasn’t she happy when she got it! I told you that she’d be so; But she swam for her dear life, To the shore where mother stood, And promised ever more to be good, For she wasn’t a bit happy when she got it.

DICKENS AND HIS KITTEN.

Charles Dickens was particularly fond of cats. One little deaf kitten had the liberty of her master’s study. She followed him about like a dog and sat beside him while he wrote.

One evening Dickens was reading by a small table upon which stood a lighted candle. As usual, the cat was at his elbow. Suddenly the light went out.

Dickens was deeply interested in his book, and he proceeded to relight the candle, stroking the cat while he did so. Afterward he remembered that puss had looked at him somewhat reproachfully while she received the caress. It was only when the light again became dim that the reason of her melancholy suddenly dawned upon him.

Turning quickly, he found her deliberately putting out the candle with her paw, and again she looked at him appealingly. She was lonesome; she wanted to be petted, and this was her device for gaining her end.

LINCOLN’S MOTHERLESS KITTENS.

MRS. FREDERICK W. PENDER.

_Written expressly for this book_.

[During one of President Lincoln’s visits to the Army of the Potomac three tiny kittens were crawling about the tent. The mother had died, and the little wanderers were expressing their grief by mewing piteously. Mr. Lincoln took them on his lap, stroked their soft fur, and murmured, “Poor little creatures! Don’t cry; you’ll be taken good care of;” and, turning to an officer, said: “Colonel, I hope you will see that these poor, little, motherless waifs are given plenty of milk and treated kindly.” The Colonel replied: “I will see, Mr. President, that they are taken in charge by the cook of our mess, and are well cared for.” Several times during his stay, Mr. Lincoln was found fondling these kittens. He would wipe their eyes tenderly with his handkerchief, stroke them, and listen to them purring their gratitude to him. It was a curious sight at an army headquarters, upon the eve of a great military crisis in the nation’s history, to see the hand that had signed the Emancipation Proclamation tenderly caressing these stray kittens.]

A mother cat with kittens three, Was such a pretty sight to see; All curled around her, soft and warm, Those babies knew no fear or harm.

Their noses were a rosy pink; Their tiny eyes, they tried to blink; While pussy sang, as mothers do, And babies tried to join her, too.

And, then, they were so happy there All in a tent, without a care; And oft the mother purred with pride, When those wee mites were by her side.

She washed their faces and their feet, With velvet paw, for she was neat; And taught them how to run and play, And they grew cunning ev’ry day.

But, oh! this good old pussy died, And those wee babies cried and cried! They did not know that she was dead, And sorely begged they to be fed.

They crawled around both day and night, No mother there, how sad their plight, And how their little hearts did beat At ev’ry sound of coming feet.

A man was passing by the tent, He paused, then quickly in he went. He saw those waifs, he picked them up And called for milk for them to sup.

Then softly murmured “not to cry,” A friend you have now I am nigh. He stroked their fur, and soothed their fears, And even wiped away their tears.

Those grateful babies purred and purred, At kindly touch and gentle word; For Lincoln was their friend in need, And love shown in his ev’ry deed.

And he whose pen had freed a race, Thought petting kittens no disgrace, Nor stooping to a thing so small, For God had made them, one and all.

His great heart beat for them, indeed, As much as for the race he freed; And in the years that faster come, All love to think of this deed done.

* * * * *

_Ques._—Why is the world like a cat’s tail?

_Ans._—Because it is fur to the end of it.

MY OL’ BLACK CAT.

FLAVIA ROSSER.

You jes’ orter to see my ol’ black cat; ’E’s soft like a cushion, but nicer’n that. ’E’s made out o’ velvet, an’ stuffed ’ith springs, An’ ther’s sumpin’ in ’im wot whizzes an’ sings. ’Is eyes ’r round ’s marbles, an’ bigger’n any o’ mine; They’re jes’ chock full o’ meanness, an’ wink, an’ blink, an’ shine. We ketch ’im an’ hol’ ’im in th’ dark, an’ rub ’im—my pa an’ I, ’N’ you orter to see them ’lectric sparks wot crackle, an’ snap, an’ fly. Sometimes my pa’ll take that cat an’ touch ’is nose to ’is—— I wouldn’t do it ’cause it hurts, and makes pa say, “Gee wiz’!” But sometimes pa is differunt, and them is the times wot he Takes me out to the woodshed an’ kinder wallops me. It gets so dark in the woodshed ’at I sneak up near th’ door, But th’ other children won’t come out, nor play ’ith me no more. My ma, she works ’ith her head tucked down, so’s not to see me cry; Them times I think how sorry this fambly ’ud be if I’d die. But yip! ’cross th’ big, black garden, my cat comes hoppity-skip, ’E never even looks to see th’ place pa throwed the whip; ’E humps ’is back up ’gainst me, an’ snuggles, and sniffs an’ sings; An’ stickles me ’ith ’is viskers, an’ talks ’bout other things. O’ course I love my ol’ black cat; w’y it seems to me at times like that I love ’im better’n I love ma, ‘n’ a good deal better’n I love pa.

* * * * *

Spell live mouse-trap with three letters.

C-A-T (cat).

THE DEAD KITTEN.

SYDNEY DAYRE.

Don’t talk to me of parties, Nan; really, I can not go. When folks are in affliction they don’t go out, you know. I have a new brown sash, too; it seems a pity, eh? That such a dreadful trial should have come just yesterday. The play-house blinds are all pulled down as dark as it can be, It looks so very solemn and so proper, don’t you see? And I have a piece of crape pinned on my dolly’s hat; Tom says it is ridiculous for only just a cat. But boys are all so horrid! They always, every one, Delight in teasing little girls and kitties, “just for fun.” The way he used to pull her tail—it makes me angry now— And scat her up the cherry-tree to make the darling “meow.” I’ve had her all the summer. One day, away last spring, I heard a frightful barking, and I saw the little thing In the corner of a fence; ’twould have made you laugh outright To see how every hair stood out, and how she tried to fight. I shooed the dog away, she jumped upon my arm; The pretty creature knew I wouldn’ do her any harm; I hugged her close, and carried her to mamma, and she said She should be my own Kitty, if I’d see that she was fed. A cunning little dot she was, with silky, soft, gray fur; She’d be for hours on my lap, and I could hear her purr, And then she’d frolic after when I pulled a string about, Or try to catch her tail or roll a marble in and out. Such comfort she has been to me I’m sure no one can tell, Unless some other little girl who loves her pussy well. I’ve heard about a Maltese cross; but my dear little Kit Was always sweet and amiable, and never cross a bit! But, oh, last week I missed her! I hunted all around; My darling little pussy cat was nowhere to be found, I knelt and whispered softly, when nobody could see: “Take care of little Kitty, _please_ and bring her back to me.” I found her lying yesterday behind the lower shed; I thought my heart was broken when I found that she was dead. Tom promised me another one, but even he can see No other Kitty ever will be just the same to me. I can’t go to your party, Mamie. Macaroons, you say? And ice-cream? I know I ought to try and not give way; And I feel it would be doing wrong to disappoint you so, Well, if I’m equal to it by to-morrow, I may go.

MY CAT AND DOG.

MARORI.

I have a cat; she’s as black as my hat. Fur fifty times finer than silk, And what e’er is occurring, she always is purring, Especially over her milk. And I have a dog, too, a wonderful dog, Nobility beams in his eye; And, early or late, for his master he’ll wait— None such friends as dear doggie and I.

His dear, honest nose he shoves into my hand, Yet growls if a rogue comes in view; And his great wagging tail makes one quite understand He’s a watchman both fearless and true. A trio of jolly companions are we, Together we pleasantly jog; Indulge in no riot, but live very quiet— Myself and my cat and my dog.

THE LOST MITTENS.

Three little kittens lost their mittens, And they began to cry, “O mother dear, We very much fear That we have lost our mittens.”

“Lost your mittens! You naughty kittens! Then you shall have no pie.” “Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.” “No, you shall have no pie.” “Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.”

The three little kittens found their mittens, And they began to cry, “O mother dear, See here, see here, See! we have found our mittens.”

“Put on your mittens, You silly kittens, And you may have some pie.” “Purr-r, purr-r, purr-r, Oh, let us have the pie. Purr-r, purr-r, purr-r.”

The three little kittens put on their mittens, And soon ate up the pie; “O mother dear, We greatly fear That we have soiled our mittens.”

“Soiled your mittens! You naughty kittens!” Then they began to sigh, “Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.” Then they began to sigh, “Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.”

The three little kittens washed their mittens And hung them out to dry; “O mother dear, Do you not hear, That we have washed our mittens?”

“Washed your mittens! Oh, you’re good kittens. But I smell a rat close by!” “Hush, hush! mee-ow, mee-ow! We smell a rat close by! Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow!”