Part 12

KITTYCAT AND THE MILKMAN.

Mr. Milkman, please to stop! Fill my jug up to the top; Half for mother, half for me, Fresh and sweet milk let it be. Mother told me, too, to say, “Please to call here twice to-day.”

TWO HEARTS AND A KITTEN.

MABEL PREECE.

Timothy Dale, the blacksmith, sat beside the kitchen table in his tiny cottage, laboriously penning his first love letter. He destroyed sheet after sheet of writing paper in disgust at his misshapen letters and poor composition, until only one remained.

“It’s got ter come right on this ’ere one, or it can’t be done at all. The store’s closed fer th’ night an’ I ain’t got no more paper.”

“Dere Cynthia,” it read, “can you mete me bi the mill to morrow at 3. i luv you and wood like to no if you do the same and will marrie me plese not to forgit at 3 yours trooly Tim Dale.”

Cynthia Warden turned up the lamp and read the letter with no great surprise, for Timothy was not an adept in concealing his feelings. But Cynthia had been at boarding-school, and the honest but faulty epistle somewhat jarred on her. And then there was Walter Hughes.

Walter Hughes was a traveling salesman and at times visited his uncle, old Lawyer Hughes, the richest man in the place. At first the visits were infrequent, prompted by duty and the thought of “uncle’s little pile in the bank;” but after meeting Cynthia Warden he seemed to form an attachment for the village and spent much time there. His city-bred airs and refinement won Cynthia’s regards, and when he gave accounts of his thrilling experiences, her heart warmed to this hero of her girlish dreams. As she stood gazing out of her window, she almost laughed aloud at the thought of marrying Timothy Dale.

“Of course, it’s absurd. I might have thought him all very well had not Walter come;—but now it is out of the question.”

As Walter Hughes walked to Cynthia’s home the following afternoon his thoughts were extremely pleasant.

“The little game is progressing very favorably,” he murmured, rubbing his soft, flabby hands together in delight. “The girl is awfully smitten with me. She’ll come in for a goodly share of old Warden’s savings, and I might do worse than to marry her.”

He found Cynthia standing by the gate waiting for him.

“Come for a walk,” he suggested. “Cynthia,” he said, when they had exhausted the minor topics of the day, “I love you, and I believe you are not wholly indifferent to me. Will you marry me?”

Cynthia turned her eyes away that he might not see her great happiness, and as she did so they fell on an object by the roadside.

It was a kitten that some cruel boys had stoned. With a cry of pity she drew her hand from Hughes’s grasp and started toward the kitten, but he pulled her roughly back.

“Never mind the fool cat, Cynthia. What if it is hurt? I guess I’m of more importance than a kitten. Answer my question: will you marry me?”

It was as if a veil had been torn from her eyes. His cold, unsympathetic words, and still more, his pitiless face, betrayed the cruel, selfish nature of the man, and Cynthia’s face flushed with indignation and shame at the thought of having cared for such as he.

“No,” she responded quietly, but firmly, “I will not.”

He turned on his heel and left her standing there, and she buried her face in her hands, shuddering at the horror of what she had escaped.

A cheery voice roused her from her reverie.

“Well, Cynthia, girl, here you are! I’ve been looking by the mill for you, but as you warn’t there I thought I’d take a turn up this ’ere way an’ maybe I’d find—why, look at that pore little cat! Now, I’d jest like ter know who could ha’ done that! Wouldn’t I larrup their hide, though?”

He picked the kitten up and bound its wounded foot with his coarse red pocket-handkerchief. The hands of the burly fellow became as tender as a woman’s.

“I’ll jest take it home an’ fix it up,” he said carelessly, slightly ashamed of showing his soft-heartedness. “It’ll be sort ’er company ’bout the house. An’ now, Cynthia, I jest wanted ter know ef you’d do what I said in th’ letter—marry me—you know. I ain’t got much but a heart full of honest love ter give you, girl, but I’ll do my best by you an’ make you happy. I know I ain’t much, but—but—”

It was the longest speech the poor fellow had ever made and he broke down confusedly. But Cynthia, looking up at him with glistening eyes, said softly: “Will I marry you, Tim? Yes—with all my heart.”

Then, as with a low exclamation of surprise and joy he turned quickly toward her,—

“Look out!” she cried, laughing through the tears sparkling in her eyes, “Look out, or you’ll drop the kitten!”

LITTLE TURNCOATS.

GEORGIA A. PECK.

As passed the rector of All Saints’ one day, Obsequiously an old man crossed his way, And with “Good-mornin’, sir!” his head laid bare; Then, steadying his basket with all care, He turned its cover back to show within Three sleeping kittens, saying, with a grin, “I have some fine Episcopal kittens here That you might like to buy,—they won’t come dear.”

“Look here, old man!” called out a passer-by, “I see what you’re about, with half an eye! You tried to sell that lot to me last night As good, clean, Baptist kittens.”

“You are right, My friend, and they were Baptist then, all three, But ’twas before their eyes were opened! See?”

THE MISCHIEVOUS CAT.

MRS. E.J. CORBETT.

Little Pussy Pink-toes sat in the sun, Blinking, And thinking What next could be done? There wasn’t a mouse To be found in the house, Nor even a rat in the cellar—not one. And Pussy said, “Mi-ow! I wish I could find A nice bit of mischief just to my mind.”

Around the corner came Johnny McGee, Aged four, And no more, Plump and rosy, and pleasant to see. Not a moment he tarried, But carefully carried A pitcher of milk for his grandmother’s tea. “Ho! ho!” cried the cat— “I’d like to taste that; I’ll frighten young Johnny, and then he will flee.”

So this wicked pussy-cat quickly uprose, Raised her tail Like a sail, Showed the sharp claws in her little pink toes,— And grew bigger and bigger, A terrible figure— Poor Johnny was frightened, as you may suppose. And her tail, how it swelled— And her voice, how she yelled— ’Twas so dreadful that poor little Johnny stood there Quaking and shaking with fright and despair.

Pussy’s hair stood right up—her eyes were so green— Her jaws, And her claws, Made the ugliest picture that ever was seen— “I’m afraid—of that cat—” sobbed Johnny—“boo-hoo!” Then down, with a smash, The pitcher went—crash! And poor Johnny McGee Had lost all the milk for his grandmother’s tea.

So the milk was all spilled, and Pussy got none, Of course; She was cross, As she sat there washing her face in the sun. “Not even a taste Of that milk—what a waste!” “It wasn’t,” said Pussy, “the least bit of fun!”

DOWN TO ST. IVES.

As I went down to St. Ives I met seven wives. Each wife had seven sacks; Each sack, seven cats; Each cat, seven kits; Kits, cats, Sacks, wives, How many went down to St. Ives?

_Ans._—One; the rest came from there.

* * * * *

She saw them weigh the baby, and nothing then would do, But she must knot a handkerchief and weigh her kitty, too. “Oh, mamma, come and look!” she cried; “you mustn’t speak or laugh! My darling little kitty weighs a dollar and a half!”

KITTY AT SCHOOL.

KATE ULMER.

Come, Kitty dear, I’ll tell you what We’ll do this rainy day; Just you and I, all by ourselves, At keeping school, will play.

The teacher, Kitty, I will be; And you shall be the class; And you must close attention give, If you expect to pass.

Now, Kitty, “C-A-T” spells cat. Stop playing with your tail! You are so heedless, I am sure In spelling you will fail.

“C-A” oh, Kitty! do sit still! You must not chase that fly! You’ll never learn a single word, You do not even try.

I’ll tell you what my teacher says To me most ev’ry day— She says that girls can never learn While they are full of play.

So try again—another word; “L-A-C-E” spells “lace.” Why, Kitty, it is not polite In school to wash your face!

You are a naughty, naughty puss, And keep you in I should; But, then, I love you, dear, so much I don’t see how I could!

O, see! the sun shines bright again! We’ll run out doors and play; We’ll leave our school and lessons for Another rainy day.

BOY BLUE AND HIS GUN.

NELLIE M. GARABRAUT.

“Rub-a-dub-dub,” Said the boy in blue, “I have got a big gun And I will shoot you.”

“Oh, don’t shoot me,” Said the little brown dog; “Go down to the mill-pond, And shoot at a frog.”

“Oh, no, no!” Said the boy in blue; “I’ve made up my mind That I will shoot you.”

“I can’t shoot frogs, They won’t stand still, Ker-splash! they go under The wheel of the mill.”

“I shan’t stand still, No more than the frog, So you can’t shoot me,” Said the little brown dog.

He ran in a hole Right under the house And lay there as still— As still as a mouse.

“Well, I don’t care,” Said the boy in blue, “I’ll shoot a robin, and Bring him down, too.”

“Do,” cried the cat; “That will be nice, And I will crunch All his bones in a trice.”

The blue boy took aim, But aimed not aright, Or like cock-sparrow He shot in a fright.

The robin he missed But killed the old cat; His grandmother gave him A thrashing for that.

* * * * *

A certain room has eight corners; in every corner sits a cat, on every cat’s tail sits a cat, and before each cat is a cat. How many cats in the room? _Ans._—Eight cats.

WHY THE CAT ALWAYS FALLS UPON HER FEET.

_A Legend._

LOUISE JAMISON.

One day a magician was traveling through a great forest. He was a very good magician, and always ready to help any creature in need.

After he had gone a long way through the forest, he was very tired; and, as the sun was growing hot, he lay down at the foot of a big tree, and was soon asleep. While he slept, a great serpent came softly out of the thicket, and, as soon as it saw the man, it began to hiss to itself:

“Ah, ha! ah, ha, I’ve got him now! He’ll not spoil my supper again in a hurry. I could have eaten that cat last night if he had not driven me away. I’ll kill him for it now.”

So it crept nearer and nearer, and the magician slept on, without any thought of danger.

But it happened that the cat was watching. She was up in the tree, and she had not forgotten how the magician had saved her from this cruel serpent.

The serpent was very large and she was only a small cat, and she was terribly afraid, but she meant to save her good friend if she could.

So, just as the serpent was about to spring, she leaped down upon his back and stuck her paws deep into his head.

Wild with pain and anger, he tried to reach her with his deadly fangs, but she was always too quick for him, and she used her claws to such good purpose that her enemy soon lay dead.

Then she was so tired after her hard struggle that she had to lie down herself.

The magician found her beside him when he awoke, and when he saw the dead serpent he knew his life had been saved by his brave little friend.

“Dear little cat,” he said, “what can I do to show how much I thank you? Your eyes are quick to see, and your ears quick to hear; and for running your feet have been made swift, but one thing I can give you. All men shall know you as their friend, and your home shall be with them, and for your sake all cats shall leap where they will, and fall ever upon their feet.”

DAISY’S THANKSGIVING.

Now kitten-cat, Daisy, just hear me, And ’tend to each word that I say, And don’t frisk around so ’bout nothing, To-morrow ’ll be Thanksgiving Day. And if you don’t chew up your ribbon, Nor dabble it round in the snow, But behave all the time, just as pretty, You’ll have something splendid, you know.

There’s another thing, Daisy, I’ll tell you, Aunt Mary is coming to-day, To show us a sweet, darling baby, That’s named just like me—Allie May. And if it should happen to squeeze you, Or pull your long tail the least mite, You are not to scratch her nor bite her, For that wouldn’t be just polite.

We must do all we can that’ll please her, She being our company so; Besides, such a new little baby Ain’t had time to learn better, you know. So, if she does tease you, dear Daisy, Though, of course, I don’t say it is right, Please just get away from her easy, Not scratching the least little mite.

I s’pose you don’t know ’bout Thanksgiving, ’Cause you haven’t had one before; I’ll tell you: there’ll be a big turkey, And pie made of chickens—and more. And puddings all full of sweet raisins, And jelly and jam—such a treat! And if you’re a good kitten, Daisy, You’ll get a whole plateful to eat.

THE NEWSBOY’S CAT; OR THE FAM’LY MAN.

E.T. CORBETT.

Want any paper, Mister? Wish you’d buy ’em of me— Ten years old, an’ a fam’ly, An’ bizness dull, you see, Fact, Boss! There’s Tom, an’ Tabby, An’ Dad, an’ Mam, an’ Mam’s cat, None on ’em earnin’ money— What do you think of that?

Couldn’t Dad work? Why, yes, Boss, He’s working for Gov’ment now— They give him his board for nothin’— All along of a drunken row. An’ Mam? Well, she’s in the poorhouse— Been there a year or so; So I’m takin’ care of the others, Doin’ as well as I know.

Oughn’t to live so? Why, Mister, What’s a feller to do? Some nights when I’m tired and hungry, Seems as if each on ’em knew— They’ll all three cuddle around me, Till I get cheery, and say; Well, p’rhaps I’ll have sisters an’ brothers, An’ money an’ clothes, too, some day.

But if I do get rich, Boss, (An’ a lecturin’ chap one night Said newsboys could be Presidents If only they acted right); So, if I was President, Mister, The very first thing I’d do, I’d buy poor Tom an’ Tabby A dinner—an’ Mam’s cat, too!

None o’ your scraps an’ leavin’s, But a good square meal for all three; If you think I’d skimp my friends, Boss, That shows you don’t know me. So, ’ere’s your papers—come, take one, Gimme a lift, if you can— For now you’ve heard my story, You see, I’m a fam’ly man!

_MY PUSSY._

[Music: Tune “Buy a broom.”

1. I like little pussy, her coat is so warm, And if I don’t hurt her, she’ll do me no harm. So I’ll not pull her tail, nor drive her away, But pussy and I very gently will play.

2. She shall sit by my side, and I’ll give her some food, And she’ll love me, because I am gentle and good. I’ll pat little pussy, and then she will purr, And thus show her thanks for my kindness to her.

3. I’ll not pinch her ears, nor tread on her paw, Lest I should provoke her to use her sharp claw. I never will vex her, nor make her displeased, For pussy don’t like to be worried and teased.]

BOYS’ COMPOSITIONS ON CATS.

COMPOSITION I.

Cats is an insect what has no wings and has a long tail. It looks like fishworms, only fishworms hasn’t got no hair on it like cats has. Cats is black, and sets on back fentses and buzzes its wings, which it hasn’t got any. Cats is like locusts ’bout this, ’sept locust es got wings, an’ cats waves its talze ’bove its head, and don’t set on trees. Cats was a Namerican invention made by a Mr. Pharaoh, of Egypt, Illinois, ’bout one thousand years ago or so; I expect it was so or maybe more so. Anyway this man didn’t get no patent on cats, and they was copied by some fulish man who carried ’em to New Yorick where they have ruled things at night with a tight pair o’ strings, fur some daze. Cats has a hump back with long bristles onto it. It has a pair o’ lungs, which extends clean back to its tail, which is long. It uses all o’ these yere lungs in singin’ low, sweet melodies to the pail, watery mune, ’bout 1 o’clock in the morning. Cats sometimes sits on the comb of a slippery roof, an’ sizen sobs an’ squalls an’ strokes each other’s whiskers. Cats uses two legs to set on, one to stand on an’ t’other to fan his partner with. I know two cats what did this on our woodshed. I guess they did it because they thought they would shed. I know they got up there to shed, for me an’ Jack found half a hatful of catfur, an’ a pocketful o’ claws there the next mornin’. Wonder why they don’t shed in the daytime? Must be mune had something to do with it. Cats, unlike the insecks, don’t have no stingers. The bumblebee has. I onc’t caught a bumblebee an’ gave it to a cat. Cats don’t like bees, espeshly them what hez splinters in ther talez, wich this had. The thing stung all the way down and half way back again; the cat run about seventeen miles an’ then dropped down by the shady side of a stay-hack an’ quickly, without warnin’, he hastily died a sudden death all at once, for want of breath.

Onc’t when Jack an’ me was playin’ fishin’ in our well with a tom-cat tied to a string, Jack got hurt. He had the cat down in the well, waitin’ for a bite, an’ when his back was turned it crawled up the brick an’ clawed the sap outen him. After that Jack didn’t fule with cats.

I once knew a man who was wicked enough to throw a stove-lid through a big tom-cat at night, an’ the very next day he heard that his grandmother had broke her leg in New Orleans and several other places, which prove how wicked and sinful it is to disturb the critters; an’ that’s all I know about cats.

COMPOSITION II.

The cat which we had afor we got Mose was yeller, and didn’t have no ears, and not eny tail, too, cos they were cut off to make it go way from where it lived, for it was so ugly so it come to our house. One day my mother she sed wudent my father drown it, cos she knew where she cud get a nicer looking one. So my father he put it in a bag, and a brick in the bag, too, and threw it in the pond and went to his office, my father did. But the cat busted the bag string, and wen my father cum home it was lying under the sofa, but cum out to look at him. So they looked at one another for a long wile, and bime by my father sed to my mother: “Well, you are a mity poor hand to go shoppin’ for cats. Thisn is a site uglier than the other.”

COMPOSITION III.

Cats don’t like to swim, and never do except it’s an old cat that you want to get rid of and you do her up in a bag with some bricks and throw her into a mill-pond off the bridge, and then she’ll burst the bag and swim ashore and kite for home, so’s to be there to welcome you there, so’s you won’t feel lonesome.

Our cat lives in the house what times she don’t live over to Jones’s barn. She is real handy to throw stones at and to pull her tail and make her squawk. I make her squawk ten or six times a day, and the backs of my hands is drawed out in lines like a map, where her toe nails has got hitched.

Cats can climb telegraph poles and set on the ridgepoles of four-story houses without being dizzy headed, and they can sleep with one eye open and lay awake with both eyes shut.

I’d rather have a dog than a cat, any day. Dogs can race cats, they can race other dogs, they can race boys, or anything. Nobody ain’t scared of a cat. A mouse is; but not if it ain’t somewheres that it can’t get out of, or a rat, either. A dog can make a cat dead if he bites her enough. When he comes in the yard he can make her tail look like a Christmas tree. He can make her fix her back up like a camel. I ain’t afraid of thieves, but thieves are afraid of dogs. If a thief comes where a dog can get at him he’ll run like the deust; but the dog won’t run. A dog can watch a house better than a policeman. He won’t let the man that owns it come in the back yard in the middle of the night; but a cat would. If a man or any other thief was to sneak in, would a cat care? She’d go over the fence like lightning. That’s what! A dog knows when your home from school. He ain’t sleepy then. He has fun with old hats, if you give him one. You’ve got to pay for keeping him; but you don’t a cat; because a dog’s some good and a cat ain’t. I’d rather have a dog.

COMPOSITION IV.

If I had invented a cat, I should have made her without nails. Cats is full of music. They have concerts every night in our wood-shed, and no tickets to pay for. The rich and the poor alike are welcome to hear ’em.

Cats live on mice, and what cream and beefsteak they can steal out of the pantry. Sometimes they catch chickens, and that makes the old hen mad, and the old woman that owns the chickens madder. And she goes for the cat with a broom, and the cat climbs a tree and sits there and lafs at her, and goes to sleep and dreams she is in a kitchen again till it comes night, and then she climbs down back end fust and goes off to a concert to see the other cats. Thomas cats has the best voices and can sing bass and tenor both at once. It is nice to hear ’em, but when you sleep alone and wake suddenly by hearing of ’em, there is something or ruther that makes a feller’s flesh creep and the cold shivers run down his backbone.

Cats like to get on the spare bed among the shams and things, and paw ’em all down into a nest, and they like to go to sleep in your best coat. I expect they enjoy the fun of hearing you swear the next day when you brush it. I should if I was a cat.

Kittens is cats when they are first born, and there is an awful sight of ’em. They keep coming right along without regard to wind or weather.

They are dreadful cute, and can unwind more thread and tear up more fancy gimcracks that the girls make than any other known animal.

It ain’t lucky to kill a cat. I don’t know why. It is good luck to have one come to you if you keep her. You get rich right away, or poor, I forget which. Every cat has nine lives, and they don’t never die if let alone unless they have fits, which most of ’em has. A cat in a fit will beat a whole circus all to nothing, and the first thing you know she’ll come right out of it and go to eating milk just as if nothing had happened.

DOG AND CAT.

There were once a dog and a cat, Who out on the door-step sat. The dog said “Bow,” and the cat “Mieuw!” Then they both ran after a rat, rat, rat; Then they both ran after a rat.

The cat caught the rat in a trice; Said she: “Don’t you think it is nice?” The dog said “Bow,” and the cat “Mieuw!” Then they wiped their whiskers twice, twice, twice; Then they wiped their whiskers twice.

PUSSY WILLOWS.

O Mabel! O Fannie! Come out for fun! Old winter is going! Now, now, there’ll be fun! The boys, with their marbles, are down on their knees, And wee willow pussies are climbing the trees.

The dandelion blossoms will show us their gold, The pansies their droll little faces unfold, The blue-birds will come and the robins and bees, For wee willow pussies are climbing the trees.

The ants will creep up from their holes in the ground, The blundering beetles will come bumping ’round, The frogs will be singing in all sorts of keys, For wee willow pussies are climbing the trees.

I love them! I love them—those sweet little cats! They’re not much for frolic nor catching of rats; But don’t the spring goodies come back by degrees When they are seen climbing the old willow tree?