Part 3

I really wish you’d all sit still, And try to hear a curious tale That happened just the other day. There is another yellow cat Who sits behind a golden frame, And looks so very much like me You’d think that we were just the same. Yet, when I mew aloud or call, She moves her mouth again to me, But makes no sound at all. And to the dullest kitten It’s plain enough to see That either I am mocking her, Or she is mocking me. It makes no difference what I play, She seems to know the game; For every time I look around I see her do the same. And yet no matter though I creep On tiptoe lest she hear, Or quickly dash behind the frame, She’s sure to disappear.

A Wise Mouse.

By

Mary·Raymond·Garretson.

Purred the Cat, “Pretty Mouse, come out of the wall, And make me this evening, a neighborly call: Then into the cupboard, we’ll quietly creep, To steal bread and cheese, while the family sleep.”

“No thanks, Tabby dear,” squealed old Mrs Mouse, “I’ll remain in my hole, while you’re in the house: On your good behavior I dare not depend, For last night, you swallowed my intimate friend.”

THE CAT THAT CAME TO SCHOOL.

_Action Poem._

Why here’s a pussy come to school! What do [1]_you_ want, my dear? You [2]prick your ears and [3]gaze about, And seem to feel no fear.

Ah! next I see you [4]wash yourself, That’s right! Miss Pussy Cat; We scholars here must all be clean— I’m glad you think of that.

Now pussy [5]looks all around again, Then gives a little “mew,” And [6]shakes the bell tied [7]round her neck, With bit of ribbon blue.

[8]Upon the table pussy jumps, [9]Then to the Maypole goes; Oh! kitty, would you like to dance, As we do, on our [10]toes?

[11]Next to the class-room door she goes, I’m sure she wants to learn. [12]Come in, come in, then, pussy cat, And [13]read when it’s your turn.

But pussy only says [14]“Mew, mew,” And [15]looks in teacher’s face: [16]Oh, puss, I fear you’ll be a dunce, And leave in sad disgrace!

How prettily you sit and [17]curl Your long tail round your feet! And look so cozy and content, You must think school a treat.

DIRECTIONS.

[Footnote 1: Point out.]

[Footnote 2: Raise forefinger of each hand, and put one on each side of head.]

[Footnote 3: Look around.]

[Footnote 4: Pretend to wash face.]

[Footnote 5: Same as 3.]

[Footnote 6: Hold hands loosely and shake.]

[Footnote 7: Point to neck.]

[Footnote 8: Raise both hands.]

[Footnote 9: Point outward.]

[Footnote 10: Tap toes lightly.]

[Footnote 11: Point to door.]

[Footnote 12: Beckon.]

[Footnote 13: Hold hands together, palms upward.]

[Footnote 14: Let a few children imitate mewing.]

[Footnote 15: Look intently at teacher.]

[Footnote 16: Move forefinger.]

[Footnote 17: Curve right arm around to left side.]

WHAT PUSS THINKS.

Pray tell me why a heartless pup Should care to worry _me_— A gentle, peaceful pussy cat— And chase me up a tree?

The pup cannot be angry; why, His eyes are bright with fun; And yet, ah me! with all my heart I wish I had a gun!

Then I would bang his wagging tail, And laugh to hear him howl, Just as he barks with glee at me, While I can only growl.

“But how about the mouse?” you ask. Oh, well, of course I do Catch mice, and tease them, too, a bit; But, really, wouldn’t you?

CATS.

EVE LAWLESS.

There are women in this world, and men, too, who, I think, were intended for cats instead of human beings. Notice their soft velvety paws as they beg some favor of you; and then offend them, I’ll be bound you’ll see the claws, and feel them, too.

That person, who creeps around your house with stealthy tread and catlike caution, take my word for it, means mischief, and if you don’t hear some rumors regarding yourself, then I am no prophet.

A cat will kill a bird, eat it, wash her paws, and look up in your face, as though she said, “I don’t see who could have eaten that canary.” Can’t you think of some individual who bears a resemblance to that cat?

Hasn’t some one been casting aspersions upon your character, and said foul things about you, and then licked her paws—I mean washed her hands—and put on a grave-yard look, saying, at the same time, “How can people talk so about their neighbors?”

I hate these cats. I want to have a person candid, upright and outspoken, not palaver before your face, and backbite you when you haven’t the ghost of a chance to defend yourself. It always makes me shiver to hear a catlike tread.

Hallo! Here comes another cat. This time it comes in the shape of an anonymous correspondent, who wishes Eve to write to him on Love! I beg your pardon; I don’t write to promiscuous people, and especially to those who are ashamed to write more than their initials. When a man is not willing to sign his name fair and square to a letter, it doesn’t strike me that he can be any too proud of it. This anonymous letter-writing is of too catlike a nature to suit me.

Have I any more cats handy? I think so. Imagine you have written a poem; some friend praises it, stroking your fur the right way, figuratively speaking. Let another friend tell you of its faults, rubbing the fur contrariwise, won’t you spit, and scratch, and mew something about somebody’s having no taste? Why _are_ we plagued with so many catlike attitudes?

INTELLIGENT CAT.

GRACE BACON HOLWAY.

A rush and a dash and a scamper, A warm, nestling armful of fur; Our brief game of tag—being over— Gave place to the tenderest purr.

He measures a yard in the morning When stretched in a sweet, dreamless sleep, The rich, tawny fur, soft as velvet, Showing broad, even stripes, dark and deep.

He lies on my lap in the sunshine, I rock him to sleep on my arm, I feel all the pleasure of loving, And striving to shield him from harm.

He runs up the tree to my window To tap with his paw on the pane And plead, in his sweet coaxing language, For comfort and shelter again.

Each movement of gentle contentment, Replete with luxurious grace, Proclaims him at once and forever The king of the feline race.

DECORATION OF HONOR.

L.E. STREET.

“You—ow—w!” said Blitzen. “What are you doing on my premises?”

The other cat looked up from the plate before him. He was enjoying the good breakfast which had been placed upon it.

“I’m visiting here with my mistress.”

“What is your name?” further inquired Blitzen, still waving his tail, though in a somewhat less warlike manner; “and why is that blue ribbon tied on your collar?”

“My mistress calls me Herculo. I’m a pure-blooded Angora, and that blue ribbon is for a prize I took in a cat show. I’ve taken four.”

“Humph! Well, my name is Blitzen, which means lightning. I’m called that because I can scratch with my claws just as quick and sharp as lightning can strike. I’m just a plain cat, and never took a prize in my life; but I can catch mice and sparrows and climb a tree like a squirrel.”

Again the tail waved. Herculo looked duly impressed.

“Gr-r-r!” continued Blitzen, beginning to eat the breakfast which lay on another plate close by. “Don’t you dare touch any of my breakfast. Keep to your own plate.”

This was the way the two cats began their friendship. It did not take Blitzen long to grow quite amiable, especially when he saw how respectfully Herculo watch his exploits.

One morning Blitzen started off before daylight on an expedition, which kept him longer than he meant it should.

“Plates empty, eh?” he mused as he reached the kitchen door. “Now, what a good thing it was that I caught that mouse. Where can Herculo be, I wonder.”

“Meow-ow! Meow-ow!”

Blitzen pricked up his ears.

“That sounds familiar!”

“Me-ow-ow!”

“Herculo, as sure as I’m a cat! He must be in some scrape. Now, which direction—ah, front lawn, I guess.” And Blitzen ambled away thither.

“Meow-ow!”

Blitzen looked up in the larch tree, high up in the branches of which clung Herculo. Just beyond his reach sat a dozen sparrows twittering with bird laughter at the terror and discomfort of their would-be enemy.

“Hullo!” said Blitzen calmly. “Why don’t you come down?”

“Ca-an’t—it’s so hi-igh! I’ll fall.”

“What made you climb up there, anyhow, if you were too scared to come down again?”

“To hunt the sparrows. Meow!”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the sparrows. “Chee, chee!”

“Well, you just swing your hind feet off to the next branch below, can’t you?” said Blitzen.

Herculo tried, but was too frightened to succeed.

“I can’t,” he wailed again. “Yow-w-w!”

Blitzen walked around the tree and viewed him critically from all sides. Then he started for the barn. Herculo felt himself deserted, and yowed despairingly.

Blitzen trotted on. At the barn he found John, the man, and rubbing persuasively against his legs, said, “Meow!”

John stooped and petted him. Acknowledging the stroke of the friendly hand, Blitzen repeated firmly, “Meow!” Then he went a few steps toward the door and turned to see if John understood.

“What’s up, Blitzen, ye sinner?” asked John.

“Meow!” replied Blitzen, trotting ahead.

“Sure, he’s a knowin’ animal. He do be wantin’ somethin’. I’ll go with him,” was John’s conclusion.

And then Blitzen triumphantly led him to the tree where Herculo still clung, and still howled dolefully.

“Av coorse, I’ll get him down fer ye, Blitzen,” said John, taking in the situation. “Ye’re a clever feller entirely!”

By help of a ladder and John’s strong arms, Herculo was landed on the ground very much tumbled-up-and-down in his mind.

“Blitzen,” said his mistress, “you shall have a blue ribbon, too. You may not have any blue blood, but you’ve common sense; and that’s a trait worth having in man or beast!”

CAT’S THANKSGIVING DAY.

“Give me turkey for my dinner,” Said a tabby cat. “Before you get it, you’ll be thinner, Go and catch a rat,” Said the cook, her pastry making, Looking fierce and red, And a heavy roller shaking Over pussy’s head.

Hark! her kittens’ shriller mewing; “Give us pie,” said they, To the cook, amid her stewing, On Thanksgiving day. “Pie, indeed! You idle creatures! Who’d have thought of that? Wash your paws and faces neater, And go hunt! Scat! Scat!”

So they went and did their duty, Diligent and still; Exercise improved their beauty, As it always will. Useful work and early rising Brought a merry mood; And they found the cook’s advising, Though severe, was good.

[Music: DING DONG BELL.

DING DONG BELL, PUSSY’S IN THE WELL WHO PUT HER IN LITTLE JOHNNY GREEN WHO PULLED HER OUT BIG TOMMY STOUT WHAT A NAUGHTY BOY WAS THAT TO DROWN POOR PUSSY CAT]

PINS IN PUSSY’S TOES.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

Little Fred is now in the third summer of his life. He has been moved into the country, and his round blue eyes are growing rounder and bigger every hour with new and wonderful experiences.

Most striking among them and most puzzling to Fred is Pussy. Not a big cat, but a kitten, of those tender years corresponding to Fred’s own. What a wonder she is, seen now for the first time, serenely walking on all fours! A Maltese kit, of pure blood and glossy mouse color, with a white breast-pin in her bosom!

Eagerly Freddy seizes her; he hugs her very tight, and Pussy squirms in vain; he examines the wonder; he pokes his fat little fingers into Pussy’s bright eyes; he opens her mouth and looks at her little pink tongue. He sends her a little while with her head up, and then, for vanity’s sake, he sends her with her heels up, and her head hanging down. Then it occurs to him that Pussy’s tail is a nice handle to carry her by, and he tries that experiment. At last Pussy’s patience gives out, and out from her pretty velvet paws fly the ten little sharp, pearly points that have been given her for her defence, and Fred feels a new sensation. He throws Pussy on the floor and runs screaming to mamma.

“Oh, mamma, mamma, Pussy got pins in her toes!”

Then mamma explains to Freddy why the pins were put in Pussy’s velvet toes. Poor, soft, furry, helpless little Pussy! what could she do if she had not pins in her toes? Does Freddy like to have people poke their fingers in his eyes, or open his mouth, or feel of his tongue? No more does Pussy. Would Freddy like to be carried around, squeezed up under somebody’s arm, with his head hanging down? No more does Pussy. But Pussy cannot speak; she cannot complain—all she can do is to use the pins in her toes.

“When Freddy holds Pussy right end up, strokes her gently, and speaks lovingly to her, the little sharp pins in her paws go away—clear in—where nobody can see them, and Pussy begins to sing a low, little purring song to show how happy she is! So, Freddy dear,” says mamma, “there is a right way and a wrong way to handle everything. If you hold Pussy gently, stroke her softly, and treat her kindly, you never will be troubled by the ten little pins in her ten toes; but if you trouble, and worry, and tease Pussy, she will scratch.”

LAMENT OF A FORSAKEN CAT.

ELIZABETH HARCOURT MITCHELL.

The family went out of town, Refreshing themselves by the sea; I thought they’d have taken me down, But no one had pity on me. What of that? After all, it is “_only a cat_!”

The children got in one by one, When the carriage drove up to the door, How breathlessly then did I run! Little Molly cried, “Room for one more!” What of that? After all, it is “_only a cat_!”

“No place with the children for me? With the luggage then, porter,” I said. “Get out, little demon!” cried he, And gave me a blow on the head. What of that? After all, it is “_only a cat_!”

There is no one without or within; Not a drop, not a crumb in the house. My bones breaking through my poor skin; No strength to say Boo! to a mouse! What of that? After all, it is “_only a cat_!”

I was petted and loved by the fair; Do they think of me now by the sea? The pavement is burning and bare, I am dying by inches, poor me! What of that? After all, it is “_only a cat_!”

You have left me to die, but I say That when you have once made a friend, And loved him a little each day, You should love him straight on to the end! Think of that! Even should he be “_only a cat_!”

A CAT CAME FIDDLING.

A cat came fiddling Out of a barn, With a pair of bagpipes Under her arm; She could sing nothing But fiddle cum dee, The mouse has married The bumble-bee; Pipe, cat; dance, mouse: We’ll have a wedding At our good house.

CAT AND TIGER.

_A Fable._

The cat and the tiger were once on very good terms. They considered themselves members of the same family; and, whenever any disputes arose among the animals, they were both found vigorously supporting the other’s case. They were often to be seen roaming about the country together, and they frequently did each other great services, the tiger by his superior strength, and the cat by his more nimble wit.

Although, for the most part fast friends, the tiger when they were by themselves would often harass the cat by his conceited speeches.

“You may be very well for small game,” he would say, striding up and down, and lashing his tail to and fro, “but you must know that you are but a small and very plain edition of me. I can easily bring down deer, and I have even put the great elephant to flight. Look how my beautiful stripes flash in the sun. Are you not proud of belonging to my family?”

To this the cat said nothing, but closed his eyes and mused.

Now, it is well known that, though the tiger can easily climb up a tree, once he is up, if he wishes to come down, he must either leap or fall, since he is unable to climb down.

One day he said to the cat: “I have long wished that I could climb a tree. Many of my tormenting enemies escape from me because I must stick to the ground. You climb very well, though you are so little. Why will you not teach me?”

“Come along; I will teach you with pleasure,” said the cat, leading the way to a tall tree. After a great deal of instruction the tiger succeeded in getting up the tree; but the cat, seeing now an opportunity to retaliate for the tiger’s unpleasant words, ran off, laughing.

“I am up very well,” said the tiger, a little frightened at finding himself so far from the ground; “now show me how to come down.”

“Oh, no,” said the cat. “I was only to show you how to get up. Now you must get down the best you can. Since you are so much more powerful and beautiful, surely you can do that much better than I.”

The tiger tried to cajole his small friend, then begged him for help; but, finding him obdurate, flew into a rage and leaped to the ground, meaning to catch and crush him at once. Instead, he almost crushed himself, and lay on his side for some moments, gasping for breath.

At last, when he was able to rise, he rushed after the cat with the best speed he could muster. Lame as he was, he gained rapidly, and it would have gone hard with the cat had he not, luckily, spied a man’s house a little way off. In this he took refuge, and he has never yet mustered courage enough to leave that protection.

WHERE ARE THOSE SLEEPY KITTENS.

_Action Poem._

[1]Cunning little kittens, Cuddled in a heap, Tired out with playing, Now are sound asleep. [2]Mother cat comes stealing in, And softly says, “Im-mieouw.” [3]Where are those sleepy kittens? [4]Do you see them now?

DIRECTIONS.

[Footnote 1: Children all huddled in a bunch, with faces in hands on desk.]

[Footnote 2: One child comes softly creeping in toward them and says, “Im-mieouw.”]

[Footnote 3: All children stretch, rub eyes and gather round their mother, now wide awake.]

[Footnote 4: All skip about as kittens do, when their mother is near, and play with one another.]

A SAD CASE.

CLARA D. BATES.

I’m a poor little kitty, And alas! when born, so pretty, That the morning I was found, Instead of being drowned, I was saved to be the toy Of a dreadful baby-boy, Who pinches and who pokes me, Holds me by my throat and chokes me, And when I could vainly try From his cruel clutch to fly, Grabs my tail, and pulls so hard That some day, upon my word! I am sure ’twill broken be, And then everybody’ll see Such a looking Kitty!

That baby has no pity! Thinks I’m “only a kitty”— I won’t stand it, nor would you! ’Tis no use to cry out m-e-w! Listen! Some day I shall scratch, And he’ll find he’s met his match; That within my little paws There are ever so many claws! And it won’t be very long, If this sort of thing goes on, Till there’ll be a kitten row Such as has not been till now; Then, my lad, there will be found, Left upon that battle-ground, Such a looking Baby!

CATS AND DOGS.

JEROME K. JEROME.

I like cats and dogs very much indeed. What jolly chaps they are! They are much superior to human beings as companions. They do not quarrel or argue with you. They never talk about themselves, but listen to you while you talk about yourself, and keep up an appearance of being interested in the conversation. They never make stupid remarks. And they never ask a young author with fourteen tragedies, sixteen comedies, seven farces, and a couple of burlesques in his desk, why he doesn’t write a play.

They never say unkind things. They never tell us of our faults, “merely for our own good.” They do not, at inconvenient moments, mildly remind us of our past follies and mistakes. They never inform us that we are not nearly so nice as we used to be. We are always the same to them. They are always glad to see us. They are with us in all our humors. They are merry when we are glad, sober when we feel solemn, sad when we are sorrowful.

“Hulloa! happy, and want a lark! Right you are; I’m your man. Here I am, frisking round you, leaping, barking, pirouetting, ready for any amount of fun and mischief. Look at my eyes, if you doubt me. What shall it be? A romp in the drawing-room, and never mind the furniture, or a scamper in the fresh, cool air, a scud across the fields, and down the hill, and we won’t let old Gaffer Goggles’s geese know what time o’day it is, neither. Whoop! come along.”

Or you’d like to be quiet and think. Very well. Pussy can sit on the arm of the chair, and purr, and purr, and Montmorency will curl himself up on the rug, and blink at the fire, yet keeping one eye on you the while, in case you are seized with any sudden desire in the direction of rats. And when we bury our face in our hands and wish we had never been born, they don’t sit up very straight, and observe that we have brought it all upon ourselves. They don’t even hope it will be a warning to us.

But they come up softly; and shove their heads against us. If it is a cat, she stands on your shoulder, rumples your hair, and says, “I am sorry for you,” as plain as words can speak; and if it is a dog, he looks up at you with his big, true eyes, and says with them, “Well, you’ve always got me, you know. We’ll go through the world together, and always stand by each other, won’t we?”

He is very imprudent, a dog is. He never makes it his business to inquire whether you are in the right or in the wrong, never bothers as to whether you are going up or down upon life’s ladder, never asks whether you are rich or poor, silly or wise, sinner or saint. Come luck or misfortune, good repute or bad, honor or shame, he is going to stick to you, to comfort you, guard you, and give his life for you, if need be—foolish, brainless, soulless dog!

Ah! old staunch friend, with your deep, clear eyes, and bright, quick glances, that take in all one has to say before one has time to speak it, do you know you are only an animal, and have no mind? Do you know that dull-eyed, gin-sodden lout, leaning against the post out there, is immeasurably your intellectual superior?

Do you know that every little-minded, selfish scoundrel, who lives by cheating and tricking, who never did a gentle deed, or said a kind word, who never had a thought that was not mean and low, or a desire that was not base, whose every action is a fraud, whose every utterance is a lie; do you know they are all as much superior to you as the sun is superior to rush-light, you honorable, brave-hearted, unselfish brute?

They are _men_, you know, and _men_ are the greatest, noblest, and wisest, and best Beings in the whole vast eternal Universe. Any man will tell you that. Yes, poor doggie, you are very stupid, very stupid indeed, compared with us clever men, who understand all about politics and philosophy, and who know everything in short, except what we are, and where we came from, and whither we are going, and what everything outside this tiny world and most things in it are.

Never mind, though, pussy and doggie, we like you both all the better for your being stupid. We all like stupid things. It is so pleasant to come across people more stupid than ourselves. Ah me! life sadly changes us all. The world seems a vast horrible grinding machine, into which what is fresh and bright and pure is pushed at one end, to come out old and crabbed and wrinkled at the other.