Part 9
I went to the kitchen, and what did I see But the old gray cat and her kittens three; I heard her whispering soft and low, “My kittens with their tails so cunningly curled, Are the prettiest things in all the world. The birds in the tree, and the old sheep, they May love their babies exceedingly, But I love my kittens from morn to night, With their fur so soft, and clean and white. Which is the prettiest, I cannot tell, I cannot choose, I love all so well; So I will take up these kittens I love, And we’ll lie down together beneath the warm stove.” There they snugly lie under the stove so warm, While my little darling lies here on my arm.
I went to the yard and saw the old hen Go clucking about with her chickens ten; She clucked, and she scratched, And she bristled away, And what do you think I heard her say? I heard her say, “The sun never did shine On anything like these ten chickens of mine. You may hunt the round moon And the stars, if you please, But you’ll never find any such chickens as these. The cat loves her kittens, The sheep loves her lamb, But they do not know what a proud mother I am. For lambs nor for kittens I won’t part with these, Though the sheep and the cat should go down on their knees. My dear, downy darlings, my sweet little things, Come nestle now cosily under my wings.” So the mother hen said, and the chickens all sped As fast as they could to their warm feather-bed. And there let them lie ’neath the feathers so warm, While my little darling lies here on my arm.
ME AN’ BAB.
JOY VETREPONT.
Me an’ Bab we went to church, an’ Bab she saw a mouse. An’—course she wanted to catch him. An’ she slipped out under my sack, where I’d hid her when we went to church, an’ was out of the pew quicker’n no time.
Well, my pa’s a dicken, an’ he had a correction-box, an’ he was a-leanin’ over with the correction-box stretched out so ’t Frankie Hill, what sat in the farthest corner, could put in a cent, an’ all the people was givin’ centses, top, an’ ten cents, too, an’ five cents, too, and he was a-stretchin’ out the correction-box to Frankie, an’ just then the mouse ran right acrost his feet an’ Bab after him. An’ my papa he gave a queer sort of a cry, an’ dropped the correction-box, an’ all the centses fell on the floor in Frankie Hill’s pew, an’—an’ my pa’s face went redder’n red, an’ his ears, an’ his neck, an’ he turns around an’ sees our Bab scamperin’ after the mouse, an’ he started to go after her, an’ everybody on our side was a-lookin’ at Bab, an’ the people on the other side that couldn’t see Bab was lookin’ at my pa, an’ then they all looked at Mr. Green—that’s the minister—an’ Mr. Green he was lookin’ orful solemn. An’ the mouse ran acrost the raised places covered with red carpet, where the minister sits, an’ he ran under his chair, an’ Bab after him. An’ all the dickens had laid down their correction-boxes an’ was goin’ there, too—not under the chair I don’t mean—but up to the raised place with red carpet, an’ the mouse he scampered to the door that’s one side of where the min’ster sits, an’ he couldn’t get out, an’ there wasn’t no hole for him, an’ Bab was after him lickety split, an’—an’—he comed back an’ ran into old Miss Tromley’s pew, an’ she screamed an’ ran out, an’ then there was a reg’lar scrimmage; an’ the dickens was all mixed up, an’ Bab was among their feet, an’ my pa he stooped down, an’ then he came down ’tween the pews with Bab in his arms, an’ his face was orful. An’ he went out with Bab, an’ the other dickens went for their boxes.
An’ Mr. Green he dropped his hank-cher, and he was _orful long_ pickin’ it up; an’ then he coughed, an’ hid his face in his hank’cher, an’ he shooked all over just like he did when my pa told that story about the dicken what put the wrong plaster on his nose; an’ everybody was laughin’, but _I_ was cryin’, ’cause I didn’t know what my pa would do to Bab—or—or—_me_.
An’ Frankie Hill was pickin’ up centses in his pew when my pa comed back; an’ he took me by the arm, an’ led me out of church, an’ says, very stern—
“Go home!”
An’ our house is close by, so I went all by myself, an’ my pa went back to his correction-box. An’ I don’t know what came of the mouse; but Jemima Jane says it’s a good thing my ma’s away, an’ I’ll get a proper “correction-box” when she gets home.
THE CATS’ MERRY, MERRY MEETING.
_Action Song for Six Boys and a Chorus._
STANLEY SCHELL.
_Written expressly for this book._
COSTUME: Every boy wears a different colored costume made from cambric or cotton cloth. First a hood is made perfectly tight-fitting and covering all except the eyes, nose and mouth. Then ears are made and fastened to side of head. The rest of costume is made like a little boy’s night-suit, but perfectly tight-fitting and open at the back. The suit is so made that feet and hands are covered by the sleeves, and legs being of sufficient length to form a sort of glove or stocking. To the lower back of the costume is attached a tail made from the goods rolled in a long coil and sewed together, then attached to suit. Every boy wears a cat-mask fitted under hood.
STAGE SETTING: At stage center should be placed a table with lighted lamp above it. On table a large pan of milk.
Music: “Merry, Merry Cats.”
[_Chorus begins to sing and the cats come wandering in from all parts of stage and on all fours and to act out the words sung_.]
[Music: MERRY, MERRY CATS.]
Some merry cats, once on a time, Had a merry, merry meeting: They said “Good Day” and “How De Do?” Amid some very loud meowing.
ACTIONS: Boys smile as they enter and see the other cats; then, as they slowly edge around in alert fashion and catch the others’ eyes, they bow, move along, say “Good Day” and “How De Do?” and scamper quickly about “meowing” as they go.
Chorus sings as follows:
How they do scamper round the room, How they do run and play; And such a merry time they have, These merry, merry cats to-day.
ACTIONS: Cats scamper around, roll over each other, give each other gentle pats, etc.
There on the table ’neath the light, Is a pan of milk so clean and white; The cats now see it, and with a cry, All lap until the dish is dry.
ACTIONS: Cats suddenly stop playing as one discovers table and gets up to see what is on table. His discovery is learned by his meow, and all rest paws on table and begin to lap milk from pan.
They now feel full and lazy, too, And walk about and gossip anew Of mice and all the latest styles Of rats and coats, hats, ties and shoes.
ACTIONS: Cats having finished the milk lazily leave table, drop to floor and roll about; begin to wash themselves, then walk about in couples and act as if gossiping about something of greatest interest.
They feel at last ’tis growing late, And yawn and stretch and say “Good Night.” Then give each other sleepy bows, Now see them scamper out of sight!
ACTIONS: Cats act sleepy and move about very lazily. They yawn and stretch a bit, then nod to one another sleepily. Suddenly a crash is heard and all the cats scamper out of sight.
CAT CONVENTION.
EDNA A. FOSTER.
A congress was held in Great Catkin Town, And all the kitties of wealth and renown Met to consider the mission of cats As something more than the killing of rats. The lawyer declared, in a long-winded speech, That the very habits of cats should teach They were born for orators firm and true; You may hear them argue the whole night through. They turned the discussion this way and that, With an eloquent plea from every cat. Only one admitted that he could live For love alone, and his hours would give To graceful posing on hearth-rug and chair. Then the clown spoke up and said: “I despair— This weighty question I move to give up; My feelings warn me ’tis time to sup. And, so with apologies, friends, to you, I think I’ll prowl round for a mouse or two!” Be it said with sorrow, the president then Gave a wee wink and said, “My dear men, I much regret the way things have turned; This Cat Convention is hereby adjourned!”
SOME CAT TRAITS.
Cats work while we sleep.
Cats do not mind the cold.
Cats sing to show friendship.
Cats scratch or bite when annoyed.
Cats cannot catch game by running.
When hunting prey, cats’ claws are sheathed; when seizing prey, their claws are quickly uncovered and thrown out.
When winking at us, cats’ eyes become dull and expressionless.
When darkness approaches, pupils of cats’ eyes dilate and shine brightly.
When daylight strikes pupil of a cat’s eye, it contracts until only narrow vertical slits remain.
Cats’ ears always stand erect to catch sound, except Chinese cats, who have drooping ears.
Cats show less fondness for human beings than do most animals.
Cats are expert hunters of birds, squirrels, fish, mice, rats.
Cats spit or purr.
When scared, cats lay back ears, show thirty sharp teeth, arch back, raise tail.
Cats have five toes on each front paw and four on each back paw. To each toe is attached a sharp nail or claw. These claws are covered by a sheath except when in use.
Cats have twelve cutting teeth—six above and six below. Cats also have four longer teeth known as canine teeth, similar to those of nearly every carnivorous animal.
Cats love to sleep by day and prowl by night.
When cats catch prey they play with it for a long time before killing it.
Cats always wash after eating or drinking.
* * * * *
_Ques._—What is the name of the plant most fatal to mice?
_Ans._—Cat-nip.
CAT AND MOUSE.
A mouse was chased, and in its haste Away from claws to fly, In use an empty bottle placed That happened to be nigh.
Then pussy, peeping through the neck, Could scarce suppress a grin To see how calm it met her gaze As safe it sat within.
She turned the bottle upside down And shook it freely there; But nothing could induce the mouse To seek the open air.
Then lying down upon the floor She reached a paw to take her, But still the mouse had room enough And blessed the bottle-maker.
She raised the bottle overhead With all the strength she knew, And in a thousand pieces small The port of safety flew.
But while the fragments filled the air The mouse with action spry Quick reached another hiding-place And squeaked a glad good-bye.
* * * * *
_Ques._—Why has a chambermaid more lives than a cat?
_Ans._—Because each morning she returns to dust.
LAND ON YOUR FEET.
SAM WALTER FOSS.
You take a cat up by the tail, And whirl him round and round, And hurl him out into the air, Out into space profound, He through the yielding atmosphere Will many a whirl complete; But when he strikes upon the ground He’ll land upon his feet.
Fate takes a man, just like a cat, And, with more force than grace, It whirls him wiggling round and round, And hurls him into space; And those that fall upon the back, Or land upon the head, Fate lets them lie there where they fall— They’re just as good as dead.
But some there be that, like the cat, Whirl round and round and round, And go gyrating off through space, Until they strike the ground; But when at last the ground and they Do really come to meet, You’ll always find them right side up— They land upon their feet.
And such a man walks off erect, Triumphant and elate, And with a courage in his heart He shakes his fist at fate; Then fate with a benignant smile Upon its face outspread, Puts forth its soft, caressing hand And pats him on the head.
And he’s fate’s darling from that day, His triumph is complete; Fate loves the man who whirls and whirls, But lands upon his feet. That man, whate’er his ups and downs, Is never wholly spurned, Whose perpendicularity Is never overturned.
KITTEN’S VIEW OF LIFE.
THOMAS WESTWOOD.
Kitten, kitten, two months old, Woolly snowball, lying snug, Curled up in the warmest fold Of the warm hearth-rug! Turn your drowsy head this way; What is life? Oh, kitten, say! “Life?” said the kitten, winking her eyes, And twitching her tail in a droll surprise, “Life? Oh, it’s racing over the floor, Out at the window and in at the door; Now on the chair-back, now on the table, ’Mid balls of cotton and skeins of silk, And crumbs of sugar and jugs of milk, All so cozy and comfortable. It’s patting the little dog’s ears, and leaping Round him and over him while he is sleeping, Waking him up in a sore affright; Then off and away like a flash of light, Scouring and scampering out of sight. Life? Oh, it’s rolling over and over On the summer-green turf and budding clover; Chasing the shadows as fast as they run Down the garden-paths in the mid-day sun; Prancing and gamboling, brave and bold, Climbing the tree-stems, scratching the mold— THAT’S life!” said the kitten two months old.
PUSSY GRAY’S DINNER.
The lobster and fish on the long table lay, When, smelling and sniffing, in walked Pussy Gray. “I’ve had breakfast, of course, but fresh fish is rare, And while no one’s looking, I’ll just take my share. For once I am sure, I shall really rejoice,” She remarked, “to dine first and make my own choice. A lunch of fresh fish! Now what could be nicer? I’ll eat of you raw, the rest may have fry, sir. What hinders my dining at table to-day? The first bite shall be mine,” said smart Pussy Gray.
But poor Puss, alas! had no chance to be first! The lobster was living, his temper the worst, And when Puss began to poke round him, and claw At his shell, he suddenly seized on her paw And held it with a grip so exceedingly tight That no one could question that he had the first bite. Puss mewed and she squalled and made such a clatter That cook rushed in to see what was the matter. “Served you right,” she cried crossly, as Puss limped away. “’Tis best to be honest,” mourned poor Pussy Gray.
ME AN’ METHUSELAR.
HARRIET FORD.
[SCENE.—_An alley leading to the stage entrance of the theater. Enter a very ragged child carrying a pet cat. She looks cautiously around as if afraid of being followed. Her dress is draggled and she wears an old shawl. Her hair is tangled and unkempt._]
Nop—nobody seed us, Methuselar. Nop—no—o—op. Thought sure Pike Cotes’u’d guess what we wuz up t’, an’ foller. Oh—oo! Oh—oo! That wuz a stunner, wa’n’t it, Methuselar? Sit down sudden ’nough that time, didn’t we? Oh—oo! Did I smash his ’ittle empty stomach? Did I? Drat Daddy? He drank yer milk, he did. Meuw, meuw! You’re right, Methuselar. He’s a stingy, skimpy, skinny old stealer. That he is. But you knowed you stayed out on the roof half the night—yes, you did, yes, you did. O’ course, ye’re shamed of it, now ye’re starved an’ sober. Daddy got in first an’ swiped your drink, he did. There’s no ust o’ me talkin’. You an’ Daddy are dead set t’ keep out nights. Yes, you be, yes, you be! Never you mind. We’ll buy a whole river o’ milk sometime or ’nother, an’ you shall jest swim in it, Methuselar.
We’ve had a tough time of it to-day, hain’t we? This ’ere’s me first ’round these diggin’s. Don’t believe nobody never thought o’ this afore. My eyes! but I wuz ’fraid Pike Cotes ’u’d catch on an’ sneak after us, but we skipped him. This must be the stage-door. We’ll jest set here an’ sing, Methuselar.
“On Sunday night ’Tis my delight An’ pleasure, don’t you see, With all the boys An’ all the girls——”
Can’t seem to rouse a shadder, Methuselar. Meuw! You knowed this wuz the spot fer us. Yes, you did, yes, you did. Didn’t you wink yer grazy eyes, an’ wag yer fuzzy tail when I sat an’ thought it up. Now, you knowed from the start, Methuselar, that you had t’ toddle ’long a me, an’ you ’greed to it, yes, you did, you did. You heard Pike Cotes tell how he got in the the-a-tur t’run erruns an’ things, an’ he said as how all the acturs an’ show folks jest dote on cats, an’ ’u’d have a fit if one turned agin ’em. Why, Puss, they’d no more dare walk by me an’ you ’thout givin’ us a penny fer luck—goodness! Here comes one.
“She’s my sweetheart, I’m her Joe, She’s my Annie, I’m her beau. Soon we’ll marry, Never to part——”
He can’t be an actur, Methuselar. Why, he looked right at you an’ you never phased him. That song did it, Methuselar. It’s a Jonah, ain’t it? Let’s try anodder.
“The heart bowed down by grief an’——” We’re a sad pussy cat, A hungry pussy cat, An’ a sad, sad, sorrowful girl.
Here comes somebody else. Better luck this time, Methuselar.
“On Sunday night, ’Tis my delight, An’ pleasure, don’t you see——” Oh, thank you, lady, Thank you, lady, Da de da, ah de dee—e. “There’s an organ in the parlor To give the place a tone, An’ ye’re welcome ev’ry evenin’ To Maggie Murphy’s home.”
My eyes! Methuselar, ain’t it grand? Hain’t seen one afore t’-day, have we? You caught her, Methuselar. Yes, you did, you did! She’s ’fraid you’d bring her everlastin’ bad luck. Guess she don’t know it’s ’bout all you kin do t’ hustle fer yourself ’thout mousin’ ’round hoodooin’ other folks. You couldn’t do much hoodooin’ on such an awful empty stomach, could you? Brace up, Methuselar! Here comes a swell.
Oh, sir, jest a penny t’ help a girl, me an’ puss are starvin’. Jest a—
Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you!
A nickle, as you’re a cat with whiskers, Methuselar! You done it, you done it! Yes, you did—yes, you did. Yer first trip, too, ain’t it? You’ll soon be up t’ the tricks. You do look hungry, Methuselar, but I’ll have t’ train you in looks. Now, jest t’ think, if you could squeeze out a few tears while I sung, my eyes! wouldn’t we get rich! Here comes a beautiful lady. Hush up an’ I’ll try a new dodge on ’er.
Oh, lady, can’t you give a poor girl a lift? I do so want t’ see you act in the play. If I could only git a few more pennies, me an’ a friend ’u’d clap you out of sight. Jest a few pennies, a quarter or a dime, or a nickle ’u’d do, lady. Oh, thank you! Much obliged, much obliged! God bless you, lady!
Ho, ho! Methuselar! How’s that? Ain’t you proud o’ yer mudder? That’s the way to catch ’em. Pike put me on, he did, the night he an’ me went to the play, an’ he tole me t’ help him raise the roof whenever his bloomin’ benefactor so much as put his nose on the stage.
Methuselar, I don’t think we need to sing. Anybody jest t’ look at us ’u’d know we wuz poverty-struck. Now, I’d know you was the minit I seen you. Well, I have t’ sing t’ make folks look, I s’pose. Oh, see this gentleman, Methuselar! I guess an upperatic song’ll catch him.
“She’s plain Molly O, Tender an’ sweet; She’s plain Molly O, An’ my heart is at her feet. She’s plain Molly——”
Oh, thank you, sir. Oh, thank you! Thank you! My name? Oh—Ginny Mur—Genavarur Murkin’s my name, sir. Yes, I have t’ sing or I guess we’d starve. I’d a’ sung better for you jest now only I’m frightful hungry. Rats ain’t in it with me an’ Methuselar. Methuselar? This ’ere’s Methuselar. We’re pards. Purty name? Yes, we think so. Pike Cotes, he named him. He’s ’bout the only friend I got, Pike is. He goes t’ Sunday school, Pike does, an’ he tole me, he says: “Now, if you’ll name that ’ere cat Methuselar, he’ll live to be as old as this ’ere house, see?”
Our house? Well, ’taint ourn, but we live on top. Bordun’s saloon’s on the first floor, you see, an’ Granny Midders an’ her son’s on the second. Tom Grimy an’ his pard’s the third, an’ Daddy an’ me an’ Methuselar’s fourth back. That ’ere saloon’s the spite o’ me an’ Methuselar’s life, ’cause Dad he—he can’t—can’t get by it nohow. He’s richer’n we are, but he has t’ drink. He can’t help it somehow. He’s purty weak lately. Me an’ Methuselar think he’s ’bout drowned out.
What, sir? What, sir? Sing—in—the the-a-tur? Yes, sir! Yes, sir—yes—sir! Sing in the the-a-tur? My eyes! You don’t think they’d have me? You do? Sing in the the-a-tur! Sing—in—oh, sir, may I try? I’ll sing—nobody never heard the way I’ll try for it, sir. Not alone? Yes, I know, sir—in the chorus, yes, sir. To-morrow? Yes, sir. Ten o’clock sharp, sir. Yes, I’ll fix up a bit, sir. Oh, thank you, sir. Look for you? Yes, sir. Good-bye, sir. Good-bye, sir—Good-bye!
Sing—in—the—the-a-tur! Methuselar! Me—Ginny Murkins. You shall hear, Methuselar, you shall, you shall. My! but I’ll be skart, won’t I? But I’ll sing, Methuselar. What’ll Pike say now, what’ll he say? Methuselar, you shall have a bouncin’ bowl of milk this minit, an’ Granny Midders shall help me get a gown. Methuselar—think of it! Sing in the the-a-tur—the the-a-tur—the the-a-tur!
[_Exit laughing and crying._]
PUSSY CAT.
Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been? You say: “To the grand matinée;” ’Twas held on the house-top, away down the street, And ended at breaking of day.
THE HAPPY FAMILY.
[Music:
1. I have a cat, she’s as black as my hat, Fur fifty times finer than silk, And whate’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.
2. 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.]
THREE NAUGHTY KITTENS.
ISABEL FRANCES BELLOWS.
There once were three kittens who lived on a farm, And never were kittens who did so much harm; They worried the chickens, and snarled at the hen, And scratched at the pig through a hole in the pen; They climbed on the sty and hung over the rail, And bit off the curl from a little pig’s tail.
The horses they scared, and they frightened the cows, By shrieking out at them with dreadful me-ows; They worried the ducks and they bothered the geese, And clawed at the ram till he lost all his fleece; They frightened the bossy calf half into fits, And spit at the dog till he half lost his wits.
They knocked down the turkey and rolled him about, They rumpled his feathers, and pulled them all out; Such horrible faces they made at the drake, He went straight and drowned himself off in the lake; They fought the old rooster upon his own hill, Till all that was left were his spurs and his bill.
They drank up the milk and tipped over the cream, And gave the old parrot a horrible dream; They chewed up the tab-strings of grandmother’s cap, While she, poor old lady, was taking a nap; So shocking the squealing they made in their pride, The children all ran, and the baby it cried.
They played with the meal and the hominy bags, And tore them all up into tatters and rags; They climbed by their claws up the farmer’s new clothes, And knocked his gold spectacles off from his nose; The meat in the pantry they stole from the hooks, And chewed up the children’s nice Sunday-school books.