Part 3

Poor puss! She trembled so from head to tail that she could hardly stand, but just as she was going to beg him not to be angry, the Countess came in again, and took Viper for his afternoon ride. Poor puss! She was very sad all evening, and she wished many times that she had never left her mistress’s cottage. True, she had cream for breakfast and chicken for dinner, but what was that worth, if every mouthful she ate she feared that Viper would snatch from her?

Fifty times did she wish herself a hundred leagues off! How careful she resolved to be to do nothing that could possibly offend the dog. And so, for the next three or four days, by dint of giving up to him all her best bones, and always jumping up from her cushion whenever he wanted to lie upon it, she managed to get on in halfway peace with his lordship. But unluckily, one morning, puss, finding herself all alone in the drawing-room, and feeling very sleepy--she had not rested for nights from very fear--thought she might as well take the chance of getting a nap. Jumping upon a high footstool near the fire, she was soon asleep. How long she had napped she could not tell, when she was awakened by a furious barking, and, opening her eyes, she saw Viper standing at a little distance, looking as if he were going into fits with rage.

Poor puss! She recollected all in a moment that she had got upon Viper’s own footstool! She jumped down before you could count one!

“You audacious little upstart!” cried the dog, as soon as he could speak from wrath. “Do you think I shall submit to such liberties?”

“Indeed, I humbly beg your lordship’s pardon,” stammered the poor cat, “but I really quite forgot--”

“Forgot, indeed!” roared Viper, “I’ll teach you to forget, Mrs. Puss!” and making a tremendous dash at her, he would have finished her in no time, had not, fortunately, the window been open a little--just enough for the cat to get through.

She was on the window-seat in an instant, and had scrambled out of the window before Viper, who was very fat, could come up to her. It was with some difficulty that he got upon the window-seat, and quite in vain that he tried to squeeze his fat body through the opening of the window. How he growled with disappointed rage, as he stood on his hind legs on the window-seat, stretching his head, as far as his little short neck would allow, through the opening, to see what had become of puss.

What _had_ become of her? She had dropped down into the street, and had crept into the shade of one of the heavy broad-stone carvings beneath the window, and there she lay, panting with fright, to get her breath a little, and think what was to be done. To go back to the Palace was out of the question. But then, where could she go? Poor cat! What a muddle she was in! She lay snug for the best part of an hour before she dared venture out of her hiding-place. At last, peeping all about her, she crept out and ran, with all her speed, down the street, not knowing in the least where she was flying. She had not gone far before some ragamuffins caught sight of her. Shouting, whooping, laughing, they chased her. She ran faster and faster, and darting suddenly down an alley, was soon out of sight of her pursuers. She heard their screams and yellings growing fainter and fainter in the distance, and feeling that the immediate danger was past, she stopped to look, and see where she was. She found that she was in a little, dirty, miserable court, open at one end, through which she saw trees and green fields. So she ran on, and, in a short time, she found that she had left the town behind her, and was once more in the open country. At last she came to a small clump of trees which put her in mind of the forest near her old mistress’s hut. She climbed up in the largest one, knowing that she would be safe from dogs there at least, and finding a snug place among the branches in the middle of the tree,--for though it was autumn, yet the leaves were still pretty thick,--she made up her mind to pass the night there.

But what was she to do for supper? Her squabble with Viper had taken place before dinner, and now there was no chance of anything but what she could get herself. Perhaps she might, with good luck, catch a bird before night, but that could not take the place of the nice bits of fowl and saucers of rich milk that Ermengarde gave her every night. However, she was too glad to be safe and snug up in the tree to be very fussy. So she made up her mind to lie there till it grew towards roosting time, and then see what she could find for supper. At last nightfall came, and the birds flew back to their nests. In a few minutes she caught a robin, but that was all she had that night, and weary and hungry the cat climbed back in the tree again, and was soon asleep. When she woke, she was still hungry, and she ached in every bone. So three or four days passed, until poor puss began to think she would never be able to find her way back to her old home in the forest, and, at last, quite ready to die of cold and hunger, she stretched herself out on a thick bed of leaves, and cried, “Oh, that I had never listened to that deceitful, mischievous magpie!”

It was drawing towards sunset; there had been several storms during the day, but, as the evening came on, the weather had cleared up a little, and a gleam of sunshine just then shot out from among the black clouds, and fell upon something glittering beside her.

She lifted her eyes slowly, for she had no strength to be alert now, and saw the bright and beautiful fairy, with her car drawn by the silver pheasants.

“Have you learnt yet to be contented with plain fare at home?” asked the fairy.

“Oh, if you would only take me back to my old mistress,” cried the poor cat, “I should never, never be discontented again!”

The fairy smiled, and touching her lightly with her silver wand, bade her close her eyes--another moment, and she bade her open them: and--most wonderful of all wonderful things that had happened to her--the trees, the country, the distant city, all were gone! There was a fine log-fire on the hearth, sparkling and crackling; whirr, whirr, whirr, went the old woman’s wheel, and there she sat in her chair just as usual. The wind was blowing and the rain was pelting against the shutters, exactly as it had done the night puss left the cottage in such a strange way. In fact, everything looked entirely the same. The cat rubbed her eyes, but nothing could she see of the fairy, or the car, or the silver pheasants.

How had she got back, and so quick, too? And the old woman did not seem at all surprised to see her. It was very odd! She could not make it out, anyhow; and at last it struck her that perhaps she might have been dreaming, and never been out of the hut at all. Yet those terrible growls of Viper’s, and those dismal nights and days in the trees! No, they must have been real!

But her puzzling was broken into by the cheerful voice of her old mistress, calling out, “Come, my pussy! It is supper-time!” As she spoke, she rose from her spinning-wheel, and taking down some eggs and a cake of brown bread, with a large jug from her corner cupboard, she broke the eggs into the frying-pan, and they were soon hissing and sputtering over the fire. Then she placed a large saucer on the table, and broke some bread into it; and, turning to the fire, she took off the frying-pan, and emptied the eggs into a dish on the table, and sat down to her supper. But before she tasted a bit herself, she poured some nice goat’s milk over the bread, and set it down on the hearth before the cat.

Now I will venture to say puss never before in her life ate a meal so thankfully. She made a resolution after every mouthful never to say one word to that silly, chattering magpie again; and never to wish any more foolish wishes, but to stay at home, do her duty in catching her mistress’s mice, and be contented and thankful for the brown bread and milk, without troubling her head about countesses and buttered crumpets any more.

She kept her word. She never spoke to the magpie afterwards, but was a steady friend of the owl until the day of his death; and when he did die, which was not until he was very old, he left to her, in his will, his share of the mice that lived in the neighborhood of the cottage.

As to the magpie, finding that her company was no longer wanted in that part of the world, she very wisely took her flight far away to the other side of the wood.

Whether she still lives there, and goes on chattering about the grand things she used to see in the Palace of the Countess von Rustenfustenmustencrustenberg, is more than I can tell you. If you want to find out, you must go to the northern part of the Duchy of Kittencorkenstringen; and then you must walk seventeen leagues and three-quarters still farther north; and then you must turn off to your right, just where you see the old fir-stump with the rook’s nest in it; and then you must walk eleven leagues and a quarter more, and then turn to your left, and after you have kept on for about fifteen leagues more, you will see the wood where the magpie lives; and then if you walk quite through it to the other side, you will see the old woman’s cottage; and, if it should happen to be a fine day, I dare say you will see her sitting in the sunshine spinning, and, curled round beside her, the Contented Cat.

* * * * *

“What a nice story, Impty,” said Dolly, as the black kitten purred out the last word. “And don’t you just love that old owl?”

“I always _did_ like owls myself,” Impty answered. “They seem so much more like cats than birds. Their feathers are so thick they look like fur, and then, owls see in the dark as well as cats do, and they eat mice, and are really _most_ respectable. But good night, now,” he added, jumping down from the bed, “we’ve had such a long story-time this evening, that I must go to sleep at once, if I am to have another tale ready for you to-morrow.”

THE FOURTH NIGHT

“We sat up so disgracefully late last night,” began Impty, yawning, “that I’m sleepy yet. _I_ had to go to Cat-Land, you know, and although that’s very pleasant, still, it isn’t much of a rest.”

“What are you going to tell me to-night?” Dolly asked, as she made a place on the pillow for the black kitten.

“To-night it’s going to be a shorter story,” Impty replied. “They call it, in Cat-Land, ‘The Cat Who Married a Mouse.’”

Once upon a time, a cat and a mouse made friends, and at last they grew to love each other very much, for the mouse was a clever little thing, and puss was as fine a cat as you could hope to see in a day’s journey. So they decided to marry, and live always in the same house, and be very comfortable indeed.

One day, during the summer, the cat said to his wife, “My dear, we must take care to lay in a store for the winter, or we shall die with hunger; you, little Mousey, cannot venture to go about anywhere for fear you should be caught in a trap, but I had better go and see about it.”

This good advice was followed, and in a few days Tom came safely back with a large jar full of beautiful meat covered with fat, which he had found. They had a long talk about a place in which to hide this treasure; but at last Tom said: “I don’t know a better place than the church. No one ever thinks of robbing a church; so if we place the jar under the altar, and take care not to touch it, then we shall have plenty to eat in the winter.”

The jar was carried to church, and put in a place of safety, but the meat did not stay there long.

Tom kept thinking of what was in the jar, and longing so much for a taste, that at last he made an excuse to get away from home.

“Mousey,” he said, one day, “I have had an invitation from one of my cousins to be present at the christening of her little son who was born a few weeks ago. He is a beautiful kitten, she tells me,--gray, with black stripes,--and my cousin wishes me to be godfather.”

“Oh, yes! Go, by all means,” replied the mouse. “But when you are enjoying yourself, think of me, and bring me a drop of the sweet, red wine if you can.” Tom promised to do as she asked him, and went off as if he were going to see his cousin. But after all it was not true. Tom had no cousin, nor had he been asked to be godfather.

No, he went right off to the church, and slipped under the table where the jar of meat stood, and sat looking at it. He did not look for long, however, for presently he went close up and began licking and licking the fat on the top of the jar, till it was nearly all gone. Then he took a walk on the roofs of the houses in the town, and finally stretched himself out in the sun, and stroked his whiskers as often as he thought of the delicious feast he had just had. As soon as the evening closed in, he returned home.

“Oh! Here you are again,” said the mouse. “Have you spent a pleasant day?”

“Yes, indeed,” he replied. “Everything passed off very well.”

“And what name did they give the young kitten?” she asked.

“Top-off,” said Tom, quite coolly.

“Top-off!” cried the mouse. “That _is_ a curious and uncommon name! Is it a family name?”

“It is a very old name in our family,” replied the cat. “And it’s not worse than Thieves, as your ancestors were called.”

Poor little mousey made no reply, and for a while nothing more was said about Tom’s cousins.

But Tom could not forget the jar of meat in the church, and the thought of it made him long so much that he was obliged to make up another tale of a christening. So he told the little mouse, that a lady-cat, his aunt, had invited him this time, and that the kitten was a great beauty, all black, excepting a white ring around its neck, so he could not refuse to be present.

“For one day, dear Mousey, you will do me this kindness, and keep house at home alone?” he asked.

The good little mouse willingly agreed, and Tom ran off; but as soon as he reached the town, he jumped over the churchyard wall, and very quickly found his way to the place where the jar of meat was hidden. This time he feasted so greedily, that when he had finished, the jar was more than half empty.

“It tastes as nice as it smells,” said the cat, after his joyful day’s work was over and he had taken a nice nap. But as soon as he returned home, the mouse asked what name had been given to the kitten this time.

Tom was a little puzzled to know what to say, but at last he replied: “Ah! I remember now. They named it Half-Gone.”

“Half-Gone! Why, Tom, what a queer name! I never heard of it before in my life, and I am sure it cannot be found in the ‘Register.’”

The cat did not answer, and for a time all went on as usual, till another longing fit made him rub his whiskers and think of the jar of meat. “Mousey,” said he, one day, “of all good things there are always three; do you know I have had a third invitation to be godfather? And this time the little kitten is quite black, without a single white hair. Such a thing has not happened in our family for many years, so you will let me go, won’t you?”

“Top-Off and Half-Gone are such curious names, Tom,” replied the mouse, “that they are enough to make one suspicious.”

“Oh, nonsense!” said the cat. “What can you know about names, staying here at home all day long in your gray coat and soft fur, with nothing to do but catch crickets? You can know very little of what men do in the world.”

Poor little mousey was silent, and she patiently remained at home during the absence of the greedy, deceitful cat, who, this time, feasted himself till he had quite cleaned out the jar and left it empty.

“When all is gone, then one can rest,” said he to himself, as he returned home at night quite sleek and fat.

“Well, Tom,” said the mouse, as soon as she saw him, “and what is the name of this third child?”

“I hope you will be pleased at last,” he replied; “it is All-Gone.”

“All-Gone!” cried the mouse, “that is the most suspicious name yet; I can scarcely believe it. What does it mean?” Then she shook her head, rolled herself up, and went to sleep.

After this Tom was not invited to any more christenings; but as the winter came on, and in the night no provisions could be found, the mouse thought of the careful store they had laid up, and said to the cat, “Come, Tom, let us fetch the jar of meat from the church; it will be such a nice relish for us.”

“Ah, yes,” he replied. “It will be a fine relish to you, I dare say, when you stretch out your little tongue to taste it!” So he took himself out of the way, and mousey went to the church by herself. But what was her vexation at finding the jar still standing in the same place, but quite empty.

Then she returned home, and found Tom looking as if he did not care, although he was at first rather ashamed to face her.

“I understand now,” said the little mouse, quite gently. “I can see what has happened. A fine friend you have been to deceive me in this manner! When you told me you were going to stand godfather to the three little kittens, you never visited your relations at all; but, instead of that, you went to the church three times, and ate up all the meat in the jar. I know, now, what you meant by Top-Off, Half-Gone,--”

“Will you be quiet?” cried the cat, in a rage. “If you say another word, I will eat you.”

But the poor little mouse had got the name on the tip of her tongue when Tom interrupted her, and she could not stop herself. Out it came--“All-Gone!”

Tom, who only wanted an excuse to eat up his poor little wife, sprang upon her the minute she uttered the word, broke her back with his paw, and ate her up!

* * * * *

“Oh, Impty,” cried Dolly, as the story ended, “what a wicked cat! I hope you would never, never do such a thing! You _wouldn’t_ would you?”

“No,” answered the kitten, yawning again, “I never should. In the first place, I’d not dream of marrying a mouse. _I_ always eat ’em.”

THE FIFTH NIGHT

“I’m a little late this evening,” purred Impty, as he rubbed up against Dolly the next night. “But the large yellow cat across the street is giving a Catnip Tea, and I simply _had_ to stay for one cup.”

“I do hope that you’re going to tell me a pleasanter story this time,” said the little girl. “I dreamed all night long about that poor mouse.”

“To-night,” said the black kitten, “I am going to tell you of Mother Michel, and the wonderful adventures of her cat, Moumouth. It is _very_ exciting, and it turns out beautifully in the end.”

More than a hundred years ago there lived in Paris an old countess, Madame de la Grenouillière, a widow who had no children and who loved animals very dearly. But she was quite unfortunate, for none of her pets, no matter how much she loved or cared for them, ever lived. One by one they died, and, at last, the Countess decided that she would have no more. However, one day, as she was riding home in her chariot, she saw a crowd of children tormenting a poor street-cat. They had tied a sauce-pan to its tail, and goodness knows what would have happened if Madame had not put her head out of the window and called to them that whoever should bring the cat to her would be rewarded with a piece of gold.

The crowd of children all ran after the cat, not to torment him now, but to bring him safely to the rich lady and gain the reward; and he was nearly as much in danger from kindness as he had been from cruelty. At last he was caught, and brought safely to the Countess. Once she had him safe in the chariot, she took a good look at him, and then said: “Poor pussy! What a very ugly little cat you really are!” But when the cat turned to look reproachfully at her, she exclaimed: “Well, he may be ugly, but he certainly has very fine eyes. Here,” she added, turning to her companion, “once more I will have a pet. Let us take this poor pussy with us, and see what a comfortable, happy life at my fireside will do for him.”

So saying, she placed him in the arms of her friend, Mother Michel, and together they all three rode home.

Besides her companion, there was another one of her household upon whom the Countess greatly relied, and this was her steward, whom the old lady had nicknamed Lustucru. Now Lustucru was as bad as Mother Michel was good; he hated all animals as much as the Countess and her companion loved them; and, when he saw them bringing home another cat, he was very angry, although he pretended to be pleased, and called the cat “pretty puss” more than once. And this the cat seemed to know, for he walked away from Master Lustucru whenever he saw him coming.

At the end of four or five weeks you would never have known Moumouth. They had given him this name because, so an old scholar told the Countess, that Moumouth, in Hebrew, meant “saved from the sauce-pans.” And, in a second month, Moumouth had grown fat, and his fur shone as if it were satin.

But something, which always does turn up, even in the happiest cat’s life, came to disturb Moumouth’s peace of mind. Madame de la Grenouillière was called to Normandy by the sickness of her sister, and, alas, Moumouth could not go with her because the sick lady did not like cats.

“Come here, Mother Michel,” said the Countess; “I am going to trust my precious cat to you. Take care of him well, and if, on my return, he is alive and thriving, I will leave you a pension of three hundred dollars a year.”

“But, Madame,” replied her companion, “I will take care of Moumouth because I love him as if he were my own.”

“I know that,” said the old Countess, “but be very, very careful, and I will reward your zeal.”

When the steward heard this promise, he was wild with wrath. “Mother Michel will have everything,” he said, “and there will be nothing left for me. Well, Moumouth, once the Countess is out of the way, we’ll see about your precious life.”

The Countess set out on her journey, and Mother Michel, worthy of the confidence that had been shown her, now took the greatest care of Moumouth. She petted him, she patted him, and fed him so well that he grew even handsomer. All this time Lustucru was looking on, waiting for a chance to kill Moumouth when his faithful guardian should not be on the watch. One evening, when the cat was asleep before the fire, Lustucru came to Mother Michel, and begged her to go down and see one of the servants who was very ill with rheumatism. As soon as she had left the room, he seized Moumouth, who had not even time to mew, and threw him head over heels into a large bag. Then the wicked man ran swiftly across the garden, and out into the street toward the Seine, and, the river once reached, he opened the bag and tossed Moumouth into the water. He was in such haste to get home that he did not wait to see the poor cat struggling for his life in the river; nor did he see, a moment later, Moumouth crawling to a little ledge just at the foot of one of the arches of the bridge.

Instead, he ran home quickly, for fear Mother Michel would have finished her visit, and come to look for Moumouth. He slipped quietly into bed, and when, in a little while, she came and knocked at his door, he pretended to have just waked up from a sound sleep.

“Moumouth lost!” he cried, pretending to be very sorry indeed. “Oh, I’ll get up immediately and help you look for him. Such a fine fellow! It would be a thousand pities if anything happened to him.” And so, at the head of all the servants of the house, Lustucru helped Mother Michel search from garret to cellar.