CHAPTER I

BY THE FIRE

My name is Pussy Black-Face, and I am a naughty young kitten. I wish I were good like my mother. She is the best cat that I ever saw. I try to be like her, and sometimes I succeed, but most times I don't.

My mother's disposition is really lovely, but then she has a weak back. It seems to me that if I had a weak back I should be good, too, but when there is a spring in my spine that makes me want to jump all the time, and something curled up in my paws that makes me want to seize things, what can I do? How can I be good?

My mother purrs wholesome advice into my ears, and tells me to try, to try hard, and so I do, but usually it doesn't seem of any use. I might as well be bad all the time, and not worry about it.

Every night, as we sit around the fire before we go to bed, I think things over. You know how cats look and act when they are getting sleepy. Some people say that cats are stupid and can't think or feel. Don't you believe it. They are just as clever as any animals.

Well, I think the most beautiful sight in the world is our little family on these chilly, east-windy nights as we gather in the sitting-room about bedtime.

First there is our dear mistress, Mrs. Darley. She is a widow with two adopted children—Billy and Margaret. After dinner they go to the study to learn their lessons, and Mrs. Darley sits for a little while with us before she goes to join them. We cats are allowed to run all over the house, but we usually prefer the sitting-room, because there is the broad window-seat for sunny mornings, and the cushions by the fire for dull weather.

Mrs. Darley always takes my mother on her lap, because she is the chief favorite, and because she has suffered so much. I am not ashamed to say that my mother was an ash-barrel cat before Mrs. Darley rescued her. That is, she was a poor cat who had to pick up her living in back yards. She is a grayish, wistful-looking creature with a quiet manner. Her name is Dust-and-Ashes. She knows a good deal, but she doesn't talk much.

My father, whose name is the Piebald Prince, is an Angora. He is very handsome, very aristocratic, very dignified, but not at all proud. He says he believes it is wrong to call any cat common or unclean. Persian cats, and Angora cats, and New Mexico cats, and Manx cats, and all kinds of cats should be treated in just the same way, and have an equal amount of respect shown them.

He always makes my mother take a front seat if there is company, and he treats her with as much consideration as if she, like himself, had come from the celebrated farm up in Maine, where only pure bred cats are raised, and where they cost great sums of money.

Many a cuff—a gentlemanly cuff—I have had from him for being disrespectful to my mother. He believes in keeping us young ones in order.

Besides myself there is my sister Serena, and my brother Jimmy Dory.

They are both much older than I am. Serena is a very clever little cat. She has beautiful manners, and purrs a good deal to herself about culture. She and Jimmy are both half Angora, and half common cat. So I am, too, for that matter, but they are much better looking than I am. My father is black and white, and we are black and white; but his black and white and Serena and Jimmy Dory's black and white are laid on prettily.

I am a fright. Every one says so—cats and human beings—so it must be true. I think myself, when I look in the glass that I am very ugly, but I don't care a bit. Why should I worry? I can't see myself, unless I look in a mirror. Let the other cats and people worry about me, and say that my white face looks as if some one had thrown an ink bottle and splashed me right across it. They are the ones that suffer, for they can see me. I don't see myself.

My body is prettier than my face. I often laugh to myself when I am creeping softly along, and some one says, “Oh! what a lovely black kitten.” Then I turn round and the some one always shrieks, “You little fright!” or “You ugly little thing!”

My mother says it is naughty in me to laugh, but I tell her that girl squeals and cat squeals don't hurt me. The only things I am afraid of are sticks and stones.

Then she smiles sadly, and says, “When you grow up to be a cat, Black-Face, you will be sorry that your face does not please every one.”

I must say I don't believe her. I don't believe that my mother knows half as much as I do. She is getting old and fussy, but I wouldn't say this to any one but myself for the world. The kitten next door laughed at my mother the other day, and I scratched him. I'd do it again, too. I sha'n't let any one but myself criticise my mother while I have claws in my velvet paws.

Well, I don't believe I'll think any more about myself to-night. I am getting sleepy, and my head is sinking down on my pink cushion.

I wish I hadn't broken that pretty glass vase to-day. Mrs. Darley felt very sorry. What was I doing on the mantelpiece? The dear only knows. It looked tempting up there. It is such fun to twist between things and not break them, and it is only once in a great while that I do have a smash.

I hope Billy will find his lead-pencils. I dropped them behind the sofa—and what did I do with that dead mouse I was playing with? Did I leave it on Margaret's bed? I believe I did. Well, she is a fat little girl. It won't hurt her to scream a while. Mrs. Darley will run to her. Good night, everybody—I am—so—sleepy.