CHAPTER XI

MAINE, LOVELY MAINE

Mona and Dolly came draggling along, paused at the brink of the river, then, as if to say, “You are too beautiful to be polluted by our muddy coats,” they came up on the bridge, and lay down by the carriage.

“This here river,” said Mr. Gleason warmly, “is to my mind, though one of the smallest, yet the prettiest we've got. Up there,” and he pointed his whip to the Green Hills, “it rises among the woods, and comes rushing down the steep slopes. Then it creeps into yonder belt of trees and finally comes out here, quiet and tired, and kind of spreads itself about in these pools to think a bit.”

No one spoke, and we all gazed earnestly at the lovely green pools fringed by the tall water grasses.

“And after its meditating is done,” continued the farmer, “it gathers itself up, and meanders down through the meadows till it reaches our farm, which it just about cuts in two, or unites, whichever way you choose to take it. Our place wouldn't be much without the river—get up, Glory and Dungeon,” and he urged on the big powerful horses.

I was very much interested, but how tired I was! My eyes ached from the bright sunshine and gazing at such far-away things. I rather longed for the cool, quiet streets, and the opposite houses of Beacon Hill. However, this was only my first day, and I felt that I should soon love this beautiful scenery. Cats are sensitive as well as human beings; they hate dull and sordid surroundings.

Up one more gentle hill, along a level road, and then the farmer spoke again. “Here is our young orchard, and there are the farm buildings.”

Mary let me slip to the seat, and slowly but eagerly, raised herself to her feet. “Papa, papa, was this your very home?”

Mr. Denville nodded his head. “My very home, but I scarcely recognize it. This orchard land used to be covered with a spruce grove. The barn is new, and the house has been changed.”

At this moment, Mr. Gleason turned swiftly from the road to a short avenue of maple-trees, and drew up in front of a good-sized house with a green lawn before it.

Mrs. Denville put up her eyebrows. “This does not look like an old-fashioned farm-house, Harold,” she remarked.

“No, it has been altered,” he said, “the old house has been put on top of the new one.”

“Why, I never heard of such a thing,” said Mrs. Denville, and little Mary exclaimed, “But, papa, how could they do it?”

“After my father's death the place was sold,” continued Mr. Denville, “and the new owner lifted the framework of the old house, and built under it. We will go over the house, and I will show you what is new and what is old. Let us get out now. There is Mrs. Gleason.”

A white-faced, thin, quiet-looking woman with a blue apron on was standing on the veranda at the end of the house. She was smiling kindly, and stepping quietly forward, she shook hands with the Denvilles. Mrs. Denville and Mary went in the house with her, but I stayed to greet Serena and Slyboots. The express wagon was just turning in the avenue.

Serena's box was soon put on the veranda, and I found that she was in a fine rage because she had not been allowed to come in the carriage with us. “To think of putting me in with the servants,” she said angrily, “and why am I not let out? Can't you get a hatchet?”

“I don't know where there is one,” I said, “and if I did, I could not hold it in my paws.”

“Well, do something,” she said. “Sit down and mew.”

I sat down beside her box, and screamed for help. Mary soon came running. “Anthony, Anthony,” she called, “Black-Face wants you to let her sister out of the box.”

The servant man came hurrying from the carriage-house, and soon Serena had her liberty.

“Now, Slyboots,” said Mary, and the poor street cat was lifted out.

She went right back in the box again, and lay there till some one let out the farmer's big black and white dog. He had been shut up before we arrived lest he should molest us. Now he came bustling up, his tail in the air, his nose excited, as if to say, “Who are all these strange creatures that I smell?”

“Barlo,” said Mr. Gleason coming out of the kitchen, “if you touch these cats, I shall whip you.”

He stared up in his master's face, and wagged his tail. Oh! how he did want to chase us! Serena and I stood with our backs up. Slyboots slowly rose from the box that I fancy she thought would be her coffin, and slunk into the house.

At this instant fortunately, Barlo caught sight of Mona and Dolly who were lying panting under the trees. Here were two lady visitors. He could not be rude to them. In great delight he ran toward them, prostrated himself on the ground, begged them to play, but they would not. Then he ran like a fox to the orchard, and began to dig up buried bones from the ploughed land. These he brought and laid before Mona and Dolly.

They were not going to eat dirty bones when they had lately been having sandwiches, so they scorned them. Barlo was in a dreadful state of mind. He whimpered, and licked the air, and behaved like a very silly dog.

“He is young,” remarked Serena disdainfully. “Now, Black-Face, let us go in the house and investigate.”

By this time it was getting to be late afternoon. The air was very chilly, and I was glad to go inside.

We entered a large kitchen. It had good-sized windows, and two tables, and a sink with a funny, big, red thing, that I afterward learned was a pump to bring in water from the well. There were also some rocking-chairs, and a big black stove which was throwing out a great heat.

Mrs. Denville was sitting in a chair with her feet against the oven to warm them, and Mary was not dancing about her as she would have done if she had not had a weak back, but she was slowly circling about on her toes, while she ate a slice of bread and molasses.

“Look under the stove, Black-Face,” said Serena tragically, “and tell me what you see.”

I stooped down. A big ugly, grizzled, tortoise-shell cat with glassy yellow eyes was staring in our direction.

“A grandmother cat you may be sure, and as ugly as sin,” whispered Serena. “Now, come this way. I smell another.”

She led me toward a deep box heaped with sticks of wood which the farmer's wife kept putting on the stove instead of coal.

“They must be rich to burn wood all the time,” said Serena; “now, smell round here.”

I did smell, and discovered a large, young cat—a queer-looking fellow, apparently all white, standing with one side pressed against the wall.

His eyes were shut, and his expression was most peculiar.

“He has probably never seen an Angora before,” remarked Serena.

“If he is frightened of us, what would he do if he saw a thoroughbred, with still longer hair?” I replied.

“Hush, Black-Face,” responded Serena, “up here where common country cats don't know much, I am going to be out and out thoroughbred.”

“Are you?” I said. “Well, I am not.”

“You shall be,” she responded angrily.

“I shall not,” I said firmly.

“Why not, dear?” she asked, suddenly growing calm.

“Because mother told me never to lie, and because I know if we do we are sure to be found out.”

“Well, you may be whatever breed you like,” said Serena with a toss of her head. “I am going to be Angora, pure and simple. I shall say we are only half-sisters.”

“And I shall contradict you.”

She paused for a few minutes, and surveyed me angrily. “Black-Face, you are a teasing little wretch. I wish I had left you at home.”

“That cat behind the box is listening to all you say,” I remarked. “You do not know how clear your voice is. Now, don't try that thoroughbred trick, or he will expose you, if I don't.”

“I am sure he could not have heard us,” replied Serena in a confident tone.

“Very well,” I replied. “Suppose we speak kindly to this cat. He looks much disturbed.”

“I would rather inspire respect than familiarity,” replied Serena tossing her head. “I am going to cry for milk. Good-bye,” and she walked away.

“How do you do?” I inquired going up to the box. “What is your name?”

“Whoop! Bang!” he exclaimed, suddenly opening his eyes and turning a flying somersault out into the room, “my name's Joker—what for the land's sake, is yours?”

I opened my eyes in undisguised astonishment. This cat was neither shy nor frightened. He was a huge, ungainly young fellow, most peculiarly marked, for one side was white, and the other was Maltese gray, and his manner was bold and assured.

“My name is Black-Face,” I said quietly.

“What's that other cat's name that was with you,” he went on; “that stuck-up thing?”

“Was there a stuck-up cat here?” I said innocently looking over my shoulder. “I was not aware of it.”

“You know what I mean,” he said with a grin, “that white-faced mule.”

“Is that your grandmother under the stove?” I asked.

“No,” he said, “I ain't got a relative here. Though I call her grandma and I call her daughter Aunt Tabby. Aunt Tabby's in under the settin'-room sofy.”

I softly walked into the next room. There was a pleasant-faced, very respectable pussy under the sofa. “How do you do?” I said politely to her.

She bowed her head gravely, and threw me a kind glance.

“I hope you won't mind having so many strange cats come here,” I continued.

“Everybody keeps a number of cats around here,” she said simply. “There are so many mice.”

“They steal the food, I suppose.”

“They eat the grain,” she said in mild surprise. “You know the farmers have corn, buckwheat, oats, wheat and other things in the bins in their grain-rooms. The mice make sad havoc in the bins, unless there are cats about. Up in the barn, there is a cat.”

“Called Thummie,” interposed the foolish, grinning Joker. “He's got double side claws on his paws. He's a sight.”

The tabby cat listened patiently to Joker, then she continued, “I have charge of the carriage-house, and Joker here, looks after the house.”

“Grandma being most as good as dead, does nothin',” interrupted that dreadful grinning Joker.

“Do you allow young cats here to make fun of old ones?” I said indignantly to the pleasant-faced tabby.

She seemed embarrassed, and Joker replied, “Course we do—this is a free country, ain't it?”

“Certainly, one is free to do anything,” I replied, “but the question is, whether it is right and kind to do certain things.”

“There you go preachin',” responded the irresponsible Joker. “Blizzard said that you Boston cats would make us most sick with your airs. Go 'long with you. Preach to the birds in the trees,” and he skipped out the doorway.

“He is very young,” said the tabby looking after him.

I did not reply. I had never seen a cat that affected me so disagreeably. Not even Slyboots, for there was some moderation and restraint about her. This creature was so forward, so unmannerly, so conceited, so rude—and then I paused. How wicked I was to take such a dislike to him.

“Would you like a little walk outside?” asked my new friend politely.

“No, thank you—I am dead tired. I believe I will go to bed. I wonder which room my little mistress is to have.”

“I know,” said the tabby politely. “I will show you.”

She was just about leading me into the hall to go up-stairs when I heard a fearful shriek. “Meow! Wow! Black-Face!”

It was my sister's voice, and she was calling to me. I flew out of the sitting-room into the kitchen, and out on the veranda. Which way? Ah! there was the noise and there were the combatants.

Out on the ploughed land under the apple trees, a furry ball was rolling over and over. It did not seem to be two cats but one.

Aunt Tabby had not come with me, but another cat form was leaping along beside me, and a voice that I had heard before was saying in my ear, “That's Blizzard fast enough, that's the way he gets in his work.”

I turned as I ran and saw Joker.

“We must separate them,” he gurgled in his throat, as if this were something to be enjoyed and prolonged, “but go easy, strange cat, go easy.”

“She's my sister,” I gasped indignantly, and I threw myself forward toward the part of the ball that was not Serena's long hair.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw other cats approaching. One from the road, one from the barn. The latter looked dishevelled. It was poor Slyboots, and as I afterward learned, she had been having trouble on her own account. However, she nobly came to our aid. The cat on the road I did not recognize, and of course, at this time, I did not know who Blizzard was.

Joker helped Slyboots and me. We seized the gray hair, and pulled. I got hold of the wicked Blizzard's tail, and I can assure you, I nipped it. Of course they rolled over and over, but Joker, and I, and Slyboots hung on, and presently we dragged that gray beast off.

Then I had a look at him. He was a slight, slim, gray and white cat, with the meanest little head I ever saw—a regular sly, ugly little scamp, and under-sized. Why, he was not as large as I was!

Of course, I did not bestow much attention on him, but confined myself to Serena. I found that she was dreadfully shaky and frightened, but not much hurt.

“That's the way Blizzard fights,” said Joker gleefully. “He doesn't do much damage, 'cause he doesn't want to knock you out.”

“What!” I exclaimed, turning sharply to him.

Joker's mouth was stretched from ear to ear, and he was pointing toward the little gray Blizzard who was being licked down by the cat in the road.

Joker coolly explained. “There ain't many cats around here. Blizzard has got to fight. If he half killed you, you'd be laid up for a week, so he fights easy. Then you soon recover, and he can go at you again.”

“Oh my!” gasped Serena who was listening to us. “I am all upset.”

“Lie down a while,” I said, “then we will go to the house.”

Slyboots stood near us never saying a word, but staring at Blizzard and his friend. At last she said to Joker, “Who is the second gray and white cat?”

“That's Rosy,” he replied, “Blizzard's wife. She always rubs him down, but never takes part in a fight. When she hears him yelling, she runs to be on the spot to help him afterward.”

“I feel faint,” murmured Serena, “I think I will go to the house.”

As our little procession formed, I happened to cast a look toward the barn. There sat another cat, watching us with a smile on his face. This must be Thummie, but he was too far off for me to see his double claws.

We all went into the house, and up-stairs. The Denvilles and the Gleasons were having dinner or supper as they call it here, in the dining-room. There was a good deal of laughing and talking, and I glanced up at the table as we went by. It was drawn up near some big windows that overlooked the meadows at the back of the house, and the lovely Purple Hills beyond. Mr. Denville and the old farmer were talking about crops, and Mrs. Denville and Mrs. Gleason and Mary were chatting about fruit and vegetables.

There were some very nice things to eat on the table. I sprang up on a chair for a minute to look, for I do love to see any one enjoying good food. They had hot coffee, and a glass pitcher of cream, and cocoa, and strawberry preserves, and plum preserves, and white cake with raisins in it, and layer cake with jam in it, and boiled eggs, and cold ham, and hot rolls, and cheese and crullers.

“That's a good enough supper for any one,” remarked Joker proudly, and I agreed with him.

When we got up-stairs we all went under Mary's bed, even Slyboots and Aunt Tabby joined us.

Then while I licked Serena and rubbed her down, Joker talked about the fight. For half an hour it was interesting, then it got to be monotonous. It hadn't been much of a fight, and Serena was more frightened than hurt, but Joker went over and over the particulars. How he had been under the Siberian crab-apple tree looking down the road, how he saw Blizzard slinking by but suspected nothing, how he had heard a yell in a voice that was unfamiliar—which voice was Serena's, and so on.

Serena went to sleep at last, but Slyboots sat like a statue staring at him and saying nothing.

Aunt Tabby did not speak either, but she was quietly excited. However, she seemed to realize that we were being bored to death, and she coaxed Joker out in the hall where we heard him going over the same old thing.

“Slyboots,” I said suddenly, “are you hurt?”

“A little mite,” she said calmly.

I went closer. “Why, the tip of your ear is bitten off,” I said.

“It was Thummie the barn cat that did that,” she remarked coolly.

“How did it happen?”

“I went in looking for mice, and he hopped at me.”

“Have you any other injuries?”

“One of my legs is ripped.”

“Lie right down,” I said, “and I will attend to you. You can't reach your ear.”

I smoothed the fur on her head, I cleaned her nicely all over as long as she would let me. At last she got up, and uttered a grave, “Thank you.” Then she said quietly: “Some of these country cats be spiteful. We Boston cats must hang together,” and with these words she crept away.

Serena soon came out from under the bed, and got on top of it, and I lay down beside her. I slept until little Mary came to bed, and then it was so still that I could not sleep. Beacon Hill is a quiet place, one does not hear the cars up there, but still there is something doing and breathing at night. Here, in lovely Maine, there is absolutely nothing. The quiet seems to press upon you. I didn't sleep night before last which was the first night we were here, and I did not sleep last night. To-night I think I shall have a good rest. All day yesterday we—that is, dogs and cats—lay about and rested. Animals always do that after a journey, or after any exertion, unless they are prevented.

I often watch Mona and Dolly when they come from a long tramp with Mr. Denville. They go in their kennels and sleep, but he begins to read or write, or do something that taxes his brain, and kitten as I may be, I am beginning to think that body fatigue isn't equal to head fatigue. Mr. Denville would do better to lie down and rest as the dogs do, after he has had a long tramp.

Well, I have had a good quiet think to-night, even if I don't sleep. To-morrow I want to go over the farm. Serena will be herself then. Her slight scratches have closed already. I wonder what to-morrow will bring forth; I do hope we shall have no more fights.