CHAPTER XII

MY HEADSTRONG SISTER

I am very much disturbed about something to-night. However, what is the use of worrying? What will be, will be, and if you can't prevent a thing, don't vex your brains over it, but keep cool and calm, and reserve your strength to mend the mischief after it's done.

My dear sister is, I fancy, running her head into trouble. Slyboots and I both fear it, but we can't stop her. She has announced her intention of spending to-morrow night hunting in company with—well, I can hardly believe it possible—Blizzard and his wife Rosy.

It happened this way. Right after breakfast—and I am surprised to find out how early the farmer's family gets up—Joker bounded up-stairs, and said that Serena and I and Slyboots had callers.

We were all three sleeping on an old feather bed in a big hall closet. Of course we got up and stretched ourselves, and went down the front staircase.

The Denvilles were all asleep, but in the kitchen the farmer's wife was frying eggs and making corncake for her husband and the young man Denno.

We cats went out on the veranda. No callers there. “They are in the orchard,” exclaimed Joker, and he plunged on excitedly.

They were not in the young orchard where the fight had taken place, but in the old one, sitting demurely under the shade of some currant bushes.

I could hardly believe my eyes, when I saw who our callers were—that impudent Blizzard and his wife.

I drew back, and so did Serena and Slyboots, but Joker plowed on. We looked at each other. There is a perfect understanding between us three; that is, when Serena is not provoking. That is one good thing that came out of Serena's fight. It has drawn Slyboots closer to us.

Well, we paused, and finally Joker paused, and looked expectantly at Blizzard. Then the sly, old, gray cat came forward, and bowing very low, addressed himself to Serena.

“Madam,” he said, with what I thought a very exaggerated manner, “I have come to offer you an apology for yesterday. I did not dream, I assure you, that it was one of your exalted lineage that I was attacking.”

Serena still looked doubtful.

Blizzard bowed again, yet more humbly. “Am I mistaken in supposing,” he continued meekly, “that you are of pure Angora blood, and that your forebears probably came from the celebrated cat-farm not very far from us in this state?”

Serena glanced at me. “My father is a thoroughbred Angora,” she said, “and he did come from Maine.”

“Then it's just as I supposed,” continued Blizzard. “Kneel down, Rosy,” and the old hypocrite, for such I fear he is, made his wife kneel at Serena's feet.

“Honor youth, and beauty, and high lineage, madam,” he continued firmly, “and if you cannot look like this young cat, at least act like her.”

This was the time for Serena to confess that she was only half Angora, that her mother was a back-yard cat. However, she did not do it, and I did not feel called upon to put her to shame.

Blizzard went on blarneying her. He paid no attention to Slyboots and me, and we gazed irritably at each other.

“Madam,” he said flatteringly, “the country is infested with tramp cats.”

“It isn't,” whispered Slyboots in my ear, “Aunt Tabby told me it isn't.”

Blizzard went on. “And being one of the guardians of the peace about here, whenever I see a strange cat, I fly at it.”

This was too much for Serena, and she said, “But are you not sometimes in danger of mauling the wrong cat? All cats are not bad.”

“Maul first, and ask questions afterward,” said Blizzard, “that's my motto. Strangers ought to stay at home.”

“But you would put a stop to travel, and improvement of the mind,” replied Serena sweetly.

“Madam,” and he bowed low, “if all strangers were like you, but they are not—and anyway, my own neighborhood is good enough for me. I don't want to travel.”

“I dislike to criticise your words,” remarked Serena politely, “but it seems to me they are just a little narrow-minded. We learn much by our contact with our fellow cats in foreign places.”

Blizzard smiled sweetly, and showed a set of very bad teeth. “In time, I dare say you will bring me over to your opinion. At present, I should like to have a little further conversation with you. Will you walk with me and Rosy?”

All this time, he had never noticed Slyboots and me, beyond throwing us one shrewd glance. He saw that we did not approve of him, and he would not be bothered with us. His present plan was to get Serena out of our reach, so he could fool her to his heart's content.

“Don't go with them, Serena,” and I stepped up, and whispered in her ear.

She tossed her head, then sauntered along with Blizzard and Rosy.

Joker followed them, grinning from ear to ear, and Slyboots and I returned slowly to the house.

The farmer's wife gave us a good breakfast, then we lay out on the veranda in the sun. When an hour had passed, after the Denvilles had had their breakfast, Serena and Joker reappeared. Serena was laughing and talking excitedly, and shaking her head, and seemed to be in high good humor with herself and all the cat world.

“Where have you been?” I inquired anxiously, as she passed me.

“Oh, having a walk on the meadow with those two delightful cats. I am going out again with them to-morrow evening,” and she looked mysterious.

“Serena!” I exclaimed. Then after a while, I asked her why she was going with those strangers.

For a long time, she would not tell me. She said it was a secret.

“Have you promised not to tell?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said she had.

“Then don't,” I replied, but then she wanted to, and at last whispered that she was going on a mole-hunt.

I was not much enlightened. However, I said nothing more at the time. I just worried in secret. Serena and Joker disappeared in the house in search of something to eat, and I coiled myself up again on the veranda, for by this time the sun was further up in the sky, and the air felt quite warm.

After a time, Mary and her mother came out. They both had on big sun hats, and they stood for a few minutes looking silently at the lovely view out through the maples. The Green Hills were soft and hazy in the distance, and near at hand were the fine shade trees, and the shock-headed pink and white apple-trees.

“Glorious,” murmured Mrs. Denville, “too glorious to linger indoors. Come, Mary, let us go over the farm.”

My little mistress held out a hand to me, and being eager to follow, I sprang up and circled round her.

Stepping off the veranda to a gravel walk, they went round by the well to the carriage-house.

There was a huge door in front of it quite closed, and I wondered how Mrs. Denville would open it. She just laid a hand on it, and it slid back quite easily. “These doors are more convenient than the old-fashioned ones,” she said to Mary.

I peeped in. This was very interesting. There were different kinds of wagons, and carriages, and queer sorts of machines that Mrs. Denville told Mary were for planting seed, and cutting, and raking hay. A wide stairway led to a loft above, and I went tripping up-stairs after Mrs. Denville and Mary. Here were sleighs covered with white cloths, a long carpenter's bench with pots of paint, and bottles of different kinds, several stoves and a lot of pipe, some old chairs and tables—it seemed to be a kind of lumber room.

“How did Farmer Gleason get these sleighs up here?” asked Mary with wide-open eyes.

“Sleighs can be taken apart,” said her mother, “and even if they couldn't be, two strong, country men would think nothing of dragging a thing like a sleigh up that wide flight of steps. Now let us go down and visit the next building.”

This one was not as large as the carriage-house, and Mrs. Denville and Mary did not go in, but contented themselves with looking in the doorway. It was piled high with wood, and Mrs. Denville asked her little daughter if she knew why there was so much wood there.

“No,” said Mary, “I do not.”

“It is a frugal way that farming people have,” replied her mother. “Mr. Gleason was telling us about it last evening. The farmers cut their wood sometimes a year in advance, and pile it up under cover to dry thoroughly. It lasts longer, and is easier to burn than green wood. Now let us go on to the big barn.”

We three sauntered along in the warm sunlight. Mary had her arm tucked through her mother's. The child was so happy that she did not know what to do. It seemed as if half the sunshine had caught in her face and stayed there.

“Oh! oh!” she murmured, when we reached the barn and went in through a little door that was set in a big door. “Oh! smell the hay, mamma.”

I stared about me. Away up in the air was the top of the big building. There was hay up there—not very much of it, but enough to make a good smell.

“This is the hay that they cut from the meadow,” said Mary. “Oh! I hope they will bring in some more to-day.”

Mrs. Denville smiled at her. “Mary dear, I am not much of a farmer, but I know more than you do. That is last year's hay. The men have not begun to cut this year's grass. When they do, this big barn will be crammed with it, from the floor up to those little windows in the peak.”

“Then I shall see them,” remarked Mary in an ecstasy. “I shall be able to watch the men cutting the grass and putting it in the wagons, and perhaps I can ride on top. Oh! say I can, mamma.”

“Certainly, dear, if your father consents. Now let us see what is in this room,” and Mrs. Denville opened a door.

I drew back, for as she opened the door, the cat Thummie sprang out. However, I had no cause for fright, for Thummie went up a ladder like a flash, and disappeared among the hay.

“This is the granary,” said Mrs. Denville, “how neat it is,” and she glanced approvingly about her.

The floor was swept and clean, and there were rows of things like big boxes against the wall.

“These are bins,” explained Mrs. Denville to Mary. “After the grain is thrashed it is put in here. See, this is some kind of coarse flour—I don't know the name,” and as she lifted the cover of the big box she looked about her as if seeking information.

“That is feeding flour, madam,” said the hired man Denno, appearing just in the nick of time.

“And this is middlings,” he went on, stepping forward, and putting down a pail of water that he held in his hand.

He lifted another lid and then another. “This is bran,” he said, “and I am just going to mix some for the pigs.”

He put his hand in a third box, took a tin dipper, and lifting it out full of bran, mixed it in the water with a stick.

“Oh! may we see the pigs?” cried Mary eagerly. “Come, mamma dear.”

Mrs. Denville was going round the grain room, lifting more lids and murmuring to herself, “Cracked corn, buckwheat, oats, rye, wheat.”

At Mary's request, she left the room, and followed Denno down a rather steep stairway.

“This is what we call the barn cellar down here, little miss,” said the young man over his shoulder to Mary who was next him.

“Why, it is lovely and light,” exclaimed my little mistress. “I should think a barn cellar would be dark.”

“Look at the windows,” said her mother, “see the sun streaming in.”

“It's as warm as toast here in winter, ma'am,” said the young man. “Water never freezes here.”

At this moment such a din arose that we could scarcely hear him. Mary in a great fright hid her face in her mother's arms, and I paused half-way down the steps to look about me.