Part 4

Meanwhile one of our neighbors was sitting on her kitchen porch in full view of the whole proceeding, and I expected every minute that she would say something sarcastic about a “cat funeral” or a “cat hospital,” as she had done before. She was busily plying the needle on her beautiful fancy work. As soon as mistress had finished planting the flowers, the lady came to the fence and said:

“I should think you would have your cats wear black ribbons when they are attending a funeral;” and without waiting for a reply, she held up her fancy work and asked mistress how she liked it. It was a doily stamped with a group of kittens playing ring-around the rosies, and several of the figures had already been worked in beautiful colored silk.

“It must be pleasant, no doubt,” said mistress, “to work beautiful figures of happy creatures upon canvas; but I prefer to give joy and happiness to the living. And as for the emblem you speak of, to my mind flowers symbolize the transition of life far more fitly than do the time-worn weeds of mourning.”

The lady made no answer to this at all, and mistress went into the house, leaving her alone with her fancy work.

Before we were allowed to go on the porch again, it was thoroughly scrubbed with boiling water; the tub was scalded, and the old mat was burned.

On the following day a neighboring cat, whom I have since learned to know as Jack, came into our yard, and I noticed that he persistently sniffed around the little fresh mound.

“What is in there?” said he, after he had visited it for the third time.

I told him about the sad occurrence of the day before.

“Was it a gray cat with white toes?”

I told him it was.

“Poor Betsy Whitefoot,” said Jack, in tones of real anguish. “I have shared my meals with her ever since the Mortons went to their summer house in the country. A better mouser never lived than Betsy, and how they could so cruelly desert her is more than I can understand.”

I could plainly see that Jack was filled with wrath and bitterness toward the people who had caused his friend so much sorrow, and I suggested to him that we go up in one of the poplar trees where we could talk over the matter quietly, and without attracting attention.

Jack readily assented, and when we had found a nice comfortable place he went on telling me more about the Mortons.

“Last winter,” said he, “during that dreadfully cold spell some kittens came to Betsy, and they made her stay in the cold shed without even a box or basket, and all that she could find to lay the kittens on was some straw in a corner of the floor. Of course the poor little things all got dreadfully sore eyes; two became completely blind; and one by one they drooped and died, till even Betsy herself told me she was thankful they were out of their misery, and that she hoped she would never have any more. And by the way, there goes Will Morton now,” said Jack, pointing down to the sidewalk. “Take a good look at him, and always avoid him if he comes your way.”

It was unnecessary for Jack to administer the caution, for the lad was no stranger to me; indeed he was the very boy who pelted me with stones on that hapless day when I strayed away from my mother. I never forgot him, for from time to time I would see him pass our house, usually puffing away at a cigarette, and accompanied by rough looking hard-faced boys.

Jack could not restrain himself from telling all that was in his heart about the dreadful Mortons. Said he: “Last winter Will went on a journey with his uncle, and he promised faithfully to write to his mother twice a week. But during four weeks he never wrote her even a postal card. And many a Sunday when his mother thinks he is in Sunday-school, I have seen him out in the alley with his companions, smoking and listening to rude stories. It all goes to show that he has as little respect for her feelings as she has for those of her cat.”

I was strongly tempted to tell Jack my own experience with Will Morton, but I felt that he had enough of heaviness on his mind, and I tried my best to think of something pleasant. I told him how kindly mistress had received Betsy, and how gently she put her to sleep, and it seemed to lessen somewhat the grief which he felt for his departed friend.

“I am thankful,” said he, “that there are some people in this world who realize that even a poor sick cat has some rights, and I hope that the day is not far off when every town and city will have a place where dumb animals that are deserted or lost or sick, can be taken in for protection and care.”

I told him that I hoped so too, for I knew that only a short time ago, mistress had had an experience which made us all feel the need of such a place. I heard her tell Guy of a poor sick and homeless pug dog she saw on the street, and how she stopped to put a court-plaster over a raw spot on his ear. Of course, the dog felt that she was his friend, and he followed her to her office. But she had no place to keep him, so she sent word to the Dog Hospital about it. She might have called the Humane Agent to come and shoot the dog, but she thought he was a nice animal and worth saving.

Well, the hospital man came and examined the dog, said he was old and sick, not worth trying to save, and that the only thing he could do for him was to chloroform him and take him to the glue factory. Mistress told him to do that; but she had to pay him two dollars before he would do another thing for the dog. A hospital of that kind is all right for an animal whose master is able to pay; it does not as a rule help poor homeless creatures. My idea of a hospital is one where any animal, no matter how poor or sick or unsightly, is welcomed, and either nursed back to health or put out of its misery. I have heard that in some large cities kind-hearted people have founded such asylums. But we must hope and pray that good people may be found in every town and city, willing to devote a portion of their means to the relief of suffering animals.

XII

SUNSHINE AND SHADOW

One pleasant Saturday afternoon I was awakened from my nap by a sound as of rustling foliage, and the room seemed to be suddenly filled with the odor of fresh violets. I opened my eyes and saw a very stately-looking lady, dressed in a beautiful silk gown and a hat that was covered with gaily colored birds, all having their wings spread as if about to fly away. She was seated in the high-back chair, and I quickly climbed up on it from the rear, and was just ready to spring upon the birds, when she gave a dreadful scream and ran out onto the porch.

At this, mistress came rushing down-stairs, and the lady told her with frantic gestures and loud exclamations what a dreadfully rude thing I had done to her. Mistress led her back into the parlor, and got her quieted as well as she could, but presently Budge and Toddy, who had been napping in the bay-window seat, also came into the parlor.

“Are all of these cats yours?” said the lady, with apparent astonishment. “I should think they would be a dreadful nuisance.”

I could see that mistress was annoyed by the remark, but she answered her very gently, and said: “It depends on your treatment of cats, Mrs. Cotton, whether they will be a nuisance or a pleasure. I have always found them a pleasure, and besides, I have a special purpose in keeping pets.”

“A purpose in keeping cats!” exclaimed the lady; “do tell me what it is.”

“It is to teach my boy to be tender and humane toward all animals; and as we cannot afford expensive pets like dogs and horses, we are satisfied with cats.”

“You are the first person I ever heard speak of a purpose in keeping cats,” said Mrs. Cotton. “I always supposed that people had cats because they just happened to come to them.”

“That is not the case with these cats,” replied mistress. “We formerly lived in a flat where we could not keep pets, and that is one of the reasons why I went to housekeeping.”

“But do you not find it very expensive to keep house for just you two?”

“We do,” said mistress, “but it is the money that is wisely expended, after all, that brings the largest returns. To many people, no doubt, our modern flats are a great boon, affording comfort and safety that they could not possibly secure elsewhere. But to my mind, the landlord who banishes children from his flat is a public benefactor, however selfish may be his motives. A child should have a home in the truest sense of that precious word, a home with lawn and garden, with room for pets and tools and playthings, affording him ample opportunity to give wholesome expression to his feelings. It is the life lived day by day in the home that moulds and fashions a child’s character, rather than any training he receives in school. Spend your money right now in _forming_ correct ideas, and encouraging expression of them, rather than save it by ignoble economy, only to be spent later in the vain attempt to _reform_ a character perverted and dwarfed through narrow and contracted living.”

“I have never before had my thoughts turned to this subject,” said Mrs. Cotton, looking very earnestly into mistress’ face, “but I believe what you say is true. I am so thankful my children are still young, that I may profit by your excellent ideas. And as for cats, I never before thought they were good for anything, having been brought up to think of them as uncanny creatures, something to be abhorred and dreaded. But as my little boy has written Santa Claus to bring him a kitty for a Christmas gift, I suppose I will have to give up my prejudice.”

“It is the superstition of a by-gone age,” said mistress; “but a happier day is coming, when the cat will be given her rightful place as a household pet; and through gentle treatment her nature will become still more refined and ennobled. Notwithstanding all that has been said about their selfish disposition, my cats have at times shown great consideration for each other. For instance, once I gave them their milk in a narrow dish, where only one could lap at a time, and to my great surprise they took turns. On another occasion I had prepared a plate of meat for them, arranging each cat’s portion by itself. Budge and Meow were not present, so Toddy ate his portion and left theirs untouched.”

“That is certainly remarkable,” said Mrs. Cotton. “I shall no longer object to having one in our house. But I fear we shall no sooner have become attached to her before she will leave us. My neighbor has had three very pretty kittens given her during the last six months, and not one stayed longer than a week.”

“Where does she keep them?”

“Oh, they stay around the yard, and when it’s cold they crawl under the barn, or if they get a chance they go up in the haymow.”

“No wonder,” said mistress. “A cat, with her domestic instincts, in order to become attached to a place, must have a cozy, comfortable corner somewhere in the house that she can call her very own. It may be nothing more than a basket with a pad or a cushion in it, but it must be permanently located in a retired corner of a comfortable room. A cat thus provided will become attached to her own peculiar furniture, and even should the family remove to another place, if she is carefully transferred to the new home, and her corner is at once fitted up in a quiet room where she can be kept indoors for a few days, she will not go away.

“And while we are talking on this subject, I trust you will pardon me if I mention something that may seem very trivial to you, but which I consider of great importance. A cat should have a name, because it adds to her dignity, and commands respect for her. Moreover it enhances her commercial value to be thus individualized, and lifted above the general mass of her kind.”

“I am very glad to know all these things,” said Mrs. Cotton. “You certainly have interested me in this subject as I never have been before in all my life.”

Before Mrs. Cotton went away that afternoon she actually came over to the window-sill and gave Budge several gentle strokes. I suppose she chose Budge because he is the smallest.

“How docile and confiding,” said she; “they seem to know no fear at all; and such soft and glossy coats I never saw before.”

“Their confiding and docile nature is due to kind treatment,” said mistress, “and the soft and glossy coats are the result of good food, plenty of fresh water and clean pads.”

As Mrs. Cotton took her departure, it seemed as though her face wore a far more kindly expression than it did when she came in.

Of course, I was delighted to hear all these good things, and especially that we cats are useful, and serving our dear mistress such a good purpose. May the time be near at hand when the sunshine of love and good-will shall chase away every shadow of hatred and cruelty!

XIII

JACK

Jack was a large black Manx cat that lived on Poplar Avenue, the friend of Betsy Whitefoot, as you will remember. His tail was only about an inch long, and his hind legs were higher than his front ones.

One day when jack’s mistress called at our house he followed her, and, having known him since the death of Betsy, I gave him a hearty welcome.

“Where did you get this beautiful cat?” said mistress, the moment she saw Jack.

“My husband brought him home one bitter cold day last winter,” said Mrs. Vandervere. “He saw some boys chase him through an alley. The poor creature was so thoroughly frightened that for several days he stayed almost constantly behind the cook-stove, refusing to come out. We thought the boys had cut off his tail, but when I came to wash him I discovered that he never had one. When he recovered from his fright we found him to be a very affectionate cat, and now we feel as though we could not do without him. Often when I am sewing he sits on my shoulders, and he used to have a fashion of pulling pins out of my waist with his teeth and drop them on the floor. But one day he pulled out a crooked pin and swallowed it, and by the way he acted we thought Jack would not be with us much longer. A raw egg, however, seemed to do him good, and in a few days he was all right again; but he has never pulled out any more pins.”

Jack and I with Budge and Toddy had been lying in our sunny bay-window, but while his mistress was still talking we two got up and went out into the yard. Jack went straight to Betsy’s grave and sniffed around a while, then he mounted the fence and showed me the shortest cut over to his house, and he also invited me to visit his catnip bed, in which he turned several somersaults. Then he led the way through the cellar window up into the house, and in the library beside the fireplace was his basket, a beautiful willow trimmed with red ribbons, and a soft cushion inside. Jack told me that was his “corner.” After a while we went outdoors again, and he showed me how far he could jump. It was from the top of the porch railing to the ground; and when I am a full-grown cat I expect to be able to do the same.

After that day Jack came to see me quite often, and he seemed especially to enjoy our beautiful sunny porch, which, with its pads and cushions and baskets, looked very much like Miss Virgie’s playhouse.

Whenever I visited Jack, we used to sit on a garden bench that stood in his yard, and upon which his mistress always left a blanket for Jack’s special comfort.

Jack was a great fellow to talk about old times, and one day when we were enjoying a sun bath on the bench he told me a very interesting story. He said that his ancestors came from an island across the ocean, and that he hoped some day to visit that country.

I described to him my journey last summer on the steamboat, and our visit on the farm, and it made him even more anxious to go.

Continuing his story, Jack said that he was a lineal descendant of the famous cat that made a fortune for Richard Whittington, who was “Thrice Lord Mayor of London.”

At this point I interrupted Jack to have him explain to me the meaning of “ancestor,” and “lineal descendant.” Jack was so friendly with me, I did not mind asking him, and he willingly explained it to me.

He said that the cat that lived with Richard Whittington very many years ago had a son named Tom; Tom had a son named Toby; Toby had a son named Jack, and so they kept on having sons till it finally came down to him, and that made Tom his ancestor, and him a lineal descendant.

Jack then told me of some of his experiences. He said that his ability to catch rats used to be quite as good as that of his early ancestor, but that since he lived in his present home, he had not much practice, there being no rats in the neighborhood, except an occasional one around the ash barrel.

I asked him where he learned the business, and he told me that he used to live in a down-town boarding-house, where he sometimes killed as many as twenty rats in one day. But the cook caught one alive one day, and tied a string around his neck with a little bell attached, and let him go back to his hole; and the ringing of the bell so frightened the other rats that they all went away. Said Jack: “My occupation was gone, and as the boarding-house keeper had no further use for me, she got some boys to chase me away.” And then he added with some bitterness: “That was the way she rewarded me for my services.”

I told Jack that I thought the treatment he received was very cruel. Indeed, I think a dose of chloroform administered to a cat one has no further use for, is much more humane than chasing him away, especially in cold weather. Of course, I didn’t tell Jack so; and indeed I am glad it was not done in his case. But not every cat is so fortunate as to be picked up by a kind-hearted person and taken to a good home.

Continuing our conversation I said to Jack: “Don’t you think your present beautiful home and kind mistress came to you as a reward for your industry in the boarding-house?”

He said he had never thought of it in that light before, but that he believed it must be so, and that he would forgive his former mistress for her unkindness.

At this time Jack’s mistress called him into the house, and I returned to my home, thankful that I had such a genial fellow as Jack for a neighbor.

XIV

CHRISTMAS

I shall never forget the delightful time we had on Christmas Day.

Imagine my surprise when on a beautiful winter morning we were decked out the first thing with bright new ribbons. I knew it was not Sunday, so I thought it must be Christmas, having heard Guy say that Christmas was just like Sunday.

After we had our ribbons tied, we were called into the library, and there on our bay-window seat was a beautiful lily plant with seven snow white bells on it, which filled the entire house with their fragrant odor. On the table stood a tree, like some I have seen in the country, and under the tree were three beautiful new pads, one orange, one blue and one pink, and a large willow basket with a soft cushion in it. Hanging on the branches of the tree, instead of apples or cherries as in grandpa’s orchard, were rubber balls, spools, and white muslin bags filled with popcorn. The spools had little tufts of bright colored worsted sticking out at each end, and they were suspended on narrow ribbon long enough to reach nearly to the table, which made it handy to play with them. The balls had something inside, which, when we squeezed them, would come out and tickle our noses, but we could never see the thing that came out. We used to try to catch it, but how could we catch a thing we couldn’t see?

After we had admired the beautiful tree for a while, Guy took down a bag for each of us. The muslin of which the bags were made was so thin that you could see the popcorn that was inside. The bags were tied at each end with pretty colored ribbon, which made them look just like little white sausages; but how to get them open and get at the popcorn was what puzzled me. But cats know just as well as people, that “in union there is strength,” so all three of us took hold of the same bag. It was tied with blue ribbon and belonged to Budge. For a while we played with the bag, each one pulling in a different direction, and in a few minutes the whole floor was littered over with popcorn. For a while we were very busy helping ourselves, and I am sorry to say that each growled at the others while eating, for fear they would get the most: it tasted so good.

While we were busy eating the popcorn, Dennis came in, wearing a beautiful new silver collar with his name and address: “Dennis Hilton, 129 Poplar Avenue,” inscribed upon it, and a yellow satin bow in the ring. Of course, we invited him to have some popcorn. But Dennis was more interested in our new pads and basket than in the popcorn, and after smelling of them all very cautiously, he stretched himself out on my pad at full length and took a nap. I was so glad he was too big for the basket.

I wondered all the morning why Jack didn’t come over, but in the afternoon we met accidentally on the fence ledge, and he told me that they had also had a Christmas over at his place; and he invited me to go over with him.

He said that on the night before when he was out in his poplar tree, he saw an old gray-haired man with a long, white beard, and wearing a furry coat and cap, drive down our street in a chariot drawn by reindeer, and that the chariot was loaded with the most beautiful toys and bonbons, such as children like, and that he stopped at every house in the neighborhood except Eddie’s.

Said I: “May be that’s Santa Claus, that we hear so much about; but they say he always travels in a sleigh.”

Jack said he guessed not, unless there was snow on the ground.

By this time we had reached his yard, and he invited me in and showed me his presents. He had a beautiful new brass collar with “Jack Vandervere, 111 Poplar Avenue” inscribed upon it. He also had a box of sardines which tasted perfectly delicious.

Mistress sometimes gives us salmon and it is very good; but I like sardines better because they are whole, and it is such fun to toss them around and play “catch” with them. If they would only wiggle a little, it would be still more fun to play with them.

Jack had many other presents, but the one that interested me most of all was a little box that sings when you pull a string. His mistress pulled the string for me, and the very first song that came out was one I have heard mistress sing, about an Owl and a Pussy Cat that went to sea and got married. Another song that came out of the box was “My Pussy has gone from her Basket.” It seemed to be gotten up on purpose for pussies. Perhaps if I am a real good cat, the little old man will bring me a song box some time. Next Christmas eve I shall watch for him from my poplar tree.

While I was admiring Jack’s presents and listening to the lovely music, in came Willie Cotton, carrying in his arms a beautiful jet black kitten with amber eyes and a white “breastpin.” It had a yellow ribbon around its neck, to which was fastened a note, as follows

“LABRADOR, Dec. 25.

“DEAR WILLIE:

“This will introduce to you Nicodemus. I have sent him to you because you belong to the Band of Mercy, and want some animal to love and care for. Fix him a comfortable place in some room where he will be obliged to be neat and orderly in his habits. He will make you no trouble, if you will take him out into the yard every morning, noon and evening, and always take him to the same place.

“Your faithful friend, “MRS. SANTA CLAUS.”