Part 8

In our high estimation of him, we had given him credit for what was not there, and an appreciation far above what he had proven capable of. We were baffled and perplexed beyond endurance by this strange fascination which seduced him with such passionate persistence, driving him from our protection into great spaces in his life which were a sealed book to us. During all these years of our intermittent friendship, we were never able to solve this riddle. It was as if he heard some compelling challenge, like the sounding notes of the Pied Piper, calling and calling him from that far-off unknown, and try as he would to oppose it, his scandalous legs would eventually force their independence and get him there in spite of a hostile and honorable will. There was something so piteously appealing in the cat's evident helplessness to combat these siren summons, which threw him into a white heat of daring, that it finally disarmed our antagonism. Resigned to what we had now found was inevitable we compassionately waited and watched, realizing the fierceness of the strife that was raging in his complex nature, and knowing that he was powerless to thwart it.

This time the battle was a short one, for he had lost the shame of it, and had not the strength or desire to fight it. With no apology but with the steady, brooding look of a thousand defiant devils in his gray eyes, he soon made a hasty escape, the stiff hair lifting eagerly along the ridge of his back as he set out again on the long weary road that was forever drawing him from the narrow path of peace and rectitude. He had evidently sunk very low, even in his own estimation, for our last glimpse of him caught him adroitly dodging a shower of rocks well-aimed by the eternal small boy, ever on the lookout for such targets, as he disappeared over the alley fence.

We gave him up surely this time and mourned him as dead, knowing that the pluck and endurance of youth was long past. His wandering irregular life had done its worst, weakening his one-time rugged frame that was wont to withstand so defiantly, the hardships and privations of a tramp life.

But he was not dead, and we were bound to see him once more from out the No-Where, and to have the satisfaction of knowing that this long trip was his last and his wandering days over. It was during the wee small hours one silent, frosty night, that I was irresistibly drawn from my dreams and from my bed, and stepping to the window looked out on the sparkling space of what seemed to be the deserted roof, flooded in the unclouded light of the full moon. Quietly and with no sense of abruptness, came stealing on the heavy stillness of the night, a mournful, throaty wail of resignation from out the inky shadow made by the chimney. This desperate cry of the solitary cat sounded almost human, as if, seeing me standing there, and knowing that the icy doom had overtaken him, he just wanted to let me know the desolation of his helplessness. Peering into the shadow, I saw crouched there in a strangely pathetic manner, our wandering Ishmael, keeping a lonely night-watch and waiting patiently in the cold for--God knows what. He seemed dazed and terrified, crouching stiffly and staring about him with wide-open, frightened eyes. He must have known that the darkness was close upon him, for that one beseeching, throaty note, unspeakably human and forlorn, was all his uncomplaining wretchedness uttered.

Answering to my coaxing, he straightened his fast stiffening limbs with an effort and dragged his poor weak body to my compassionate caress. He had changed pitifully during this stay away and was only a shadow of his former self physically. His pride and might were all gone, but he was a stoic still, enduring what he himself seemed to know was death, in silent, uncomplaining misery but with a green spark of terror blazing in his fading eyes. I was glad that he had not crawled away to some secret place for the last great struggle alone, but had come to us and to our sympathy in his final need.

I soon had a blazing fire and as he feebly felt its warmth, he made a pathetic effort to tidy his poor matted fur, in which he had always taken such pride, especially in our presence. But even a few licks of his tongue were too much for his failing strength, and he dropped limply to the rug. Once he turned his head wearily to me as if to express his gratitude and as if to say, "How glad I am to be here." Then his body relaxed, the terror faded from his eyes, and that was the end. He had answered the summons for his last journey and gone out into the darkness without even the grace of repentance.

Only a cat! And one of the least commendable of all cats, and one that could not be called, even by his most ardent admirer, a worthy cat. Yet he possessed a personality, if not a soul, glowing with the great American burning impulse of liberty, and he has left a memory, not as a failure, but as one who made good. Born free, he kept his own free will to the end, living his own life in an out-doors all his own, free from enslavement and exultant in his freedom. He asked absolutely nothing of the world, but took what came his way with unassuming composure, rising above the temptation to yield his individuality in serving those he loved, cherishing somewhere in his plucky brain a pre-natal, God-implanted spirit of self-reliance to the end.

Is it against all religion that God might perhaps let such a pagan bundle of unrepentance into Somewhere? _Suaviter in modo, fortiter in re._

Is there aught of harm believing That some newer form receiving, They may find a wider sphere, Live a larger life than here?

That the meek appealing eyes Haunted by strange mysteries, Find a more extended field, To new destinies unsealed?

HERE ENDS THE GREAT SMALL CAT, AND OTHERS, BEING A COLLECTION OF SEVEN TALES FOR CAT-LOVERS, BY MAY E. SOUTHWORTH, THE TYPOGRAPHICAL APPEARANCE DESIGNED BY JOHN SWART, PUBLISHED BY PAUL ELDER AND COMPANY AND PRINTED FOR THEM BY THE TOMOYE PRESS, SAN FRANCISCO, NINETEEN HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN.