Part 11

“Yes, I see it is. But that’s easily remedied. I shan’t paint her in a white one.”

“But—shall we keep her?” asked Mrs. Merriam timidly.

“We’ll try to—until the picture is done, anyway.”

When the kitten had first come to the house, Heywood had been engaged upon an elaborate landscape, which he had intended to finish and present to the judges of a forthcoming Art Exhibition. But since the first study of “Her Majesty,” his interest in the landscape had waned. Abandoning his original plan, he was now hard at work on “The Kittens’ Playground,” determined to exhibit that or nothing. For a week Her Majesty was closely guarded and the picture grew apace; then one day she disappeared. High and low they searched, but all in vain.

Across the square Miss Dorothy was tenderly caressing an animated ball of yellow fur.

“Queenie, Queenie, what does this mean? What am I to think when you run away from me so? Who are your new friends that insist on tying on these odious blue ribbons around your neck? Here, just let me take off the horrid thing and—why, what is this!” she exclaimed, interrupting herself in amazement as a tiny crumpled paper dropped into her hand.

“Kindly leave the blue ribbon on. I like it better—it’s more artistic,” she read.

“Well, really—impertinent creature!” Then she laughed, caught up a pencil, and wrote on the back of the paper:

“So sorry, but I prefer white!”

When the small yellow cat and the big white bow appeared before Heywood that night, he laughed outright. With careful fingers he undid the knot, and then he laughed again.

“As I expected—graceful, in spite of disadvantages.”

When the blue again adorned the kitten’s neck, it bore with it this message:

“I regret to be obliged a second time to call your attention to the fact that blue is the only possible ribbon for this cat. Look at her eyes!”

The picture was nearly done now. Her Majesty came and went much at her own sweet will, and it was not two days before another huge white bow appeared on her neck to mock Heywood’s gaze. His fingers shook a little as he untied the knot and freed the tiny crumpled paper.

“I regret to be obliged a second time to call your attention to the fact that I prefer white. Look at her—whiskers!” he read.

The time of the Exhibition arrived and Heywood had thoughts for but one thing. At last his picture was hung, and so attractive did it prove to be that it bid fair to realize his dearest hopes.

It represented the interior of an artist’s studio. The whole was but the setting for four yellow kittens—the cleverest, most fascinating yellow kittens in the world, peeping from behind curtains, tumbling among rugs, rolling over tubes of paint—life-like, bewitching, and altogether perfection.

It was on the third day of the Exhibition that a tall girl in drooping feathers and rich furs stopped before the picture with an exclamation of delight.

“It’s Queenie!—why, it’s Queenie to the very life!” “C.R. Heywood. Not for sale,” she read disappointingly from her catalogue; then she sought the manager.

“‘The Kittens’ Playground’—it is not for sale,” she asked.

“No, madam.”

“But the artist, Heywood—does he live in the city? Can you give me his address?”

“Thirty-four Union Avenue, madam,” replied the man, consulting his book.

Dorothy Marsh was not a young woman who dallied. Once determined on a course, action quickly followed. Her mother, always gentle and pleasantly acquiescent, was hurried into the carriage and the order, “Thirty-four Union Avenue,” given to the coachman.

Upon their arrival at the house, the two ladies were shown into the studio, and in a moment Heywood appeared.

The girl was in the middle of the floor, turning round and round in amazement.

“Why, they’re all Queenies, every one of them!” she exclaimed.

The man bowed, and a peculiar smile flickered across his face.

“They are, indeed, all—‘Her Majesty’s.’”

He had not time to say more, for at the first tones of the girl’s voice, there was the crash of a falling vase and the scampering of little feet from an inner room. Then with a spring and a bound a small yellow kitten landed in Miss Dorothy’s outstretched arms.

There was a moment’s awkward silence. Mrs. Marsh unconsciously came to the rescue.

“Why, it is our kitten, isn’t it? This must be where she goes so often, daughter.”

The color deepened in the girl’s cheeks and she threw a quick glance at Heywood.

“It evidently is, mother,” she laughed.

Mrs. Marsh turned to the artist.

“My daughter has taken a great fancy to your kitten picture at the Exhibition, Mr. Heywood. We—er—I see that the catalogue states that it is not for sale.”

“Indeed, madam, it _was_ my intention to keep the picture,” he began, speaking to the mother, though looking at the daughter, “but—”—the kitten jumped from the girl’s arms to the floor and began playing with a tube of paint—“Well, there are circumstances,” he continued, then paused again.

“Yes, there are circumstances,” repeated the girl softly, her eyes on the kitten.

“Yes, circumstances which—which alter determinations,” he suddenly concluded, following her gaze with his eyes.

Dorothy was strangely silent through the rest of the interview.

It was when the ladies were leaving that the artist placed Her Majesty into Dorothy’s arms. His hand rested in a momentary caress on the round yellow head, then his fingers just touched the white bow at the neck.

“The ribbon in the picture, Miss Marsh,” he began, closely studying the girl’s face, “shall I change it to—er—white?”

“Thank you, no. I—I prefer the blue,” she answered, with a sudden flash from her eyes and a dazzling smile.

Her Majesty is older now. She is plump, sleek, and of stately dignity, and her eyes—once turquoise—gleam with shifting amber lights. Her present realm is a certain mansion. Incidentally, it is also the home of the artist, Heywood, and of his wife, Dorothy.

[Illustration: From Painting by Frank Paton.

“Witness my act and deed.”]

[Illustration: From “Life,” by courtesy of David Smith, Artist.

(See page 135.)

HOMELESS KITTEN.]

* * * * *

_Ques._—When is a tea-pot like a kitten?

_Ans._—When you’re teasin’ it (tea’s in it).

DIRTY KITTY-CAT.

STANLEY SCHELL.

_Written expressly for this book_.

You surely have heard of the bad kitty-cat, A source of great grief to her mother, I’m sorry to say if you search round about, You’ll doubtless find many another. She did love dirt, and she did not love soap, And she certainly hated a tubbing, And her mother declared if she did not keep clean, She’d give her a thorough good scrubbing.

She won’t be happy when she gets it, No, she won’t be happy when she gets it, Now, just take my word, ’Tis the truth you have heard, She won’t be happy when she gets it.

Kitty cared not a bit for her dear mother’s threat, Too often she’d heard the same story, Till one fated day to her home she returned, All muddy, and dirty, and gory. She’d just had a fall, she smilingly said, When mother remarked her condition; Then she walked to her rug and curled down for a nap, And did nothing to show her contrition.

Oh, she’ll be happy when she gets it, Now, won’t she be happy when she gets it? For I saw her mother’s eye, As kitty gaily passed her by, And I know she’ll be happy when she gets it.

That mud and dirt and gore Were really the last straw to break the camel’s back, That mother watched that kit, then looked about her quick, And decided that the time was very ripe for her to act. She seized that little kit by the back of the neck, And dragged her to a fast-running stream, All in vain were her screams, For into that stream was she hastily and speedily tossed.

Oh, wasn’t she happy when she got it! I told you that she’d be so; But she swam for her dear life, To the shore where mother stood, And promised ever more to be good, For she wasn’t a bit happy when she got it.

DICKENS AND HIS KITTEN.

Charles Dickens was particularly fond of cats. One little deaf kitten had the liberty of her master’s study. She followed him about like a dog and sat beside him while he wrote.

One evening Dickens was reading by a small table upon which stood a lighted candle. As usual, the cat was at his elbow. Suddenly the light went out.

Dickens was deeply interested in his book, and he proceeded to relight the candle, stroking the cat while he did so. Afterward he remembered that puss had looked at him somewhat reproachfully while she received the caress. It was only when the light again became dim that the reason of her melancholy suddenly dawned upon him.

Turning quickly, he found her deliberately putting out the candle with her paw, and again she looked at him appealingly. She was lonesome; she wanted to be petted, and this was her device for gaining her end.

LINCOLN’S MOTHERLESS KITTENS.

MRS. FREDERICK W. PENDER.

_Written expressly for this book_.

[During one of President Lincoln’s visits to the Army of the Potomac three tiny kittens were crawling about the tent. The mother had died, and the little wanderers were expressing their grief by mewing piteously. Mr. Lincoln took them on his lap, stroked their soft fur, and murmured, “Poor little creatures! Don’t cry; you’ll be taken good care of;” and, turning to an officer, said: “Colonel, I hope you will see that these poor, little, motherless waifs are given plenty of milk and treated kindly.” The Colonel replied: “I will see, Mr. President, that they are taken in charge by the cook of our mess, and are well cared for.” Several times during his stay, Mr. Lincoln was found fondling these kittens. He would wipe their eyes tenderly with his handkerchief, stroke them, and listen to them purring their gratitude to him. It was a curious sight at an army headquarters, upon the eve of a great military crisis in the nation’s history, to see the hand that had signed the Emancipation Proclamation tenderly caressing these stray kittens.]

A mother cat with kittens three, Was such a pretty sight to see; All curled around her, soft and warm, Those babies knew no fear or harm.

Their noses were a rosy pink; Their tiny eyes, they tried to blink; While pussy sang, as mothers do, And babies tried to join her, too.

And, then, they were so happy there All in a tent, without a care; And oft the mother purred with pride, When those wee mites were by her side.

She washed their faces and their feet, With velvet paw, for she was neat; And taught them how to run and play, And they grew cunning ev’ry day.

But, oh! this good old pussy died, And those wee babies cried and cried! They did not know that she was dead, And sorely begged they to be fed.

They crawled around both day and night, No mother there, how sad their plight, And how their little hearts did beat At ev’ry sound of coming feet.

A man was passing by the tent, He paused, then quickly in he went. He saw those waifs, he picked them up And called for milk for them to sup.

Then softly murmured “not to cry,” A friend you have now I am nigh. He stroked their fur, and soothed their fears, And even wiped away their tears.

Those grateful babies purred and purred, At kindly touch and gentle word; For Lincoln was their friend in need, And love shown in his ev’ry deed.

And he whose pen had freed a race, Thought petting kittens no disgrace, Nor stooping to a thing so small, For God had made them, one and all.

His great heart beat for them, indeed, As much as for the race he freed; And in the years that faster come, All love to think of this deed done.

* * * * *

_Ques._—Why is the world like a cat’s tail?

_Ans._—Because it is fur to the end of it.

MY OL’ BLACK CAT.

FLAVIA ROSSER.

You jes’ orter to see my ol’ black cat; ’E’s soft like a cushion, but nicer’n that. ’E’s made out o’ velvet, an’ stuffed ’ith springs, An’ ther’s sumpin’ in ’im wot whizzes an’ sings. ’Is eyes ’r round ’s marbles, an’ bigger’n any o’ mine; They’re jes’ chock full o’ meanness, an’ wink, an’ blink, an’ shine. We ketch ’im an’ hol’ ’im in th’ dark, an’ rub ’im—my pa an’ I, ’N’ you orter to see them ’lectric sparks wot crackle, an’ snap, an’ fly. Sometimes my pa’ll take that cat an’ touch ’is nose to ’is—— I wouldn’t do it ’cause it hurts, and makes pa say, “Gee wiz’!” But sometimes pa is differunt, and them is the times wot he Takes me out to the woodshed an’ kinder wallops me. It gets so dark in the woodshed ’at I sneak up near th’ door, But th’ other children won’t come out, nor play ’ith me no more. My ma, she works ’ith her head tucked down, so’s not to see me cry; Them times I think how sorry this fambly ’ud be if I’d die. But yip! ’cross th’ big, black garden, my cat comes hoppity-skip, ’E never even looks to see th’ place pa throwed the whip; ’E humps ’is back up ’gainst me, an’ snuggles, and sniffs an’ sings; An’ stickles me ’ith ’is viskers, an’ talks ’bout other things. O’ course I love my ol’ black cat; w’y it seems to me at times like that I love ’im better’n I love ma, ‘n’ a good deal better’n I love pa.

* * * * *

Spell live mouse-trap with three letters.

C-A-T (cat).

THE DEAD KITTEN.

SYDNEY DAYRE.

Don’t talk to me of parties, Nan; really, I can not go. When folks are in affliction they don’t go out, you know. I have a new brown sash, too; it seems a pity, eh? That such a dreadful trial should have come just yesterday. The play-house blinds are all pulled down as dark as it can be, It looks so very solemn and so proper, don’t you see? And I have a piece of crape pinned on my dolly’s hat; Tom says it is ridiculous for only just a cat. But boys are all so horrid! They always, every one, Delight in teasing little girls and kitties, “just for fun.” The way he used to pull her tail—it makes me angry now— And scat her up the cherry-tree to make the darling “meow.” I’ve had her all the summer. One day, away last spring, I heard a frightful barking, and I saw the little thing In the corner of a fence; ’twould have made you laugh outright To see how every hair stood out, and how she tried to fight. I shooed the dog away, she jumped upon my arm; The pretty creature knew I wouldn’ do her any harm; I hugged her close, and carried her to mamma, and she said She should be my own Kitty, if I’d see that she was fed. A cunning little dot she was, with silky, soft, gray fur; She’d be for hours on my lap, and I could hear her purr, And then she’d frolic after when I pulled a string about, Or try to catch her tail or roll a marble in and out. Such comfort she has been to me I’m sure no one can tell, Unless some other little girl who loves her pussy well. I’ve heard about a Maltese cross; but my dear little Kit Was always sweet and amiable, and never cross a bit! But, oh, last week I missed her! I hunted all around; My darling little pussy cat was nowhere to be found, I knelt and whispered softly, when nobody could see: “Take care of little Kitty, _please_ and bring her back to me.” I found her lying yesterday behind the lower shed; I thought my heart was broken when I found that she was dead. Tom promised me another one, but even he can see No other Kitty ever will be just the same to me. I can’t go to your party, Mamie. Macaroons, you say? And ice-cream? I know I ought to try and not give way; And I feel it would be doing wrong to disappoint you so, Well, if I’m equal to it by to-morrow, I may go.

MY CAT AND DOG.

MARORI.

I have a cat; she’s as black as my hat. Fur fifty times finer than silk, And what e’er is occurring, she always is purring, Especially over her milk. And I have a dog, too, a wonderful dog, Nobility beams in his eye; And, early or late, for his master he’ll wait— None such friends as dear doggie and I.

His dear, honest nose he shoves into my hand, Yet growls if a rogue comes in view; And his great wagging tail makes one quite understand He’s a watchman both fearless and true. A trio of jolly companions are we, Together we pleasantly jog; Indulge in no riot, but live very quiet— Myself and my cat and my dog.

THE LOST MITTENS.

[Illustration]

Three little kittens lost their mittens, And they began to cry, “O mother dear, We very much fear That we have lost our mittens.”

“Lost your mittens! You naughty kittens! Then you shall have no pie.” “Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.” “No, you shall have no pie.” “Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.”

The three little kittens found their mittens, And they began to cry, “O mother dear, See here, see here, See! we have found our mittens.”

“Put on your mittens, You silly kittens, And you may have some pie.” “Purr-r, purr-r, purr-r, Oh, let us have the pie. Purr-r, purr-r, purr-r.”

The three little kittens put on their mittens, And soon ate up the pie; “O mother dear, We greatly fear That we have soiled our mittens.”

“Soiled your mittens! You naughty kittens!” Then they began to sigh, “Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.” Then they began to sigh, “Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.”

The three little kittens washed their mittens And hung them out to dry; “O mother dear, Do you not hear, That we have washed our mittens?”

“Washed your mittens! Oh, you’re good kittens. But I smell a rat close by!” “Hush, hush! mee-ow, mee-ow! We smell a rat close by! Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow!”

KITTYCAT AND THE MILKMAN.

Mr. Milkman, please to stop! Fill my jug up to the top; Half for mother, half for me, Fresh and sweet milk let it be. Mother told me, too, to say, “Please to call here twice to-day.”

TWO HEARTS AND A KITTEN.

MABEL PREECE.

Timothy Dale, the blacksmith, sat beside the kitchen table in his tiny cottage, laboriously penning his first love letter. He destroyed sheet after sheet of writing paper in disgust at his misshapen letters and poor composition, until only one remained.

“It’s got ter come right on this ’ere one, or it can’t be done at all. The store’s closed fer th’ night an’ I ain’t got no more paper.”

“Dere Cynthia,” it read, “can you mete me bi the mill to morrow at 3. i luv you and wood like to no if you do the same and will marrie me plese not to forgit at 3 yours trooly Tim Dale.”

Cynthia Warden turned up the lamp and read the letter with no great surprise, for Timothy was not an adept in concealing his feelings. But Cynthia had been at boarding-school, and the honest but faulty epistle somewhat jarred on her. And then there was Walter Hughes.

Walter Hughes was a traveling salesman and at times visited his uncle, old Lawyer Hughes, the richest man in the place. At first the visits were infrequent, prompted by duty and the thought of “uncle’s little pile in the bank;” but after meeting Cynthia Warden he seemed to form an attachment for the village and spent much time there. His city-bred airs and refinement won Cynthia’s regards, and when he gave accounts of his thrilling experiences, her heart warmed to this hero of her girlish dreams. As she stood gazing out of her window, she almost laughed aloud at the thought of marrying Timothy Dale.

“Of course, it’s absurd. I might have thought him all very well had not Walter come;—but now it is out of the question.”

As Walter Hughes walked to Cynthia’s home the following afternoon his thoughts were extremely pleasant.

“The little game is progressing very favorably,” he murmured, rubbing his soft, flabby hands together in delight. “The girl is awfully smitten with me. She’ll come in for a goodly share of old Warden’s savings, and I might do worse than to marry her.”

He found Cynthia standing by the gate waiting for him.

“Come for a walk,” he suggested. “Cynthia,” he said, when they had exhausted the minor topics of the day, “I love you, and I believe you are not wholly indifferent to me. Will you marry me?”

Cynthia turned her eyes away that he might not see her great happiness, and as she did so they fell on an object by the roadside.

It was a kitten that some cruel boys had stoned. With a cry of pity she drew her hand from Hughes’s grasp and started toward the kitten, but he pulled her roughly back.

“Never mind the fool cat, Cynthia. What if it is hurt? I guess I’m of more importance than a kitten. Answer my question: will you marry me?”

It was as if a veil had been torn from her eyes. His cold, unsympathetic words, and still more, his pitiless face, betrayed the cruel, selfish nature of the man, and Cynthia’s face flushed with indignation and shame at the thought of having cared for such as he.

“No,” she responded quietly, but firmly, “I will not.”

He turned on his heel and left her standing there, and she buried her face in her hands, shuddering at the horror of what she had escaped.

A cheery voice roused her from her reverie.

“Well, Cynthia, girl, here you are! I’ve been looking by the mill for you, but as you warn’t there I thought I’d take a turn up this ’ere way an’ maybe I’d find—why, look at that pore little cat! Now, I’d jest like ter know who could ha’ done that! Wouldn’t I larrup their hide, though?”

He picked the kitten up and bound its wounded foot with his coarse red pocket-handkerchief. The hands of the burly fellow became as tender as a woman’s.

“I’ll jest take it home an’ fix it up,” he said carelessly, slightly ashamed of showing his soft-heartedness. “It’ll be sort ’er company ’bout the house. An’ now, Cynthia, I jest wanted ter know ef you’d do what I said in th’ letter—marry me—you know. I ain’t got much but a heart full of honest love ter give you, girl, but I’ll do my best by you an’ make you happy. I know I ain’t much, but—but—”

It was the longest speech the poor fellow had ever made and he broke down confusedly. But Cynthia, looking up at him with glistening eyes, said softly: “Will I marry you, Tim? Yes—with all my heart.”

Then, as with a low exclamation of surprise and joy he turned quickly toward her,—

“Look out!” she cried, laughing through the tears sparkling in her eyes, “Look out, or you’ll drop the kitten!”

LITTLE TURNCOATS.

GEORGIA A. PECK.