Part 13

Mamma said, though dreams are dread They vanish like a bubble; “But,” said she, “a simple tea Would save you such a trouble. If you eat just bread and milk, You will not see the willows, And the creeping Scarum cat, In the slumber pillows.”

THE TROLL CAT.

[The cat appears in many of the weird tales and popular songs of the Northern nations. A characteristic legend is the following.]

_Hor du Plat Sag til den Kat At Knurremurre er dod._

Knurremurre rules with a will All the trolls in Brondhoi Hill; Throughout all Zealand has it rung— The fame of Knurremurre’s tongue. One young troll got tired of the worry. “I’ll away,” said he, “To company More pleasant than Knurremurre.”

* * * * *

“Wife, what’s scratching at the door On this cold winter night?” The gales through the snow-heaped forests roar, And the hut-fire is burning bright. “Open the door, good wife,” says Plat. In walks a stately, whiskered cat.

He sits by the fire and dries his fur, And purrs his thanks with a loud, long purr, And eats his grout, and washes his face, And makes himself at home in the place.

Weeks pass on, a good cat he; He is quite one of the family; For the kindly wife of Plat, In her wooden hut by the northern sea, Has a poet’s love for a cat.

* * * * *

’Tis night; the cat by the hearth-fire lies, Purring and dozing, with blinking eyes; When Plat comes in and says,—

“Good wife! What strange things happen in one’s life! I saw a sight As I came to-night By Brondhoi Hill, Where all was still, Save the trolls who hammered below with a will. Out jumps in my way A man old and gray, And squeaking he said,— ‘Hearken, Plat! Tell your cat That Knurremurre is dead.’”

* * * * *

Up jumped the cat from the hearth-fire side— “Ho! Knurremurre dead!” he cried. “Now I may go home, I ween.” And out he scampered with a will, Out through the night to Brondhoi Hill, And nevermore was seen.

CATS.

_Essay or Address._

STANLEY SCHELL.

In all the varied world of animals, three only are universally the inmates of our homes, the companions of our firesides—the cat, the bird, and the dog. The cat, especially, is the friend of our early childhood; the purr of the cat blends with the voices of the children and the ticking of the clock; it is the music of repose, the veritable “Home, Sweet Home” that haunts the wanderer on far-off shores.

A tenderness toward the animal creation is always characteristic of noble, generous and intellectual souls; and it is well known that our most intellectual people are most tender-hearted toward beings helpless and inferior to themselves, and they love with a child-like love the cat, whose image is associated with the sweetness and tenderness of the child’s world of happiness—the home.

The most noted persons in every profession have been domestic cat lovers, particularly authors and poets. Such men as Pope Gregory, Mahomet, Petrarch, Tasso, Cardinal Woolsey, Admiral Doria, Gladstone, Montaigne, Swinburne, Watson, Matthew Arnold, Dickens, Southey, Cooper, Hugo, Mérimée, Sainte Beuve, Baudelaire, Gauthier, Pierre Loti, Hoffmann, Scheffel, Lord Chesterfield, Jeremy Bentham, Doctor Johnson, Fielding, Lincoln, etc., were all cat lovers and worshippers, and many of them immortalized the cat in rhyme or in prose.

The Cat Family is a large one, and to it belong:

Tiger, Lion, Leopard, Ounce, Puma, Jaguar, Clouded Tiger, Thibet Tiger Cat, Fontaneir’s Cat, Golden Cat, Fishing Cat, Bengalese Cat, Wagate, Marbled Tiger Cat, Serval, Golden-haired Cat, Gray African Cat, Servaline Cat, Ocelot, Margay, Geoffroy’s Cat, Ocelot-like Cat, Yaguarundi (Brazil), Eyra, Colocolo, Rusty Spotted Cat, Chinese Cat, Small Cat, Jerdon’s Cat, Java Cat, Small-eared Cat, Large-eared Cat, Flat-headed Cat, Bornean Bay Cat, Egyptian Cat, Wild Cat, Indian Wild Cat, Common Jungle Cat, Ornate Jungle Cat, Steppe Cat, Shaw’s Cat, Manul, Straw or Pampas Cat, Northern Lynx, Pardine Lynx, Carcal, Cheetah, Domestic Cat.

[Illustration: From Painting by Frank Paton.

PUSS IN BOOTS.]

[Illustration: A LITTLE MISCHIEF MAKER.]

Considering the Cat Family as a whole, there is probably no other animal so well equipped for the battle of life.

Cats are carnivorous, preferring to discover and kill their own prey. Cats are ferocious and sanguinary, loving retirement; moving with concealment and stealth; always fighting desperately when injured, or when escape is no longer possible. All cats climb with ease, except the tiger and the lion. So persistent are the characters both of body and mind in the Cat Family, that, in spite of thirty-five centuries or more of domestication, the household cat to-day preserves far more of its ancestral traits than any other of the four-footed associates of man.

Cats are found all over the world except in the Australian region, in Madagascar, and the West Indies. They are mainly tropical and heat-loving, although a few species range far to the north, as the tiger in Asia and the puma in America. The short-tailed lynxes also predominate in the northern regions.

The first real evidence of cats in connection with man is to be found in the ancient monuments of Egypt, Babylon, and Nineveh. Cats are mentioned in inscriptions as early as 1684 B.C., and they were certainly domesticated in Egypt 1300 years before Christ.

The earliest known representation of the cat as a domestic animal and pet is at Leyden, in a tablet of the 18th or 19th Dynasty.

In ancient Egypt, the cat was an object of religious worship and a venerated inmate of certain temples. The Goddess of Pasht or Bubastis, the goddess of cats, was, under the Roman Empire, represented with a cat’s head. A temple at Beni-Hassan, dedicated to her, belongs to the 18th Dynasty (1500 B.C.). Behind this temple are pits containing a multitude of cat mummies.

The cat was also worshipped in the Temple of the Sun at Heliopolis, as the Egyptians deemed the cat an emblem of the sun, because its eyes were supposed to vary in appearance with the course of the sun, and for a similar reason the cat was deemed sacred to the moon, because it would undergo a change each lunar month, and because of the waxing and waning of its pupils.

Among the Greeks the cats became common pets at the period when Athens represented the civilization of the world; and, later, in the Græco-Italian civilization of Herculaneum and Pompeii in the south of Italy, and in the period of Roman supremacy, it was a well-known pet of courts and ladies’ boudoirs.

During the Middle Ages, cats were very scarce and valuable, and persons owning cats were heavily taxed.

The cat has also had its detractors, and shortly after the Middle Ages cats were looked upon as symbols of witchcraft and deviltry of all kinds, and were even burned at the stake as sorcerers and savants.

In Paris, every St. John’s Day, a number of cats were heaped up in baskets and bags in the Place de Greve, and the sovereign himself always set fire to the pile. This practice continued down to Louis XIV., who was the last King of France to do so cruel an act.

Gipsies have always feared the black cat and have greatly loved the white cat.

Shakespeare rarely alludes to cats, except in an uncomplimentary way.

The domestication of cats was gradual and continuous.

The origin of our domestic cat is undoubtedly the wild cat of Egypt and the American wild cat. And such origin is of very ancient date.

To-day the classification of our domestic cat is into two great classes: (1) The Long-haired or Angora Cat (Asiatic or Eastern in origin), consisting of the Persian, Russian, Chinese, and Indian Cats; (2) the Short-haired Cat (European and Western), consisting of the Tortoise Shell, Tortoise Shell and White, Tabbies—banded and spotted, brown, spotted, blue and silver, red, white, blue (Maltese in America), black and white, Royal cat of Siam, Manx.

DING, DONG, BELL.

Ding, dong, bell, Pussy’s in the well! Who put her in? Little Tommy Lin. Who pulled her out? Little Johnny Stout. What a naughty boy was that To drown the poor pussy-cat, Who never did him any harm, But killed the mice in his father’s barn.

* * * * *

There was an old cat, and a black cat, too, She had so many children she didn’t know what to do; To save them from fighting and scratching and bawling, She pinned them all up by their ears when out calling.

THE CAT OF HINDUSTAN.

Where mighty Ganges rolls in foam Down-sweeping to the Indian Sea, Grimalkin Long-Ears made her home; Lover of birds (to eat) was she, Wise and astute as cat can be.

There was a hill named Vulture-Fort, Great vulture nests filled all the space; There did the little birdlings sport, And chirp and hop with birdling grace; To puss a most attractive place.

She crept along paw after paw, Like velvet dropping soft and light; She munched the small birds with no awe Of Justice;—sudden—what a sight! Her fur stood upright with affright.

The mightiest vulture of them all— Jaradgabah—his shadow cast Upon her! see him, black and tall! Well might Grimalkin’s heart beat fast. She thought, “My hour is come at last!

“Swiftness and strength avail not me, I cannot fly, nor fight this bird; I’ll try my wits with flattery.” She smoothed her fur and gently purred— The vulture understood each word.

“Hearken to me, the wisest cat That in all Hindustan you’ll meet; Temperate and good; no lean nor fat, Nor fish, nor flesh, I ever eat; Grass only is my diet sweet.

“All men the stranger’s rights revere, And hospitality afford; Even foes may come, and with no fear Sit unmolested at our board; To all, food, shelter, we accord.

“Straw, water, earth, and pleasant words The good man’s house will aye contain; Shall I seek from you, king of birds, Kind hospitality in vain? Then would all Hindustan complain.”

The end was this: her whisking tail And specious purr were not withstood; The vulture’s wrath began to fail; Surely this pleasing creature should Be wise, be pious, be most good.

He asked her in;—O with good cause The happiest cat by Ganges’ foam! She winked her eyes and licked her paws; Soon he went forth awhile to roam; She ate the small birds and went home.

The mothers came at eve; no sound Of joyous chirping filled the air, But claws and feathers strewed the ground, And in the midst, in blank despair, Jaradgabah sat brooding there.

“Jaradgabah!” shrieked every one— “’Tis he who has in frenzy slain Our darling broods! Be justice done!” The poor bird had no time to explain; They seized him, rent his neck in twain.

When you your bosom’s love would mate With strangers, be not prudence mute; Think of Jaradgabah’s hard fate; His trusting nature bore sad fruit. Grimalkin Long-Ears was astute.

THE DEAD CANARY.

CHARACTERS: ELSIE, GEORGE, and JAMES. STAGE SETTING: Home interior. SCENE: GEORGE and JAMES are sitting at table reading books.

[_Enter_ ELSIE.]

ELSIE. O dear! O dear! It’s gone—killed—eaten up! O dear! O dear! [_Wringing hands._]

GEORGE [_looking up from book_]. What is the matter, Elsie? What is gone?

ELSIE [_sorrowfully_]. My dear, dear bird—my canary that you gave me.

GEORGE [_sympathetically_]. You don’t say so! How sorry I am!

JAMES [_looking on and deeply interested_]. What killed it, Elsie?

ELSIE. The cat.

GEORGE [_angrily_]. How cruel! how wicked! I’ll shoot her!

JAMES [_surprised_]. For what?

GEORGE. Why, for killing the bird.

JAMES. For killing one bird? What should be done with you, who have killed so many birds—all as beautiful as the canary?

GEORGE [_indignantly_]. Why, I am not a cat!

JAMES [_earnestly, yet with determined voice_]. No; but you are far more responsible than a cat, who is governed only by instinct, and kills a bird for food, not for sport, as you do.

GEORGE [_sarcastically_]. Well, this is being decidedly personal.

JAMES. It is simply calling things by their right names. Elsie, what do you think George has spent his whole day for? Just to catch and shoot a poor little wren. Late this afternoon he succeeded in fetching her down, and that leaves four poor little baby wrens in the nest to starve and die.

ELSIE [_shaking finger sorrowfully at George_]. Bad, wicked George! I’ll not speak to you again for a week. You and that kitty-cat are two murderers of birds, and should be shut up in the cellar together.

[_Exit_ ELSIE.]

GEORGE [_shrugging shoulders, gets up, shoves hands into pockets, and moves about room restlessly_]. What a great fuss about a bird!

JAMES [_indignant_]. Fuss? Why should you not apply the same rule to yourself that you would apply to a cat? The equity of the case is against you, George. You claim the right to kill, yet deny that right even to a cat! The law of usage is your only excuse, and it is a very poor defence at best; it is one law for the powerful and another for the weak. You should be too just to use it. [_Rises and stands leaning on table._]

GEORGE [_leaning against a chair_]. Your logic is very good, James; but I would like to shoot that cat, for—for——

JAMES. For doing just what you have done so many times. [_Crosses to brother._]

GEORGE [_stammering and looking ashamed_]. Well, I’ll—I’ll——

JAMES [_looking at him with pleading eyes_]. What?

GEORGE [_looking into_ JAMES’S _face with a more open face_]. I think I shall have to own that I have been in the wrong, and I promise never to shoot again in mere sport. [_They shake hands earnestly and gladly._]

JAMES. That’s a noble resolve, George. As to Elsie, I’m sure she’ll forgive you when she learns of your resolve; but mind—no mental reservations about that cat, or——

GEORGE [_smiling_]. Or what?

JAMES [_patting_ GEORGE _on shoulder as both move to leave room_]. Why, a cat-astrophe will be sure to follow.

GRAY’S ELEGY ON HORACE WALPOLE’S CAT.

_Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes._

’Twas on a lofty base’s side, Where China’s gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow; Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selina reclined, Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared; The fair, round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw, and purred applause.

Still had she gazed; but ’midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The genii of the stream: Their scaly armor’s Tyrian hue Through richest purple to the view Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first, and then a claw; With many an ardent wish, She stretched in vain to reach the prize. What female heart can gold despise? What cat is averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent Again she stretched, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between. (Malignant Fate sat by and smiled) The slippery verge her feet beguiled, She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood, She mewed to every watery god Some speedy aid to send. No dolphin came, no Nereid stirred; Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard: A favorite has no friend.

From hence, ye beauties undeceived; Know, one false step is ne’er retrieved, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts is lawful prize, Nor all that glistens gold.

NAUGHTY PUSSY.

Oh, Miss Pussy—Pussy-Cat, Naughty pussy, what is that? A little chicken—pretty thing! There it hangs with broken wing!

Blackie says it’s very sad; Fluffy thinks it’s just as bad; Brownie lifts his paws up so, Says: “Oh, pussy—bow, bow, wow.”

WISDOM.

Our kitty found a wasp to-day, And with it thought that she would play; Alas, she found that pretty things Too often carry nasty stings! “Oh, dear!” cried kitty, with a wail, “I’ll play in future with my tail!”

REVENGE FOR POISONING A CAT.

A French lady by the name of Mme. de Bientruffé, whose departed husband had left her enough money to live comfortably the rest of her life, lived in quiet and happiness until her jealous neighbors began to envy her good luck, and wrongly to gossip about her. Among her most implacable enemies was a certain Mme. Galuchard, who burned with an almost Carthaginian hatred, which included not only Mme. de Bientruffé, but also her gray Angora cat, called Minouchon. Mme. Galuchard vowed incessantly with set teeth that some day or other she would cook their soup for them. The piano on which her old neighbor sometimes played threw her into fits of mad rage, which were accentuated only by the mewing of the cat. She had already several times demanded the execution of the animal, and every time the poor old lady had formally refused to comply with the demand, denying the charge that her pet attracted all the tomcats of the neighborhood. Not being able to encompass by open means the revenge which she desired, Mme. Galuchard resolved to accomplish it by force, and by means of the darkest machinations.

One day—entirely by chance, of course—a piece of bread crust, soaked in milk saturated with arsenic, was thrown in the way of the innocent Minouchon, who was wandering over the stairs, and, incapable of suspecting the perfidiousness of the human race, she thought she had found a tidbit, and hastened to sample it.

Alas! An hour later she died in fearful agony, and her little white Angora soul soared straight to the regions where there is no pain, and the remembrance of the misery of this world is effaced and vanishes in the vibrating splendor of the sky.

Her mistress mourned her as if she had been a human being. She had a handsome wooden box made, and painted white, in which she placed her idolized companion, with a new ribbon round her neck, and had her secretly buried in a corner of the nearest park.

When these sad duties were accomplished she had only one thought—how to punish the monster who had killed her pet.

Her suspicions soon fell on the repulsive Mme. Galuchard, who appeared to be puffed up with satisfaction over some insolent and cruel victory. Unfortunately, the latter had no pet animal through her love of which she might be hit; besides, Mme. de Bientruffé was too good-hearted to avenge the death of one innocent being by killing or injuring another.

If she thought over her plan for a long time, and at last fancied that she had found a punishment equal to the crime, she gave no sign that such was the case. The only thing to be noticed was that she bought one day a dozen traps—rat traps and mouse traps—which she caused to be set in her apartments. But then, since the assassination of the poor Angora cat had left the rodent tribe the freedom of the house, it was, of course, necessary for her to combat the animals, and the neighbors did not trouble themselves about it, Mme. Galuchard least of all.

A week later, however, when the latter was at home, and busy thinking what new injury she could do Mme. de Bientruffé, a uniformed messenger brought her a large box, and withdrew, saying that it was paid for. Thinking that she would find some beautiful gift—a shawl, a boa, perhaps a gown—Mme. Galuchard hastened to open the box.

Horrors! Hardly had she lifted the cover before a swarm of little gray animals, leaping, jumping, bounding, and giving piercing squeals, dashed across the room and crowded together in the corners, leaving the paralyzed woman half dead with fright. At the bottom of the box was a note signed by Mme. de Bientruffé:

“Madame: You killed my cat by giving him arsenic. As this kindness deserves another, I make you a present of my mice.”

* * * * *

_Ques._—What proves a minister to be the most affectionate of men?

_Ans._—In every church you will find a catechist (cat he kissed).

THE RETIRED CAT.

WILLIAM COWPER.

A poet’s cat, sedate and grave As poet well could wish to have, Was much addicted to inquire For nooks to which she might retire, And where, secure as mouse in chink, She might repose, or sit and think. I know not where she caught the trick— Nature, perhaps, herself had cast her In such a mould philosophique, Or else she learned it of her master. Sometimes ascending debonair An apple-tree or lofty pear, Lodged with convenience in the fork, She watched the gardener at his work; Sometimes her ease and solace sought In an old empty watering-pot; There wanting nothing but a fan To seem some nymph in her sedan, Apparelled in exactest sort, And ready to be borne to court.

But love of change, it seems, has place Not only in our wiser race; Cats also feel as well as we That passion’s force, and so did she. Her climbing, she began to find, Exposed her too much to the wind, And the old utensil of tin Was cold and comfortless within; She therefore wished, instead of those, Some place of more serene repose, Where neither cold might come, nor air Too rudely wanton with her hair, And sought it in the likeliest mode Within her master’s snug abode.

A drawer it chanced, at bottom lined With linen of the softest kind; With such as merchants introduce From India, for the ladies’ use. A drawer impending o’er the rest, Half open in the topmost chest, Of depth enough, and none to spare, Invited her to slumber there. Puss, with delight beyond expression, Surveyed the scene, and took possession. Recumbent at her ease, ere long, And lulled by her own humdrum song, She left the cares of life behind, And slept as she would sleep her last; When in came, housewifely inclined, The chambermaid, and shut it fast; By no malignity impelled, But all unconscious whom it held.

Awakened by the shock (cried Puss) “Was ever cat attended thus? The open drawer was left, I see, Merely to prove a nest for me; For soon as I was well composed, Then came the maid, and it was closed. How smooth these kerchiefs, and how sweet! Oh, what a delicate retreat! I will resign myself to rest, Till Sol, declining in the west, Shall call to supper, when, no doubt, Susan will come and let me out.”

The evening came, the sun descended, And Puss remained still unattended. The night rolled tardily away— (With her, indeed, ’twas never day); The sprightly morn her course renewed, The evening gray again ensued, And Puss came into mind no more Than if entombed the day before. With hunger pinched, and pinched for room, She now presaged approaching doom, Nor slept a single wink, nor purred, Conscious of jeopardy incurred.

That night, by chance, the poet watching, Heard an inexplicable scratching; His noble heart went pit-a-pat, And to himself he said “What’s that?” He drew the curtain at his side, And forth he peeped, but nothing spied; Yet, by his ear directed, guessed Something imprisoned in the chest; And doubtful what, with prudent care Resolved it should continue there. At length a voice, which well he knew, A long and melancholy mew, Saluting his poetic ears, Consoled him and dispelled his fears. He left his bed, he trod the floor, He ’gan in haste the drawers explore; The lowest first, and without stop The rest in order to the top. For ’tis a truth well known to most, That whatsoever thing is lost, We seek it, ere it come to light, In every cranny but the right.