Part 15

I want to tell you about my pet cat. I am sure it will interest you. He is marked like a tiger, with white paws and a white pompon in the end of his tail. I have never seen or heard of a cat who eats the things he does. One day he knocked down a bottle of olives from the pantry shelf and ate four. Other things he likes are red beets and baked beans; sometimes he even prefers them to meat.

One of his bad habits is to lie in my flower garden. I have it in a bay window, where the sun shines on it all the morning. As it is nice and warm there, I have caught him a number of times trying to sleep among the flowers.

He isn’t a bit afraid of dogs; indeed, they are more afraid of him, for he often chases them out of the yard.

One morning last winter I could not find him anywhere. At last I heard a faint mew. I listened, and heard it again, this time fainter than before. I looked all over. At last I thought of the oven in the kitchen stove. I opened it, and out walked my pet, more dead than alive. He must have gone in when no one was looking, and so had the door shut on him.

One place he enjoys to get in is the clean clothes basket, and it is needless to say that the cook chases him. One day, after she had ironed a whole basket of clothes he jumped in the basket and went to sleep. He hasn’t gone into the kitchen since. I think he knows the reason why.

He hates to hear anyone whistle. When I begin he sits on his hind legs and cries until I stop, sometimes even jumping into my lap and begging me by rubbing against my arm.

We have another cat, who is kept in the kitchen. My pet seems to hate him. I believe he does not think the other cat half as good as he is. They are continually fighting, for “the kitchen cat,” as I call him, tries to take my cat down a peg or two.

CATCHING THE CAT.

MARGARET VANDEGRIFT.

The mice had been in council; They all looked haggard and worn, For the state of things was too terrible To be any longer borne. Not a family out of mourning— There was crape on every hat. They were desperate; something must be done, And done at once, to the cat.

An elderly member rose and said, “It might prove a possible thing To set the trap which they set for us— That one with the awful spring!” The suggestion was applauded Loudly, by one and all, Till somebody squeaked, “That trap would be About ninety-five times too small!”

Then a medical mouse suggested— A little under his breath— They should confiscate the very first mouse That died a natural death; And he’d undertake to poison the cat, If they’d let him prepare that mouse. “There’s not been a natural death,” they shrieked, “Since the cat came into the house!”

The smallest mouse in the council Arose with a solemn air, And, by way of increasing his stature, Rubbed up his whiskers and hair. He waited until there was silence All along the pantry shelf, And then he said with dignity, “_I_ will catch the cat myself!

“When next I hear her coming, Instead of running away, I shall turn and face her boldly, And pretend to be at play: She will not see her danger, Poor creature! I suppose; But as she stoops to catch _me_, I shall catch _her_ by the nose!”

The mice began to look hopeful, Yes, even the old ones, when A gray-haired sage said slowly, “And what will you do with her then?” The champion, disconcerted, Replied with dignity, “Well, I think, if you’ll all excuse me, ’Twould be wiser not to tell.

“We all have our inspirations—” This produced a general smirk, “But we are not all at liberty To explain just how they’ll work. I ask you, then, to trust me: You need have no further fears— Consider our enemy done for!” The council gave three cheers.

“I do believe she’s coming!” Said a small mouse, nervously. “Run, if you like,” said the champion, “But _I_ shall wait and see!” And sure enough, she was coming; The mice all scampered away Except the noble champion, Who had made up his mind to stay.

The mice had faith—of course, they had— They were all of them noble souls, But a sort of general feeling Kept them safely in their holes Until some time in the evening; Then the boldest ventured out, And saw, happily in the distance, The cat prance gayly about!

There was dreadful consternation, Till someone at last said, “Oh, He’s not had time to do it— Let us not prejudge him so!” “I believe in him, of course, I do,” Said the nervous mouse, with a sigh, “But the cat looks uncommonly happy, And I wish I _did_ know why!”

The cat, I regret to mention, Still prances about that house, And no message, letter, or telegram Has come from the champion mouse. The mice are a little discouraged; The demand for crape goes on; They feel they’d be happier if they knew Where the champion mouse had gone.

This story has a moral— It is very short, you see, So no one, of course, will skip it, For fear of offending me. It is well to be courageous, And valiant, and all that, But—if you are mice—you’d better think twice Before you catch the cat.

[Illustration:

VIRGINIA BELL (two years old), Who posed with TOOTSY WOOTSY.]

[Illustration: TOOTSY WOOTSY AT THE SEASHORE.]

QUOUSQUE TANDEM, O CATILINE?

A.L. FRISBIE.

O ye feline brutes erotic, Is there not some strong narcotic, Some refined and rare hypnotic, Some potent spell, Soothing catnip, helleborus, Anything to still the chorus Of your piercing, wild, sonorous Nocturnal yell?

Stirring wrath in souls pacific, Thwarting agents soporific, Blighting visions beatific With horrid din; Moving even spirits saintly To utter, _almost_, low and faintly, Words divided very scantly From words of sin!

O ye brutes, my windows under, Me and sleep ye widely sunder. O for power, for once, to thunder Annihilation! O for boot-jacks half a hundred— O for hand that never blundered, Hurling, while the neighbors wondered, Pacification!

O for catapults to smite ye! O let catalepsy blight ye! All catastrophes invite ye, Cataclysmal! Cataracts be on ye falling! Curse, concatenate, appalling, Stop your ghoulish caterwauling, Paroxysmal!

WHAT I WANT.

DAVID L. PROUDFIT.

I want—I don’t know what I want; I’m tired of everything; I’d like to be a queen or something—no, a bearded king, With iron crown and wolfish eyes, and manners fierce and bold, Or else a plumed highwayman or a paladin of old.

We girls are such poor creatures, slaves of circumstance and fate, Denied the warrior’s glory and the conqueror’s splendid state; And, puss, you are so mortal slow; I wish you could be changed Into a catamount, with tastes quite violent and deranged.

I’d like an earthquake, that I would—O puss, I tell you what, Some planets have two suns and different colors, too, at that; Now there would be variety; two mornings every day— One green or brown, for instance, and the other crimson, say.

What splendid lights, what curious shades, what transformation scenes! What queer surprises, puss, just think, what lovely pinks and greens! How funny Gus would look! He is so poky and so flat! But such complexions! After all, I shouldn’t fancy that.

I’ll never marry Gus, of that I’m very sure, at least; I’d sooner be a bandit’s bride, united by a priest. Oh, there you are, sir! No, indeed! I’ll not be kissed at all! No, sir. I’ve changed my mind; we _won’t_ be married in the fall.

Now _do_ be still! I’ve changed my mind. My privilege, I believe— Oh, horrible! What’s this? A daddy-long-legs on my sleeve! Oh, Gus, come quick! I’m deadly faint! Do take the thing away! Yes, yes, I’ll promise _anything_! I’ll marry you to-day!

UNGRATEFUL CAT.

No, pussy, you naughty, ungrateful old cat, To scratch me, because I just gave you a pat When you would not draw dolly across the floor. I had harnessed you tight with a scarlet cord, And had promised to give you some cream as reward And a couple of sardines—what could I do more?

Now, dolly’s as light as a feather, you know; And the carriage almost of itself will go; Yet you would not pull it, and tried to get loose, And entangled yourself, and the carriage upset, And then the wheel broke, and you got in a pet. Now, for your behavior there was no excuse.

Just see how my finger is bleeding! Oh, dear! How it hurts! It will not get well soon, I fear. Now, are you not sorry I am in such pain? No sardines or cream you shall have, puss, from me; And a very long time you will find it will be Before I play horses with you, puss, again.

IN LIQUOR.

A mouse, one day on frolic bent, About a brewery roaming, Into a beer vat sudden went, And called, with sighs and groaning,

Upon a cat, which passed that way, Though to its sight most hateful: “Sweet puss, come, lift me out, I pray, And I’ll prove ever grateful.”

“How would it help you in the least,” Replied Grimalkin, grinning, “When I at once would on you feast?— And where would be the sinning?”

“And better so than here to drown, Dear puss! So help me speedy, And I’ll to you my life pay down, And will not call you greedy.

“Quick! or you will be all too late! I perish—I am freezing!” Puss helped him out; but, luckless fate! The beer fumes set her sneezing.

The mouse she dropped, which sped away, And in its safe hole nestled. Puss, disappointed of her prey, With craft and anger wrestled.

“Come from that hole,” she cried, “and roam With me in regions upper.” “Excuse me, puss; I’ll keep at home. Go elsewhere seek your supper.”

“You cheating rascal! Think, O think! You promised I should eat you, If I would help you. Now you shrink,— Come out! let me entreat you.”

“I know I promised,” mousie said, “Yet wonder not, nor bicker; For when such promise it was made, You know, _I was in liquor_!”

POET’S LAMENTATION FOR LOSS OF HIS CAT.

JOSEPH GREEN.

[Dr. Mather Byles (Boston, 1706-1788) an eloquent, realistic, witty and genial preacher, had a favorite cat called The Muse. After her death, the doctor’s friend, Joseph Green, wrote the following elegy.]

Oppressed with grief, in heavy strains I mourn The partner of my studies from me torn. How shall I sing? What numbers shall I choose? For in my favorite cat I’ve lost my Muse. No more I feel my mind with raptures fired, I want those airs that Puss so oft inspired; No crowding thoughts my ready fancy fill, Nor words run fluent from my easy quill.

She in the study was my constant mate; There we together many evenings sate. Whene’er I felt my towering fancy fail, I stroked her head, her ears, her back and tail, And as I stroked improved my dying song From the sweet note of her melodious tongue: Her purs and mews so evenly kept time, She purred in metre, and she mewed in rhyme.

Ofttimes when lost amidst poetic heat, She leaping on my knee there took her seat; There saw the throes that racked my laboring brain, And licked and clawed me to myself again.

Then, friends, indulge my grief, and let me mourn, My cat is gone, ah! never to return! Now in my study all the tedious night, Alone I sit, and unassisted write; Look often round (O greatest cause of pain!) And view the numerous labors of my brain; Those quires of words arranged in pompous rhyme, Which braved the jaws of all-devouring time, Now undefended, and unwatched by cats, Are doomed a victim to the teeth of rats.

“WE’VE LOST OUR JOB.”

STANLEY SCHELL.

_Action Poem for Two Children._

_Written especially for this book._

We’ve lost our job, and can’t you see The tears we both are shedding free? No dainty rats or mice to get: They’re killed to-day by rat biscuit.

Why are we wronged so, can you tell? I’m sure you all do know so well The fun we’ve lost, and good work too, By catching rats and mice a few.

Do give us both another chance, To catch your mice and make them dance; I’m sure you all know just how hard It is for us to lose our job.

SOUTHEY’S CATS WRITE THEIR MASTER.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

[Southey conferred honor upon his cats according to their services. He raised one to the highest rank in peerage, promoting him through all its degrees by the following titles: His Serene Highness the Archduke Rumpelstilzchen, Marquis Macbum, Earl of Tomlemagne, Baron Raticide, Waowhler, and Skaratch.]

_Dear Master_:

Let our boldness not offend, If a few lines of duteous love we send; Nor wonder that we deal in rhyme, for long We’ve been familiar with the founts of song. Nine thorougher tabbies you could rarely find Than those who laurels round your temples bind; For how with less than nine lives to their share Could they have lived so long on poet’s fare? Athens surnamed them from their mousing powers, And Rome from that harmonious _mu_ of ours, In which the letter _u_ (as we will trouble you To say to Todd) should supersede _e w_.

This by the way. We now proceed to tell That all within the bounds of home are well; All but your faithful cats, who only pine; The cause your conscience may too well divine. Ah! little do you know how swiftly fly The venomed darts of feline jealousy; How delicate a task to deal it is With a grimalkin’s sensibilities. When Titten’s tortoise fur you smoothed with bland And coaxing courtesies of lip and hand, We felt as if (poor Puss’ constant dread) Some schoolboy stroked us both from tail to head. Nor less we suffered while with sportive touch And purring voice you played with gray-backed Gutch. And then with eager step you left your seat To get a peep at Richard’s snow-white feet, Himself all black; we longed to stop his breath With something like his royal namesake’s death. If more such scenes our frenzied fancies see, Resolved we hang from yonder maple tree— And were not that a sad catastrophe!

Oh! then return to your deserted lake, Dry eyes that weep, and comfort hearts that ache. Our mutual jealousies we both disown, Content to share rather than lose a throne. The parlor——Rumpel’s undisputed reign, Hurly’s——the rest of all your wide domain. Return, return, dear Bard, Restore the happy days that once have been; Resign yourself to Home, the Muse, and us. Scratched

RUMPELSTILZCHEN, HURLYBURLYBUSS.

LITTLE CAT MADE FUR FLY.

She was only a small black and white cat of humble birth, returning from a little social party. It was rather late at night, but what of that? Cats keep no count of the hour, and she was as dignified and proper in her bearing as a mature black and white puss need be. There was nothing about her to justify the insolent attitude of a Scotch terrier, who suddenly confronted her with a snarl and a snap. Puss tried to cross the street, but a trolley car was in the way, and the impudent terrier made bold to chase her. She suddenly turned, and the terrier stopped. Her back went up, her tail grew big, and she spat out defiance at her tormentor. The terrier may have been rude, but he was discreet—he kept at a safe distance. Two or three newsboys, a “red-hot” man, and a police officer, were interested spectators. They most ungallantly sided with the terrier, who was now barking ferociously, but keeping well out of pussy’s reach. One of the boys threw a stone at the combatants; it rolled between them, and the terrier’s attention was diverted for a moment from his antagonist. It was his first mistake. Puss saw her opportunity and leaped at the terrier, landing fairly on his back. In a second she had her claws full of his hair, and he was running for dear life down the street. Puss held on like a circus rider, contriving to sink her sharp claws into his back at every jump. The crowd followed, shouting. As they passed an alley puss jumped off and disappeared in the darkness. _There is one terrier_ who has had enough fun with cats to last him a lifetime.

TOODLEKINS AND FLIP.

FLIP [_wakens up, stretches and yawns_]— “Mieu, mieu, mieu, mieu, Our coats are clean, and our paws are, too; And mammy’s gone around the house To see if she can find a mouse. Mieu, mieu, mieu, mieu, Toodlekins sleeps the whole day through; This world is so dull, there’s nothing to do— Except, to doze again—mieu, mieu!

[_Yawns and curls up._]

TOODLEKINS [_wakens up_.]

“Mieu, mieu, mieu, mieu, Flip’s sound asleep, and there’s nothing to do. I wish I could catch a great big mouse, Life is so dull in this old house! Mieu, mieu, mieu, mieu, There’s nothing at all for a kitten to do— Except to doze again—mieu, mieu.”

FLIP—

“Toodlekins!”

TOODLEKINS—

“Flip!”

FLIP—

“Toodlekins! Mieu!”

TOODLEKINS—

“I hear a nibble!”

FLIP—

“I do, too!”

TOODLEKINS—

“Must be a rat! _Such_ a great big noise!”

FLIP—

“Maybe it’s one of those horrid boys!”

TOODLEKINS—

“No, it’s a mouse! I see its tail!”

FLIP—

“No, it’s a rat as big as a pail!”

TOODLEKINS—

“I see its eyes! I see its tail! It’s mine!”

FLIP—

“No, no! It’s mine! Take that!” [_Cuffs her._]

TOODLEKINS—

“It’s mine, you horrid, robber cat!”

FLIP—

“I saw it first! Take that, and _that_!” [_Slaps and scratches._]

TOODLEKINS—

“You horrid cat, take that! Take—that!”

THE MOTHER CAT—

“Meow, meow! Why, children dear! Is _this_ what happens when I’m not here? For shame! For shame! There’s a baby mouse— The tiniest thing in all the house— Has just slipped away. Kittens must be quick and _quiet_ If they would have fat _mice_ for diet.”

CAT’S-MEAT MAN; OR, CUPBOARD LOVE.

Persian, Tom, and Tabby, Every kind of cat; Lank and long and shabby, Short and sleek and fat; Fresh from night of slumming, Down my street they ran, Waiting for the coming Of the Cat’s-meat man.

Rogues of humble station, Lathy ones and lean, Eager expectation In their eyes of green; Swells, who set the fashions, Purred of clique and clan, Waiting for their rations From the Cat’s-meat man.

Startled by their cater- Wauling, just outside, Where the bridge of Batter- Sea surmounts the tide, At my window, seated, Gazing on its span, Prayerfully I greeted Chelsea’s Cat’s-meat man.

Leader of the legions, Stalked a stalwart brute, Target, in these regions, Of the hostile boot; Mourning for that lost Ro- Mance I once began, Thusly I apostro- Phized the Cat’s-meat man:

“Hamelin’s famous piper Pacing Weser’s flats, Was not half so hyper- Critical of rats; Heedless he of sample, None escaped his ban; What a good example For a Cat’s-meat man!

“Worse than bandsman Teuton Is that Fiend, who riles With his weird love suit, on Chelsea’s echoing tiles; Heed my ruined rapture, Verse that wouldn’t scan; Compass me his capture, Oh, my Cat’s-meat man.

“Friend, would you deliver One who’d fain indite Rhymelets to the river In the shrieking night, Plunge that feline vagrant, On the piper’s plan, In those waters fragrant, Gentle Cat’s-meat man.

“Gratefully I’ll bless you O’er the midnight oil, Rhymefully address you When you’ve eased my toil. Nay, when that Tom-cat you Drown, as well you can, I’ll erect a statue To you, Cat’s-meat man!”

Chelsea’s meat purveyor Never said a word; Knew not what to say, or Haply, never heard. Still in feline phrases Thomas leads the van, Hymning midnight praises To the Cat’s-meat man.

PUSSY-CAT AND MOUSE ON THANKSGIVING.

It was a hungry pussy-cat Upon Thanksgiving morn, And she watched, and she watched, And she watched, and she watched, She watched a thankful little mouse, That ate an ear of corn.

“If I ate that thankful little mouse, How thankful he should be, When he has made a meal himself To make a meal for me. Then with his thanks for having fed, And his thanks for feeding me, With all his thankfulness inside— How thankful I shall be.”

But the little mouse had overheard And declined with thanks to stay. So before the cat could make a spring Dear little mouse did glide Right through a very tiny hole Into the window-frame. Thus did the hungry pussy-cat Upon Thanksgiving Day Lose a gloriously fine feed By musing time away.

JET AND SNOWFLAKE.

_Dialogue for One Boy and One Girl._

SNOWFLAKE—

Good evening, pretty Pussy Cat, I’m glad to find you here, I want a playfellow so much, there’s nothing you need fear. I knew that you were coming soon, for pretty Mistress May Told me she had a pussy-cat that would be here to-day. “Snowflake,” she said, and gave my head a gentle pat. “I hope that you’ll be very kind to my new pussy-cat, She’s really handsome, you will see, her coat is black as jet, But, Snowflake, please remember now, that you’re my earliest pet.”

JET— Oh, doggie, doggie, I’m afraid, you’ll bark and growl and fight, You’ll look so very angry that you’ll put me in a fright. All cats, you know, are timid things, but if you will be kind, I’ll be the merriest playfellow that ever you can find.

SNOWFLAKE— O pussy! I should be afraid to frighten you at all, For I’m a big, strong dog, and you, well, really, you are small. You are quite black, except for one white spot upon your breast; I’m glad you are not a tortoise-shell, I like black cats the best.

JET— Yes, you are white, and I am black, we go together well, Now do you see that from my neck there hangs this little bell; Your pretty mistress gave it me, and said: “Now little Jet, To frighten all the mice away, be sure you don’t forget.”

SNOWFLAKE— Ah! what is that? I hear a sound, ’tis pretty Mistress May; Now, Jet, be good, and let her see you know how to obey. Her eyes are blue, her cheeks are pink, her dress is soft as silk, She is bringing me a fine big bone, and you some nice warm milk.

THE MODEL CAT.

MRS. FREDERICK W. PENDER.

_Written especially for this book._

Now, there’s a cat who’s gaining fame, And Tootsy Werner is her name. And all her manners are so nice, She can’t be bought at any price.

In beauty she is hard to beat; Is clever, too, and very neat; And cats of high or low degree, Can never “Tootsy’s” equal be.

A ball she rolls with grace and skill, Or tangles twine at her sweet will; And often in some box or pail You’ll find her chasing her own tail.

For she is full of fun and play, And sometimes likes to have her way; Tho’ still no fault in her you’ll find, This _model cat_, so good and kind.

She never goes upon the street For fear some tramp cat she might meet, And she will never bring disgrace On WERNER’S CELEBRATED PLACE.

For there Miss Tootsy got her name, And there she made a start in fame; And should you wish, why, more to know, To Tootsy’s home you’ll have to go——