Part 3

So they went and did their duty, Diligent and still; Exercise improved their beauty, As it always will. Useful work and early rising Brought a merry mood; And they found the cook’s advising, Though severe, was good.

[Music: DING DONG BELL.

DING DONG BELL, PUSSY’S IN THE WELL WHO PUT HER IN LITTLE JOHNNY GREEN WHO PULLED HER OUT BIG TOMMY STOUT WHAT A NAUGHTY BOY WAS THAT TO DROWN POOR PUSSY CAT]

[Illustration]

PINS IN PUSSY’S TOES.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

Little Fred is now in the third summer of his life. He has been moved into the country, and his round blue eyes are growing rounder and bigger every hour with new and wonderful experiences.

Most striking among them and most puzzling to Fred is Pussy. Not a big cat, but a kitten, of those tender years corresponding to Fred’s own. What a wonder she is, seen now for the first time, serenely walking on all fours! A Maltese kit, of pure blood and glossy mouse color, with a white breast-pin in her bosom!

Eagerly Freddy seizes her; he hugs her very tight, and Pussy squirms in vain; he examines the wonder; he pokes his fat little fingers into Pussy’s bright eyes; he opens her mouth and looks at her little pink tongue. He sends her a little while with her head up, and then, for vanity’s sake, he sends her with her heels up, and her head hanging down. Then it occurs to him that Pussy’s tail is a nice handle to carry her by, and he tries that experiment. At last Pussy’s patience gives out, and out from her pretty velvet paws fly the ten little sharp, pearly points that have been given her for her defence, and Fred feels a new sensation. He throws Pussy on the floor and runs screaming to mamma.

“Oh, mamma, mamma, Pussy got pins in her toes!”

Then mamma explains to Freddy why the pins were put in Pussy’s velvet toes. Poor, soft, furry, helpless little Pussy! what could she do if she had not pins in her toes? Does Freddy like to have people poke their fingers in his eyes, or open his mouth, or feel of his tongue? No more does Pussy. Would Freddy like to be carried around, squeezed up under somebody’s arm, with his head hanging down? No more does Pussy. But Pussy cannot speak; she cannot complain—all she can do is to use the pins in her toes.

“When Freddy holds Pussy right end up, strokes her gently, and speaks lovingly to her, the little sharp pins in her paws go away—clear in—where nobody can see them, and Pussy begins to sing a low, little purring song to show how happy she is! So, Freddy dear,” says mamma, “there is a right way and a wrong way to handle everything. If you hold Pussy gently, stroke her softly, and treat her kindly, you never will be troubled by the ten little pins in her ten toes; but if you trouble, and worry, and tease Pussy, she will scratch.”

LAMENT OF A FORSAKEN CAT.

ELIZABETH HARCOURT MITCHELL.

The family went out of town, Refreshing themselves by the sea; I thought they’d have taken me down, But no one had pity on me. What of that? After all, it is “_only a cat_!”

The children got in one by one, When the carriage drove up to the door, How breathlessly then did I run! Little Molly cried, “Room for one more!” What of that? After all, it is “_only a cat_!”

“No place with the children for me? With the luggage then, porter,” I said. “Get out, little demon!” cried he, And gave me a blow on the head. What of that? After all, it is “_only a cat_!”

There is no one without or within; Not a drop, not a crumb in the house. My bones breaking through my poor skin; No strength to say Boo! to a mouse! What of that? After all, it is “_only a cat_!”

I was petted and loved by the fair; Do they think of me now by the sea? The pavement is burning and bare, I am dying by inches, poor me! What of that? After all, it is “_only a cat_!”

You have left me to die, but I say That when you have once made a friend, And loved him a little each day, You should love him straight on to the end! Think of that! Even should he be “_only a cat_!”

A CAT CAME FIDDLING.

A cat came fiddling Out of a barn, With a pair of bagpipes Under her arm; She could sing nothing But fiddle cum dee, The mouse has married The bumble-bee; Pipe, cat; dance, mouse: We’ll have a wedding At our good house.

CAT AND TIGER.

_A Fable._

The cat and the tiger were once on very good terms. They considered themselves members of the same family; and, whenever any disputes arose among the animals, they were both found vigorously supporting the other’s case. They were often to be seen roaming about the country together, and they frequently did each other great services, the tiger by his superior strength, and the cat by his more nimble wit.

Although, for the most part fast friends, the tiger when they were by themselves would often harass the cat by his conceited speeches.

“You may be very well for small game,” he would say, striding up and down, and lashing his tail to and fro, “but you must know that you are but a small and very plain edition of me. I can easily bring down deer, and I have even put the great elephant to flight. Look how my beautiful stripes flash in the sun. Are you not proud of belonging to my family?”

To this the cat said nothing, but closed his eyes and mused.

Now, it is well known that, though the tiger can easily climb up a tree, once he is up, if he wishes to come down, he must either leap or fall, since he is unable to climb down.

One day he said to the cat: “I have long wished that I could climb a tree. Many of my tormenting enemies escape from me because I must stick to the ground. You climb very well, though you are so little. Why will you not teach me?”

“Come along; I will teach you with pleasure,” said the cat, leading the way to a tall tree. After a great deal of instruction the tiger succeeded in getting up the tree; but the cat, seeing now an opportunity to retaliate for the tiger’s unpleasant words, ran off, laughing.

“I am up very well,” said the tiger, a little frightened at finding himself so far from the ground; “now show me how to come down.”

“Oh, no,” said the cat. “I was only to show you how to get up. Now you must get down the best you can. Since you are so much more powerful and beautiful, surely you can do that much better than I.”

The tiger tried to cajole his small friend, then begged him for help; but, finding him obdurate, flew into a rage and leaped to the ground, meaning to catch and crush him at once. Instead, he almost crushed himself, and lay on his side for some moments, gasping for breath.

At last, when he was able to rise, he rushed after the cat with the best speed he could muster. Lame as he was, he gained rapidly, and it would have gone hard with the cat had he not, luckily, spied a man’s house a little way off. In this he took refuge, and he has never yet mustered courage enough to leave that protection.

WHERE ARE THOSE SLEEPY KITTENS.

_Action Poem._

[1]Cunning little kittens, Cuddled in a heap, Tired out with playing, Now are sound asleep. [2]Mother cat comes stealing in, And softly says, “Im-mieouw.” [3]Where are those sleepy kittens? [4]Do you see them now?

DIRECTIONS.

[Footnote 1: Children all huddled in a bunch, with faces in hands on desk.]

[Footnote 2: One child comes softly creeping in toward them and says, “Im-mieouw.”]

[Footnote 3: All children stretch, rub eyes and gather round their mother, now wide awake.]

[Footnote 4: All skip about as kittens do, when their mother is near, and play with one another.]

A SAD CASE.

CLARA D. BATES.

I’m a poor little kitty, And alas! when born, so pretty, That the morning I was found, Instead of being drowned, I was saved to be the toy Of a dreadful baby-boy, Who pinches and who pokes me, Holds me by my throat and chokes me, And when I could vainly try From his cruel clutch to fly, Grabs my tail, and pulls so hard That some day, upon my word! I am sure ’twill broken be, And then everybody’ll see Such a looking Kitty!

That baby has no pity! Thinks I’m “only a kitty”— I won’t stand it, nor would you! ’Tis no use to cry out m-e-w! Listen! Some day I shall scratch, And he’ll find he’s met his match; That within my little paws There are ever so many claws! And it won’t be very long, If this sort of thing goes on, Till there’ll be a kitten row Such as has not been till now; Then, my lad, there will be found, Left upon that battle-ground, Such a looking Baby!

CATS AND DOGS.

JEROME K. JEROME.

I like cats and dogs very much indeed. What jolly chaps they are! They are much superior to human beings as companions. They do not quarrel or argue with you. They never talk about themselves, but listen to you while you talk about yourself, and keep up an appearance of being interested in the conversation. They never make stupid remarks. And they never ask a young author with fourteen tragedies, sixteen comedies, seven farces, and a couple of burlesques in his desk, why he doesn’t write a play.

They never say unkind things. They never tell us of our faults, “merely for our own good.” They do not, at inconvenient moments, mildly remind us of our past follies and mistakes. They never inform us that we are not nearly so nice as we used to be. We are always the same to them. They are always glad to see us. They are with us in all our humors. They are merry when we are glad, sober when we feel solemn, sad when we are sorrowful.

“Hulloa! happy, and want a lark! Right you are; I’m your man. Here I am, frisking round you, leaping, barking, pirouetting, ready for any amount of fun and mischief. Look at my eyes, if you doubt me. What shall it be? A romp in the drawing-room, and never mind the furniture, or a scamper in the fresh, cool air, a scud across the fields, and down the hill, and we won’t let old Gaffer Goggles’s geese know what time o’day it is, neither. Whoop! come along.”

Or you’d like to be quiet and think. Very well. Pussy can sit on the arm of the chair, and purr, and purr, and Montmorency will curl himself up on the rug, and blink at the fire, yet keeping one eye on you the while, in case you are seized with any sudden desire in the direction of rats. And when we bury our face in our hands and wish we had never been born, they don’t sit up very straight, and observe that we have brought it all upon ourselves. They don’t even hope it will be a warning to us.

But they come up softly; and shove their heads against us. If it is a cat, she stands on your shoulder, rumples your hair, and says, “I am sorry for you,” as plain as words can speak; and if it is a dog, he looks up at you with his big, true eyes, and says with them, “Well, you’ve always got me, you know. We’ll go through the world together, and always stand by each other, won’t we?”

He is very imprudent, a dog is. He never makes it his business to inquire whether you are in the right or in the wrong, never bothers as to whether you are going up or down upon life’s ladder, never asks whether you are rich or poor, silly or wise, sinner or saint. Come luck or misfortune, good repute or bad, honor or shame, he is going to stick to you, to comfort you, guard you, and give his life for you, if need be—foolish, brainless, soulless dog!

Ah! old staunch friend, with your deep, clear eyes, and bright, quick glances, that take in all one has to say before one has time to speak it, do you know you are only an animal, and have no mind? Do you know that dull-eyed, gin-sodden lout, leaning against the post out there, is immeasurably your intellectual superior?

Do you know that every little-minded, selfish scoundrel, who lives by cheating and tricking, who never did a gentle deed, or said a kind word, who never had a thought that was not mean and low, or a desire that was not base, whose every action is a fraud, whose every utterance is a lie; do you know they are all as much superior to you as the sun is superior to rush-light, you honorable, brave-hearted, unselfish brute?

They are _men_, you know, and _men_ are the greatest, noblest, and wisest, and best Beings in the whole vast eternal Universe. Any man will tell you that. Yes, poor doggie, you are very stupid, very stupid indeed, compared with us clever men, who understand all about politics and philosophy, and who know everything in short, except what we are, and where we came from, and whither we are going, and what everything outside this tiny world and most things in it are.

Never mind, though, pussy and doggie, we like you both all the better for your being stupid. We all like stupid things. It is so pleasant to come across people more stupid than ourselves. Ah me! life sadly changes us all. The world seems a vast horrible grinding machine, into which what is fresh and bright and pure is pushed at one end, to come out old and crabbed and wrinkled at the other.

Look even at Pussy Sobersides, with her dull sleepy glance, her grave slow walk, and dignified, prudish airs; who could ever think that once she was the blue-eyed, whirling, scampering, head-over-heels, mad little firework that we called a kitten.

What marvelous vitality a kitten has. It is really something very beautiful the way life bubbles over in the little creatures. They rush about, and mew, and spring; dance on their hind legs, embrace everything with their front ones, roll over and over, lie on their backs and kick. They don’t know what to do with themselves, they are so full of life.

Can you remember when you and I felt something of the same sort of thing? Can you remember those glorious days of fresh young manhood; how, when coming home along the moonlit road, _we_ felt too full of life for sober walking, and had to spring and skip, and wave our arms, and shout? Oh, that magnificent young _Life!_ that crowned us kings of the earth; that rushed through every tingling vein, till we seemed to walk on air; that thrilled through our throbbing brains, and told us to go forth and conquer the whole world; that welled up in our young hearts, till we longed to stretch out our arms and gather all the toiling men and women and the little children to our breast, and love them all—all.

Ah! they were grand days, those deep full days, when our coming life, like an unseen organ, pealed strange, yearnful music in our ears, and our young blood cried out like a war-horse for the battle. Ah, our pulse beats slow and steady now, and our old joints are rheumatic, and we love our easy chair and sneer at boys’ enthusiasm. But oh! for one brief moment of that god-like life again.

[Illustration:

PICTURE VI. “She ain’t ner tommon tind o’ tat, She am Andora, yes, she be.”]

[Illustration: PICTURE VII.

“Er nussin’ bottle wiv er mouf, F’um wich she dinks her milk w’en hot.”]

DICK WHITTINGTON.

[Music: SONG WITH TABLEAUX.

1. “Clouds of trouble hover o’er me, I will leave this London drear; Save my cat, I’m lone and friendless, Naught but failure greets me here.” Thus said Dick; and off he wandered, Eyes bedimmed with burning tears, Till, fatigued, he paused and rested— Sweet-toned bells salute his ears. “Stay, O stay!” They seem to say. “Turn again, Whittington, Thrice Mayor of London.”

2. Years rolled by, and Dick was dwelling In a land beyond the sea; Fickle fortune smiled upon him, He was rich as man need be. Gold and jewels were his payment, But the labor was his cat’s— It had cleared the Prince’s palace Of a mighty swarm of rats. Still he hears, As pass the years, “Turn again, Whittington, Thrice Mayor of London.”

3. Once again in merry London Dick had landed safe and sound; Famed afar for truth and honor, Many were the friends he found. As Lord Mayor he counseled wisely, Cheered the poor man’s humble lot, For the struggles of his boyhood In success he ne’er forgot. Yet again Resounds the strain, “Long live Dick Whittington, Lord Mayor of London.”]

PERSONS REPRESENTED IN THE TABLEAUX: Dick Whittington, a beggar, attendants, etc. A cat.

SCENE. For Tableau I, an exterior; for Tableaux II and III, an interior.

N.B. The chimes played on the Fairy Bells or some similar instrument will greatly add to the effect.

TABLEAU I. Verse 1. Dick, with a bundle over his shoulder, turns round at the sound of the bells.

TABLEAU II. Verse 2. Dick, well dressed, sits fondling his cat.

TABLEAU III. Verse 3. Dick, as Lord Mayor of London, sits in a chair of state. He gives alms to a poor man who kneels before him. Attendants look on.

“TWO’S COMPANY, THREE’S NONE.”

MRS. FREDERICK W. PENDER.

_Written expressly for this book._

Two kittens bright With haughty air That plainly said, “Two make a pair,” A picture made As they sat there, A parasol Kept off the air.

It shaded them From wind and sun; ’Twas Japanese, (A lovely one!) And well they knew They had outdone In style, their chums, Yes, ev’ry one.

And how they blinked At Pussy Snow, And said, “My friend, You cannot go With us about, You are too slow; Besides, your voice Is never low.

“And people might, Why, something say, If you were seen With us to-day. Besides, we’ve heard You’ve been quite gay, And that should make Us say, ‘Nay, nay!’

“Then, we, you see, Are finely bred, And our swell set By us is led; And nothing ’bout Us must be said To make us blush And bow our head.

“We put on style In dress, and air, And often tend Some great affair; And you, by now, Must be aware We surely are A happy pair.

“Then, too, perhaps, You do not know What ‘blue blood’ in Our veins doth flow. It might affect Our social sway Were we with you For just one day.

“Then you have heard By ev’ry one, How ‘two’s company’ While ‘three is none.’ So run away, And seek some fun With peasant cats, Out in the sun.”

Poor Kitty Snow Was very sad, The little dear, It was too bad! And though her voice Was high, ’twas sweet; And neat she looked In house or street.

She did not know That selfish pride Was used to all Her goodness hide, By those who oft She’d played beside, From day to day; And they to chide

Her for her birth— She, too, a pet. Oh, how it hurt! Her eyes were wet From grieving much When told to “get,” By those she loved And daily met.

A lowly life Is often best To prove our friends; And, for the rest, If they should not Stand by the test, It’s well we know Them at their best.

POLLY PRY’S KITTEN.

[1]My dear old Maltese pussy! You’re so soft and sweet to pat, [2]An’ I love you all the better, ’Cause you’re called a Maltese cat.

[3]When brother Dickey brought you, He said: “Now, Polly Pry, You can’t maul an’ tease this kitty, And I will tell you why.

[4]“She’s called a Maltese pussy, [5]So as little girls like you, Will know that maulin’ an’ teasin’ her Is what they musn’t do!”

DIRECTIONS.

[Footnote 1: Child enters, walks to chair at stage C, looks down at kitty, speaking in loving tones, and petting her.]

[Footnote 2: Speaks as if she felt slightly teased.]

[Footnote 3: Continues petting kitty, and shakes a finger as if in warning.]

[Footnote 4: Drawls the line, separating the word into “Mal-tese,” and giving stress to “tease.”]

[Footnote 5: Shakes finger insistently, pulls and hauls at kitty. Gives a little meow.]

THE RASH YOUNG MOUSE.

_Action Poem._

“[1]Come in, [2]come in, you naughty child, Don’t run about the house,” [3]“Oh, mother, mother, let me please!” Thus spoke the little mouse.

[4]“Those crumbs, I’m sure they’re meant for me, Upon the parlor floor, And most [5]delicious cheese I smell, [6]Within the pantry door.”

[7]“Dear child, dear child,” mamma replied, “The danger you don’t see; If [8]puss appeared, what would become Of you? [9]_That_ troubles me.”

“Pussy won’t come,” said young Miss Mouse, [10]“I’m pretty sure of that,” And [11]off she ran to taste the cheese, Quite [12]merrily, pit! pat!

And mother-mouse [13]within her hole, Said [14]“Dear! oh dearie, dear! Young children are so headstrong, ah! They never think of fear.”

So little mousie ate her cheese, And never [15]heard behind The [16]footsteps soft, which mother dear Had told her she must mind.

[17]Pounce, pounce, squeak, squeak! Oh! ’tis too late! And never, never more Will young Miss Mouse eat cheese so nice, Behind the pantry door.

So ends the tale of little mouse, But one word more comes here; Remember, mother always knows What’s best for children dear.

DIRECTIONS.

[Footnote 1: and]

[Footnote 2: Beckon.]

[Footnote 3: Put hands together.]

[Footnote 4: Point to floor.]

[Footnote 5: Fold hands quickly.]

[Footnote 6: Point to door.]

[Footnote 7: Shake head slowly.]

[Footnote 8: Hold up forefinger.]

[Footnote 9: Emphasize with forefinger.]

[Footnote 10: Nod head saucily.]

[Footnote 11: Point outward.]

[Footnote 12: Shake hands loosely.]

[Footnote 13: Bend hands and place them together.]

[Footnote 14: Shake head slowly.]

[Footnote 15: Point over shoulders with both hands.]

[Footnote 16: Imitate walking with fingers on desks.]

[Footnote 17: Bring hands down suddenly.]

THE GOOD-FOR-NOTHING CAT.

There lives a good-for-nothing cat, So lazy it appears, That chirping birds can softly come And light upon her ears.

And rats and mice can venture out To nibble at her toes, Or climb around and pull her tail, Or boldly scratch her nose.

Fine servants brush her silken coat And give her cream for tea; Yet she’s a good-for-nothing cat, As all the world may see.

THE TIMID KITTEN.

CAROLYN WELLS.

There was a little kitten once, Who was of dogs afraid, And, being by no means a dunce, His plans he boldly made.

He said, “It’s only on the land That dogs run after me, So I will buy a _catboat_, and I’ll sail away to sea.

“Out there from dogs I’ll be secure, And each night, ere I sleep, To make assurance doubly sure, A _dog watch_ I will keep.”

He bought a _catboat_, hired a crew, And one fine summer day Triumphantly his flag he flew, And gayly sailed away.