Part 5

There, there, Pussy! No more tears. Let’s have a romp in the firelight glow; Other hearts have beat on through the years When love and faith were lying low; Mayhap, in soothing another’s pain We forget our own. Just hear the rain!

But to-morrow, I doubt not, the sun will shine, And the clouds be only a dream of the night. Why should we cherish a woe divine? Let us hide it away from the sun and light. Forgetting one’s self is hard, I fear; But we’ll each try bravely, Pussy, my dear.

Let us say “good-bye” to the dreams of the past— And, Pussy, my comfort, never you tell Of the chat that has made these hours fly fast. One more frolic—oh, there is the bell! I hear them laughing upon the stair— Eternal secrecy, Pussy, swear!

[Illustration:

From Painting by J. Adam.

THE HUNGRY QUARTET.]

[Illustration: (See page 52.)

“Two’s company, three’s none.”]

A NOCTURNAL SHOT.

He threw his small clock at a cat— He missed her, you can bet; The clock it stopped at half-past three, The cat is going yet.

MOTHER TABBYSKINS.

[Music:

1. Sitting at a window, In her cloak and hat, I saw Mother Tabbyskins, The _real_ old cat! Very old, very old, Crumplety and lame; Teaching kittens how to scold— Is it not a shame?]

Kittens in the garden, Looking in her face, Learning how to spit and swear, O what a disgrace. Very wrong, very wrong, Very wrong and bad; Such a subject for our song, Makes us all too sad.

Old Mother Tabbyskins, Sticking out her head, Gave a howl and then a yowl, Hobbled off to bed. Very sick, very sick, Very savage, too; Pray send for a doctor, quick— Any one will do!

Doctor Mouse came creeping, Creeping to her bed; Lanced her gums and felt her pulse, Whispered she was dead. Very sly, very sly, The _real_ old cat, Open kept her weather eye— Mouse! beware of that!

Old Mother Tabbyskins, Saying, “serves him right,” Gobbled up the Doctor, With infinite delight. “Very fast, very fast, Very pleasant, too,— What a pity it can’t last! Bring another, do.”

Doctor Dog comes running, Just to see her begs; Round his neck a comforter, Trousers on his legs. Very grand, very grand, Golden headed cane Swinging gaily from his hand, Mischief in his brain.

Ah, Mother Tabbyskins, Who is now afraid? Of poor little Doctor Mouse You a mouthful made. Very nice, very nice, Little doctor he: But for Doctor Dog’s advice, _You_ must pay the fee.

Doctor Dog comes nearer, Says she must be bled; I heard Mother Tabbyskins Screaming in her bed.

Very near, very near, Scuffling out and in, Doctor Dog looks full and queer, Where is Tabbyskins?

I will tell the moral Without any fuss; Those who lead the young astray, Always suffer thus! Very nice, very nice, Let our conduct be; For all doctors are not mice— Some are dogs, you see.

TOPSY.

I have the dearest kitten Your eyes did ever see, And oh! such merry times she has, My kitty dear, with me.

Her coat is soft and silky, And just as black as ink, That’s why I call her Topsy: A good name, don’t you think?

Where did my pussy come from? You cannot guess, I fear. Why, Father Christmas brought her, Now, wasn’t he a dear?

Just by my Christmas stocking A little hamper stood, And when I lifted up the lid, My darling kitty mewed.

It was as if she said to me, “Please take me out, dear May,” And so I took her in my arms, And quietly she lay.

But soon some lovely romps we had, My kitty dear and I, All round the room, upstairs and down, To race me she did try.

And when each morning comes again, And I get out of bed, I run to feed my kitty With nice, new milk and bread.

But one day, oh, my Topsy! A sad, sad tale I heard, Tom says you scampered up a tree, After a little bird.

I’m sure I don’t know how you could, Birds are such pretty things; I hope you did not catch it, puss, I’m glad that it had wings.

Perhaps it flew away from you, So I will scold no more, But love my Topsy, every day, Just as I did before.

MY LITTLE GRAY KITTY AND I.

When the north wind whistles round the house, Piling snowdrifts high, We nestle down on the warm hearth-rug— My little gray kitty and I. I tell her about my work and play, And all I mean to do, And she purrs so loud, I surely think That she understands—don’t you?

She looks about with her big, round eyes, And softly licks my face, As I tell her ’bout the word I missed, And how I have lost my place. Then let the wind whistle, for what to us Matters a stormy sky? Oh, none have such jolly times as we— My little gray kitty and I.

PUSS AND HER THREE KITTENS.

TOM HOOD.

[_Give in an animated style and tone of voice_.]

Our old cat has kittens three— What do you think their names should be? One is tabby, with emerald eyes, And a tail that’s long and slender, And into a temper she quickly flies If you ever by chance offend her. I think we shall call her this— I think we shall call her that; Now, don’t you think “Pepperpot” A nice name for a cat?

One is black, with a frill of white, And her feet are all white fur, too; If you stroke her she carries her tail upright, And quickly begins to purr, too, I think we shall call her this— I think we shall call her that; Now, don’t you fancy, “Sootikin” A nice name for a cat?

One is a tortoise shell, yellow and black, With a lot of white about him; If you tease him, at once he sets up his back; He’s a quarrelsome Tom, ne’er doubt him! I think we shall call him this— I think we shall call him that; Now, don’t you fancy “Scratchaway” A nice name for a cat?

Our old cat has kittens three, And I fancy these their names will be: “Pepperpot,” “Sootikin,” “Scratchaway”—there Were there ever kittens with these to compare? And we call the old mother—now, what do you think? Tabitha Longclaws Tidleywink.

NOBODY DID IT.

“Nobody b’oke it! It cracked itself, It was clear ’way up on the toppest shelf. I—p’rhaps the kitty-cat knows!” Says poor little Ned, With his ears as red As the heart of a damask rose.

“Nobody lost it! I carefully Put my cap just where it ought to be, (No, ’tisn’t ahind the door), And it went and hid, Why, of course, it did, For I’ve hunted an hour or more.”

“Nobody tore it! You know things will Tear if you’re sitting just stock-stone still! I was jumping over the fence— There’s some spikes on top, And you have to drop Before you can half commence.”

Nobody! wicked Sir Nobody! Playing such tricks on all about thee. If I but set eyes on you, You should find what you’ve lost But that to my cost, I never am like to do!

THREE MAIDENS FAIR.

_Concert Recitation and Pantomime._

STANLEY SCHELL.

_Written expressly for this book_.

[Three girls in elaborate gowns. Each gown has a long cat-tail attached at back, and each girl wears a cat-mask suited to color of cat she represents. On each girl’s head, just back of ears, is a lady’s hat, with three plumes drooping forward. The hat is kept in place by white-lawn streamers, tied in big bow beneath chin. One girl wears chain, with lorgnette, which she uses occasionally; another girl carries fancy parasol over shoulder; the third girl carries very showy fan, which she uses at different times. Gloves should be worn by all girls. Girls enter from stage rear with mincing steps, and trip to stage front, doing all sorts of things with lorgnette, parasol and fan until stage front is reached. Then all stand still and look at audience, then look sad a moment, and recite in concert the following:]

Many years ago there lived Three of us maidens fair and bright; But to sorrow we were doomed, All through a fairy’s spite; For she wanted us to wed Three sons of hers, we wot; But we maidens all refused, And hence this weary lot. Pity, friends, we ask of you, Doomed for years to cry me-you!

In this castle were we shut, Many years ago; Here for weary days and nights, Our pearly tears did flow. Each a handsome lover met Within the garden fair; But that fairy changed them all To mice, and kept them there— Changed them into three white mice, And then devoured them in a trice!

Then not satisfied with this, While we poor maidens sat Side by side, that fairy came, And changed us into cats! Here we must stay to pine and mope, In feline misery, ’Till three princes come to woo, And wed, and set us free— Me-you! There come three princes true! And now again we’ll happy maidens be.

[Illustration]

KITTENS’ BLIND-MAN’S-BUFF.

Blind-man’s-buff is my name. Do you know how to play the game? First shut your eyes, then open me, And you shall see—what you shall see!

TATTERS, THE CAT.

MRS. FREDERICK W. PENDER.

_Written especially for this book._

I will tell you a story of Tatters, the cat, Who was good, if not handsome, and sleek, and so fat, And his coat it was ragged [which caused his queer name], Did not lessen his value—he was loved all the same.

Now, one day he was longing to go on the street, Just to see the fine sights, it would be such a treat; He was clever, he thought, as he planned it all o’er, And he said, “I’ll be gone but an hour, and no more.”

Oh, he never meant wrong, he was seeking some fun, And to have his own way, why, he skipped out and run. He was foolish, like children so often, you see, That he got unawares in some bad company.

He was easy and free, and, I’m sorry to say, How he went at the call of some boys from his play. Now, they coaxed him at first till he thought each a friend, All so trustful was Tatters, he dreamed not the end:

For he looked in their faces and purred his soft way, And the shame of those boys when they scat him away; And so timid he grew, and so wild in his flight, That ’way down a dark alley he stayed all the night.

And his eyes, they shone bright—like two coals in his head. It was damp, and so cold, and the ground was his bed; How he crouched all in fear, tho’ no harm he had done, From those wicked young boys, who were friends, no, not one.

He was far from his home, and his coat it was rough, And more tattered it grew from the kicks and the cuffs He would get from the boys as he sought food to eat, So he stayed in the alley and avoided the street.

And his life was so sad, that he soon pined away, From the day he had run to the street just to play; And one morning those boys threw a stone at his head, It could not hurt Tatters, for the poor cat was dead.

JUST PLAIN CAT.

JENNIE PENDLETON EWING.

Our neighbor’s cat is Persian, the Jones’s cat Maltese; Aunty’s big Angora has feathers to her knees (At least they look like feathers), and a tail so big and white, When that kitty meets a puppy dog, I tell you it’s a sight! But when I ask, “What breed is mine—my pussy, sleek and fat?” They laugh and pull my curls, and say, “I fear—just plain cat.”

It’s true her eyes aren’t yellow, her tail is rather small, I don’t know if she ever had a ped-i-gree at all. (That big word means her mother, her grandma, too, they say, That they all took prizes at a show, were marked a special way.) What do I care for markings, for prizes and all that? My kitty’s just as precious if she is just plain cat.

She is the dearest kitten, all scamper and all fur! Not one of all my other pets can make me laugh like her. She may be very common, but I know she’s good and true, For she meets me when I come from school with loving little mew; And when she’s round we never see a teenchy mouse or rat, And I b’lieve I love her better ’cause she’s just plain cat!

PUSSY’S DREAM.

Dame Puss fell asleep in the great arm-chair, And she dreamed a dream that was strange and rare. She dreamed that the mice were to give a grand ball, And begged her to come and dance with them all.

Pussy said, in her dream, with a curtsy low, “With pleasure, dear friends, to your ball I’ll go.” But she said to herself with a sly little mew, “I’ll dance with you, yes,—but I’ll eat you, too.”

When Pussy arrived at Castle Mouse She really could hardly get into the house; For the house it was small and the crowd it was great, And besides Madame Puss was a whole hour late.

When she reached the great hall, which was really quite high, The mice placed before her a huge, mammoth pie; And they said, “Lady Puss, you are hungry, we fear, So the best of our dainties we’ve brought for you here.”

So Puss with good-will set to work at the food, For the smell of that pastry, oh, wasn’t it good? She picked and she licked, and she gobbled away, And wished it might last for a year and a day.

And when it was gone, Pussy thought with a sigh— “Ah, how will the mice taste, now—after the pie. However, I’ll eat them, of course, since they’re here.” She looked up—no sign of a mouse anywhere.

No sign of a mouse,—and the door it was shut. Pussy made every effort to open it, but,— It was firm double locked, and the windows were barred, With railings of iron all heavy and hard.

To make matters worse, as each window she tried, She heard the mice giggling and squeaking outside. By their shrill cries of triumph, they thought, it was plain, That their enemy never could get out again.

At this Pussy’s courage at once did revive,— “What, stay here,” she cried, “and be buried alive,— Be eaten by mice when my sufferings are over,— No—never—miow! I will break down the door.”

She gathered her strength for a terrible spring, And flew at the door like a bird on the wing. Crash, smash went the panels; one more frantic leap, And, then—why Dame Pussy awoke from her sleep.

And there she was sitting in master’s arm-chair; No castle, no pie, not a mouse anywhere. She stretched herself yawning, and, rubbing her eyes, And looked all around with the greatest surprise.

Ah, Pussy, t’was only a dream, dear, but still ’Twas a dream full of warning for good or for ill; When you go to Mouse Castle, just take my advice, Before touching the pastry, first eat up the mice.

DOGS AND CATS.

ALEXANDER DUMAS.

It is admitted that the dog has intelligence, a heart and perhaps a soul, likewise it is agreed that the cat is a traitor, deceiver, thief, an egotist, an ingrate. How many have we not heard say: “Oh, I cannot abide a cat! it is an animal that loves not its master; it is attached only to the house; one must keep it under lock and key. I had one once, for I was in the country and there were mice. The cook had the imprudence to leave upon the table a poulet that she had just purchased; the cat carried it off, no morsel of it was ever seen after. Since that day I have said: ‘I will have no cat.’” Its reputation is detestable, the fact cannot be disguised, and one must acknowledge that the cat does nothing to modify the opinion in which it is held. It is entirely unpopular, but it cares as little about this as it does about the Grand Turk. Must I confess it to you? It is for this that I love it, for in this world one can remain indifferent to things the most serious—if there are serious things, and this one knows only at the end of his life; but he cannot evade the question of dogs and cats. There is always a moment when he must declare himself. Well, then! I love cats! Ah! the times they have said to me:

“What, you love cats?”

“Yes!”

“Do you not like dogs better?”

“No, I love cats much more.”

“That is extraordinary.”

I prefer certainly to have neither cat nor dog, but were I forced to live with one of these two individuals, I would choose the cat. It has for me the manners essential to social relations. At first, in its early youth, it possesses all the graces, all the suppleness, all the unexpectedness by which the most exacting, artistic fancy can be amused! It is adroit, it always knows where it is. Prudent unto caution, it goes everywhere, it examines without soiling, breaking nothing; it is in itself a warmth and a caress; it has not a snout, but a mouth—and what a mouth! It steals the mutton as does the dog, but, unlike the latter, makes no delight of carrion; it is discreet and of fastidious cleanliness, which might be well imitated by a number of its detractors. It washes its face, and in so doing foretells the weather into the bargain. One can entertain the idea of putting a ribbon around its neck, never a collar; it cannot be enslaved. It permits no modifications in its race; it lends itself to no combinations that industries could attempt. The cat reflects, this is obvious, contrary to the dog, a lackbrain whose rabies is his crowning idiocy. In short, the cat is a dignified, proud, disdainful animal that hides its love affairs in the shadows, almost within the clouds, upon the roofs, in the vicinity of the night-working students. It defies advances, tolerates no insults, it abandons the house in which it is not treated according to its merits; in short, the cat is truly an aristocrat in type and origin, whereas the dog is and ever will be naught but a vulgar parvenu by dint of complaisance.

The sole argument at all plausible against the cat is that it destroys the birds, the nightingales as well as the sparrows. If the dog does not as much it is because he is too clumsy and stupid. He runs also after the birds, but barking, the birds escape him, and he stays behind completely dumbfounded, open-mouthed and with astonished tail. He makes up for it upon the partridges and rabbits, after two years’ submission to the strong collar in order to learn this art, and it is not for himself, but for the hunter, that he goes in quest of game. The imbecile! He persecutes the animals, an animal himself, for the profit of the man who beats him. At least, when the cat catches a bird she has an excuse; it is to eat it herself. Why would that authorize man to slander her? Let men regard one another! They will see in their race, as in that of cats, those who have claws and have no other preoccupation but to destroy those who have wings.

MISTRESS KITTY.

“Mistress Kitty, from the city, How do your kittens grow? With eyes so bright, And fur so white, And teeth a shining row?”

“My kittens white, my heart’s delight, Their fur is just like snow; They play and fight From morn till night, And _that’s_ the way they grow.”

[Illustration: WHAT’S DELAYING MY DINNER?]

[Illustration: From Painting by A. Rotta.]

THE FAMILY CAT.

I can fold up my claws In my soft velvet paws, And purr in the sun Till the short day is done— For I am the family cat. I can doze by the hour In the vine-covered bower, Winking and blinking, Through sunshine and shower— For I am the family cat.

From gooseberry bush Or where bright currants blush, I may suddenly spring For a bird on the wing; Or dart up a tree, If a brown nest I see, And select a choice morsel For dinner or tea; And no one to blame me, Berate me, or shame me— For I am the family cat.

In the cold winter night, When the ground is all white, And the icicles shine In a long silver line, I stay not to shiver In the moonbeam’s pale quiver, But curl up in the house, As snug as a mouse, And play Jacky Horner In the cosiest corner; Breaking nobody’s laws, With my chin on my paws, Asleep with one eye, and Awake with the other For pats from the children, Kind words from the mother— For I am the family cat.

[Illustration]

DOCTOR TOM MEW.

This is the Schoolmaster, Doctor Tom Mew, Who teaches young kittens, and birches them, too; When he cries, “Silence!” each pupil turns pale, And trembles right down to the tip of his tail.

WHERE IS MY KITTY?

_Action Poem._

[1]Kitty, kitty, kitty! [2]Where can you be? [3]Perhaps you’re in the garden; [4]I’ll run out and see.

[5]She’s not in the garden; And not in the shed; [6]Oh, what shall I do If my kitty is dead!

[7]I’ll look in mamma’s room; [8]I’ll look in my chair; [9]I’ll look on the table, But no kitty is there.

[10]You’ve found her, the darling, [11]What, there, you don’t say? [12]Asleep in the barn, Cuddled up in the hay, My kitty.

DIRECTIONS.

[Footnote 1: Child runs in calling.]

[Footnote 2: Stops and looks about.]

[Footnote 3: As if thinking a moment, shakes head as she recites the line.]

[Footnote 4: Recites fourth line and runs out a moment.]

[Footnote 5: Enters hurriedly and tells audience.]

[Footnote 6: Sorrowfully. Stands disconsolate a moment.]

[Footnote 7: Recites line, skips to entrance near R. front and looks in; comes back, and stops a moment, as if thinking.]

[Footnote 8: Recites line; goes and looks in chair; stops a moment.]

[Footnote 9: Recites third line; goes and looks at table; seeing no kitty, looks heartsick and ready to cry.]

[Footnote 10: Looks up and off L. suddenly; face brightens as she listens. Recites line, full of joy and animation and love.]

[Footnote 11: Listens; speaks as if astonished. Takes kitten in her arms very lovingly.]

[Footnote 12: Talks to kitty very lovingly, drawling out on “My Kitty.” Gives kitty a loving squeeze.]

KATHIE’S STORY.

Now stay right still and listen, kitty-cat, and I’ll tell you a story:

Once there was a little girl. She was a pretty good little girl, and minded her papa and mamma everything they said, only sometimes she didn’t, and then she was naughty; but she was always sorry, and said she wouldn’t do so any more, and her mamma’d forgive her.

So she was going to hang up her stocking.

“You’ll have to be pretty good, lest ’twon’t be filled,” said her mamma.

“’Less may be there’ll be a big bunch of sticks in it,” said her papa.

Do you think that’s a nice way to talk, kitty-cat? I don’t.