Part 6

So the little girl was good as she could be, and didn’t cry nor slap her little sister hardly any at all, and always minded her mamma, specially when she came where the chimney was.

So she hung up her stocking. And in the night she got awake and wanted it to come morning; but in the morning she didn’t get awake till ’twas all sunshiny outdoor. Then she ran quick as she could to look at her stocking where she’d hung it; and true’s you live, kitty-cat, there wasn’t the leastest little mite of a scrimp!

Oh, the little girl felt dreadful!

How’d you feel s’pose it had been you, kitty-cat?

She ’menced to cry, the little girl did, and she kept going harder and harder, till bymby she screeched orfly, and her mamma came running to see what was the matter.

“Mercy me!” said her mamma. “Look over by the window ’fore you do that any more, Kathie.”

That little girl’s name was Kathie, too, kitty-cat, just the same’s mine.

So she looked over by the window, the way her mamma said, and—oh! there was the loveliest dolly’s house you ever saw in all your born life. It had curtains to pull to the sides when you wanted to play, and pull in front when you didn’t. There was a bedroom, kitty-cat, and a dinner-room and a kitchen and a parlor, and they all had carpets on. And there was the sweetest dolly in the parlor, all dressed up in blue silk. Oh, dear! And a penano to play real little tunes on, and a rocking-chair and—O kitty-cat, I can’t begin to tell you half about it.

I can’t about the bedroom, either, nor the dinner-room. But the kitchen was the very bestest of all. There was a stove—a teenty, tonty mite of a one, kitty-cat—with dishes just ’zactly like mamma’s, only littler, of course, and frying-pans and everything; and spoons to stir with, and a rolling-pin and two little cutters-out, and the darlingest baker-sheet ever you saw!

The first thing that little girl did was to make some teenty mites of cookies, ’cause her mamma let her; and if you’ll come right downstairs, kitty-cat, I’ll give you one, ’cause I was that little girl, kitty-cat, all the time.

[Illustration]

READY FOR BREAKFAST.

Miou, miou, miou! I’m ready for breakfast now. I want to be fed On milk and bread, Miou, miou, miou!

MISS TABBY CAT’S RECEPTION.

ELIZABETH L. GOULD.

The eldest Miss Tabbycat gave an “at home,” With music and choice recitations By Signor Angora, quite lately from Rome, Who rendered the “Yowls of All Nations.”

The “Squalls Without Words,” sung by Fräulein von Manx, Were greeted with murmurs of “charming!” While her “Chanson de Alley” elicited thanks So loud they were almost alarming.

There was, too, a sonata, composed by C. Waul, Which was classic and claimed the attention For fully an hour. The themes one and all, Were models of feline invention.

This piece and the trio, “Beloved Young Mouse,” Were voted the evening’s successes, The latter was purred by three guests of the house Who wore solid tortoise shell dresses.

The pleasant refreshments were freely dispensed At twelve. There were crumbs of long standing, And milk in all possible forms, save condensed, Set forth on the cellar way landing.

Now, little Miss Velvetpaw, pattering home In a shower beneath the umbrella Of Signor Angora, quite lately from Rome, Said, “Wasn’t it nice in that cellar?”

“And wasn’t Miss Tabby the dearest old thing? And weren’t those split milkings just splendid? And didn’t that Manx creature know how to sing? Though she looked—well, least said, soonest mended!”

But Fräulein von Manx, treading homeward alone With a large book of songs, said (’twas spiteful, Of course), “She was ready to gnaw a dry bone, And the damp in that cellar was frightful!”

And the eldest Miss Tabbycat sank on the stair Where she’d stood and reflected with sorrow On the mess that her party had made ev’rywhere And the bills that would come on the morrow.

FIVE KITTY CATS.

[For the baby fingers—to be played with open fingers first—closing each as designated.]

Five little kitty cats on the kitchen floor, This one saw a rolling ball, Then there were four.

Four little kitty cats sleepy as can be, This one smelled a creepy mouse, Then there were three.

Three little kitty cats wondering what they’ll do, This one heard the milk boy’s bell, Then there were two.

Two little kitty cats sleeping in the sun, Baby wanted one to love, Then there was one.

One little kitty cat left all alone, Along came a barky dog, Then there was none.

MY KITTENS.

OLIVE STEVENS BROWN.

Do you want to see my kittens? I found them in the shed; They squirm so I can’t hold ’em, I’ll haul ’em on my sled. I guess I’d better name ’em, ’Cause some might get away. Who’d ever thought of kittens All cuddled in that hay?

I’ll call this white one “Muffy,” He looks just like a muff; This little spotted, fat one, I guess I’ll call him “Puff;” This black one with the boots on, He looks so smart and brisk, I’ll put a collar on him, And put around it “Frisk.”

These gray ones—guess they’ll puzzle me, They’re just as live as pins. I’ll tell you what I think, sir, These kittens must be twins. I guess I needn’t name them, It wouldn’t hardly pay, ’Cause I wouldn’t know to-morrow Which one was which to-day.

TWO PUSSY-CATS.

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

I.

THE PET CAT.

Dainty little ball of fur, sleek and round and fat, Yawning through the lazy hours, some one’s household cat, Lying on a bed of down, decked in ribbons gay, What a pleasant life you lead, whether night or day.

Dining like an epicure, from a costly dish, Served with what you like the best, chicken, meat or fish, Purring at an outstretched hand, knowing but caresses, Half the comforts of your life, pussy, no one guesses.

Romping through the house at will, racing down the hall, Full of pretty, playful pranks, loved and praised by all, Wandering from room to room to find the choicest spot, Favored little household puss, happy is your lot.

Sleeping on my lady’s lap, or dozing by the grate, Fed with catnip tea if ill, what a lucky fate! Loved in life and mourned in death, and stuffed maybe at that, And kept up on the mantel-shelf—dear pet cat.

II.

THE TRAMP CAT.

Poor little beggar cat, hollow-eyed and gaunt, Creeping down the alley-way like a ghost of want, Kicked and beat by thoughtless boys, bent on cruel play, What a sorry life you lead, whether night or day.

Hunting after crusts and crumbs, gnawing meatless bones, Trembling at a human step, fearing bricks and stones, Shrinking at an outstretched hand, knowing only blows, Wretched little beggar cat, born to suffer woes.

Stealing to an open door, craving food and heat, Frightened off with angry cries and broomed into the street, Tortured, teased and chased by dogs, through the lonely night, Homeless little beggar cat, sorrow is your plight.

Sleeping anywhere you can, in the rain and snow, Waking in the cold, gray dawn, wondering where to go, Dying in the street at last, starved to death at that, Picked up by the scavenger—poor tramp cat.

MATILDA MARTHA MAY.

FANNIE ROGERS WHITE.

Matilda Martha May Played the livelong day. When supper time came This little dame Was too sleepy to eat her whey.

Her head would go up and down, Bobbing around and round, While kitty puss sat Just waiting for that, Then up on the table she’d bound.

She’d eat all the whey in sight; Now do you think that was right? While this little yum yum With an empty tum tum Spent a very restless night.

AN OBJECT OF LOVE.

MARY E. WILKINS.

A tiny white-painted house, with a door and one window in front, and a little piazza, over which the roof jutted, and on which the kitchen door opened, on the rear corner. Squashes were piled up on this piazza in a great yellow and green heap.

Ann Millet, her shawl pinned closely over her hair and ears, the small oval of her solemn, delicate old face showing almost uncanny beneath it, stood in the door, surveying the sky outside.

“There’s goin’ to be a heavy frost, sure enough,” she said. “I’ll hev to git the squashes in. Thar’s Mis’ Stone comin’. Hope to goodness she won’t stop an’ hinder me! Lor’ sakes! I’d orter hev more patience.”

A tall, stooping figure came up the street, and paused at the gate hesitatingly.

“Good-evenin’, Ann.”

“Good-evenin’, Mis’ Stone.”

“Gettin’ in your squashes, ain’t you?” Mrs. Stone spoke in a very high pitched tone. Ann was somewhat deaf.

“Yes. I didn’t dare resk ’em out to-night, it’s so cold.”

“Well, it’s a good deal colder than I hed any idea of when I come out. Yes, I’d take ’em in. We got ourn in last week. We ain’t got more’n half as many as you hev. I shouldn’t think you could use ’em all, Ann.”

“Well, I do. I allers liked squashes, an’ Willy likes ’em, too. You’d orter see him brush round me, a-roundin’ up his back an’ purrin’ when I’m a scrapin’ of ’em out of the shell. He likes ’em better’n fresh meat.”

“Seems queer for a cat to like sech things. Ourn won’t touch ’em. How nice an’ big your cat looks a-settin’ thar in the window!”

“He’s a-watchin’ of me. He jumped up thar jest the minute I come out!”

“He’s a good deal of company for you, ain’t he?”

“Yes, he is. What on airth I should do this long winter that’s comin’, without him, I don’t know. Everybody wants somethin’ that’s alive in the house.”

“That’s so. It must be pretty lonesome for you anyway.”

“Well, I don’t mean to complain. I’d orter be thankful. I’ve got my Bible an’ Willy, an’ a roof over my head, an’ enough to eat an’ wear; an’ p’rhaps some other woman ain’t lonesome because I am, an’ maybe she’d be one of the kind that didn’t like cats, an’ wouldn’t hev got along half as well as me. No, I never orter complain.”

“Well, if all of us looked at our mercies more’n our trials, we’d be a good deal happier. But, sakes! I must be goin’. Good-night, Ann.”

“Good-night, Mis’ Stone.”

Mrs. Stone hitched rapidly down the street to her own home, and Ann went on tugging in her squashes. She was a little woman and had to carry them in one at a time. After they were all in she took off her shawl and hung it on a nail behind the kitchen door. Then she gave her cat his saucer of warm milk in a snug corner by the stove and sat down contentedly to her own supper. The cat was a beautiful little animal, with a handsome dark striped coat on his back, and white paws and face.

When he had finished lapping his milk, he came and stood beside his mistress’s chair while she ate, and purred, and she gave him bits of bread from her plate now and then. She talked to him.

“Nice Willy! nice cat. Got up on the window to see me bring in the squashes, didn’t he? There’s a beautiful lot of ’em, an’ he shall hev some stewed for his dinner to-morrow, so he shall.”

And the cat would purr, and rub his soft coat against her, and look as if he knew just what she meant.

There was a prayer-meeting that evening, and Ann Millet went. She never missed one. The minister, when he entered, always found her sitting in the same place. She had a pretty voice when she was young, people said, and she sang now in a sweet thin quaver the hymns which the minister gave out. She listened in solemn enjoyment to the stereotyped prayers and the speaker’s remarks.

After meeting Ann always went up and told him how much she had enjoyed his remarks, and inquired after his wife and children. To her a minister was an unpublished apostle, and his wife and family were set apart on the earth.

When she had reached home and lighted her lamp, she called her cat. She had expected to find him waiting to be let in, but he was not. She stood out on her little piazza, and called, “Willy! Willy! Willy!”

She thought every minute she would see him bounding around the corner, but she did not. She called over and over, “Willy! Willy! Kitty! Kitty! Kitty!”

Finally she went into the house and waited awhile, crouching, shivering with cold and nervousness, over the kitchen stove. Then she went outside and called again, “Willy!” over and over, waiting between the calls trembling, her dull old ears alert, her dim old eyes strained. She ran out to the road, and looked and called. Once her heart leaped; she thought she saw Willy coming; but it was only a black cat which belonged to one of the neighbors. Over and over all night long she called the poor little creature which was everything earthly she had to keep her company in the great universe in which she herself was so small.

In the morning she went over to Mrs. Stone’s, her small old face wild and wan.

“Hev you seen anything of Willy?” she asked. “He’s been out all night, an’ I’m afraid somethin’s happened to him. I never knowed him to stay out so before.”

When they told her they had not seen him, she went on to the next neighbors to inquire. But no one had seen anything of the cat. All that day and night, at intervals, people heard her plaintive, inquiring call, “Willy! Willy! Willy!”

The next Sunday, Ann was not out at church. Mrs. Stone went over to see what was the matter.

“Why, Ann Millet, are you sick?” she asked.

“No, I ain’t sick.”

“You wa’n’t out to meetin’, an’ I didn’t know——”

“I ain’t never goin’ to meetin’ agin.”

“Why, what do you mean?”

“I mean jest what I say. I ain’t never goin’ to meetin’ agin. Folks go to meetin’ to thank the Lord for blessin’s, I s’pose. I’ve lost mine, an’ I ain’t goin’.”

“What hev you lost, Ann?”

“Ain’t I lost Willy?”

“You don’t mean to say you’re makin’ such a fuss as this over a cat?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, I aint nothin’ agin cats, but I must say I’m beat. Why, Ann Millet, it’s downright sinful for you to feel so. Of course, you set a good deal by Willy; but it ain’t as ef he was a human creature. Cats is cats. For my part, I never thought it was right to set by animals as ef they was babies.”

“I can’t hear what you say.”

“I never thought it was right to set by animals as ef they was babies.”

“I don’t keer. It’s comfortin’ to have live creatures about you, an’ I ain’t never hed anything like other women. I ain’t hed no folks of my own sense I kin remember. I’ve worked hard all my life, an’ hed nothin’ at all to love, an’ I’ve thought I’d orter be thankful all the same. But I did want as much as a cat.”

“Well, as I said before, I’ve nothin’ agin cats. But I don’t understand any human bein’ with an immortal soul a-settin’ so much by one.”

“I can’t hear what you say.”

“I don’t understand any human bein’ with an immortal soul a-settin’ so much by a cat.”

“You’ve got folks, Mis’ Stone.”

“I know I hev; but folks is trials sometimes. But, Ann Millet, I didn’t think you was one to sink down so under any trial. I thought the Lord would be a comfort to you.”

“I know all that, Mis’ Stone. But when it comes to it, I’m here an’ I ain’t thar; an’ I’ve got hands, an’ I want somethin’ I kin touch.”

Then the poor soul broke down, and sobbed out loud like a baby.

“I ain’t—never felt as ef I orter begrutch other—women their homes an’ their folks. I thought—p’raps—I could git along better without ’em than—some; an’ the Lord knowed it, an’ seein’ thar wa’n’t enough to go round, he gave ’em to them that needed ’em most. I ain’t—never—felt—as ef I’d orter complain. But—thar—was—cats—enough. I might a hed—that—much.”

“You kin git another cat, Ann. Mis’ Maxwell’s got some real smart kittens.”

“I don’t want any of Mis’ Maxwell’s kittens; I don’t never want any other cat.”

“P’rhaps yourn will come back.”

“No, he won’t. I’ll never see him agin. I’ve felt jest that way about it from the first.”

“Hark! I declar’ I thought I heard a cat mew somewhar! But I guess I didn’t. Well, I’m sorry, Ann. Why, Ann Millet, whar’s your squashes?”

“I throwed ’em away out in the field. Willy can’t hev none of ’em now, an’ I don’t keer about ’em myself.”

Mrs. Stone looked at her in horror. When she got home she told her daughter that Ann Millet was in a dreadful state of mind, and she thought the minister ought to see her.

The next day the minister called on her. He did not find her so outspoken; her awe of him restrained her. Still, Ann Millet was for the time a wicked, rebellious old woman.

In the course of the call a rap came at the kitchen door.

“Nothin’ but a little gal with a Malty cat,” said she. “The children hev got wind of my losin’ Willy, an’ they mean it all right, but it seem as ef I should fly! They keep comin’ and bringin’ cats. They’ll find a cat that they think mebbe is Willy, an’ so they bring him to show me. They’ve brought Malty and white cats, an’ cats all Malty. They’ve brought yaller cats, an’ black, an’ there wa’n’t one of ’em looked like Willy. Then they’ve brought kittens that they knowed wa’n’t Willy, but they thought mebbe I’d like ’em instead of him. They mean all right, I know; they’re real tender-hearted; but it ’most kills me. Why, they brought me two little kittens that hain’t got their eyes open jest before you came. They was striped and white, an’ they said they thought they’d grow up to look like Willy.”

He went away without saying much of anything; he was so afraid that what he said might be out of proportion to the demands of the case.

Going out the door, he stopped and listened a minute; he thought he heard a cat mew. Then he concluded he was mistaken, and went on. He watched eagerly for Ann the next meeting night, but she did not come.

The day after the meeting, she had occasion to go down cellar for something. The cellar stairs led up to the front part of the house. Ann went through her chilly sitting-room, and opened the cellar door, which was in the front entry. There was a quick rush from the gloom below, and Willy flew up the cellar stairs.

“Lor’ sakes!” said Ann, with a white shocked face. “He has been down there all the while. Now I remember. He followed me when I came through here to git my cloak that meetin’ night, an’ he wanted to go down cellar, an’ I let him. Lor’ sakes!”

She went back into the kitchen, her knees trembling. She poured out a saucer of milk, and watched Willy hungrily lapping. He did not look as if he had suffered, though he had been in the cellar a week.

Ann watched him, the white, awed look still on her face.

“I s’pose he mewed an’ I didn’t hear him. Thar he was all the time, jest whar I put him; an’ me a-blamin’ of the Lord an’ puttin’ of it on him. I’ve been an awful wicked woman. I ain’t been to meetin’, an’ I’ve talked, an’—them squashes I threw away. It’s been so warm they ain’t froze, an’ I don’t deserve it. I hadn’t orter hev one of ’em; I hadn’t orter hev anything. I’d orter offer up Willy. Lor’ sakes, think of me a-sayin’ what I did, an’ him down cellar!”

That afternoon Mrs. Stone saw Ann slowly and painfully bringing in squashes one at a time. The next meeting night Ann was in her place. After meeting, the minister hurried out of his desk to speak to her. When she looked up at him, her old cheeks were flushing.

“The cat has come back,” said Ann.

[Illustration: AFTER THE BATTLE.]

[Illustration: From Painting by L. Perrault.

A HAPPY MOTHER.]

THE KITTENS’ FRIGHT.

_Action Poem._

Little Kitty Cotton-tail [1]Rubbed her sleepy eyes; [2]Went out for a morning walk— [3]Stared in wild surprise!

“_Meaow!_” cried Kitty Cotton-tail, To her sister calling; [4]“Poppy, Poppy, let us hide! [5]See, the sky is falling!”

[6]Cotton-tail and Poppy ran Down the yard together; Baby Jimbo met, and stopped To talk about the weather.

“_Meaow!_” said Kitty Cotton-tail; “_Meaow!_” said Baby Jimbo; [7]So they all ran on again, With their arms akimbo.

[8]Mother Tortoise-shell they met: “What means this?” she cried. [9]“Skies are falling,” answered they; [10]“Come with us and hide!”

[11]Mother Tortoise-shell was wise, And her speech was slow; [12]“Foolish little cats!” she said— “_That_ is only snow!”

DIRECTIONS.

[Footnote 1: Pass hands over eyes as if just awakening.]

[Footnote 2: Extend hands at right angles to chest, and move them to and fro.]

[Footnote 3: Hand by side, head erect, and look straight in front, as if astonished at something.]

[Footnote 4: Beckon with finger, and nod head, as if calling in haste.]

[Footnote 5: Raise hands and arms vertically, and then, with hands at right angles to arms, lower them quickly.]

[Footnote 6: Move hands quickly to right.]

[Footnote 7: Point as if directing attention to the three kittens running to right.]

[Footnote 8: Raise forefinger of right hand, and gesticulate as if to emphasize.]

[Footnote 9: Imitate action 5.]

[Footnote 10: Imitate action 4.]

[Footnote 11: Imitate action 8.]

[Footnote 12: Shake head, and speak very deliberately.]

THE WARNING

[Music:

Good morning, Mister Mouse; We’ve nothing for you here. You’d better run away, For Kitty Cat is near! Run! run! run! run!]

MY CAT.

CHARLES BAUDELAIRE.

My pretty cat to my heart I hold, My heart ever warm to her; Let me look in thine eyes of agate and gold; Thy claws keep sheathed in fur.

My finger strokes thy head, and thrills Thy back that arches higher; My touch with quivering rapture fills Thy veins’ electric fire.

I dream of my love; her eyes like thine, Profound and cold, sweet cat of mine, My soul like dart-wounds fret.

A subtle air, a deadly sweet Breathes round her, and from head to feet Envelopes my brunette.

CAT-EGORICAL COURTSHIP.