Part 7

I sat one night beside a blue-eyed girl— The fire was out, and so, too, was her mother; A feeble flame around the lamp did curl Making faint shadows, blending in each other. ’Twas nearly twelve o’clock, too, in November. She had a shawl on also, I remember. Well, I had been to see her every night For thirteen days, and had a sneaking notion To pop the question, thinking all was right, And once or twice had made an awkward motion To take her hand, and stammered, coughed, and stuttered, But somehow nothing to the point had uttered. I thought this chance too good now to be lost; I hitched my chair up pretty close beside her, Drew a long breath, and then my legs I crossed, Bent over, sighed, and for five minutes eyed her. She looked as if she knew what next was coming, And with her foot upon the floor was drumming. I didn’t know how to begin or where— I couldn’t speak; the words were always choking, I scarce could move—I seemed tied in my chair— I hardly breathed—’twas awful provoking; The perspiration from each pore was oozing, My heart and brain and limbs their power seemed losing. At length I saw a brindled tabby-cat Walk purring up, inviting me to pat her; An idea came, electric-like at that— My doubts, like summer clouds, began to scatter; I seized on tabby, though a scratch she gave me, And said, “Come, Puss, ask Mary if she’ll have me?” ’Twas done at once—the murder now was out; The thing was all explained in half a minute; She blushed, and, turning pussy round about, Said, “Pussy, tell him, yes!” Her foot was in it! The cat had thus saved me my category. And here’s the catastrophe of my story.

TOMMIE.

The elephant has greatness, The little pug has fame, The cat they call just Tommie, But he gets there just the same.

HODGE, THE CAT.

SUSAN COOLIDGE.

Burly and big his books among Good Samuel Johnson sat, With frowning brows and wig askew, His snuff-strewn waistcoat far from new; So stern and menacing his air That neither “Black Sam” nor the maid To knock or interrupt him dare— Yet close beside him, unafraid, Sat Hodge, the cat.

“This participle,” the Doctor wrote, “The modern scholar cavils at, But”—even as he penned the word A soft protesting note was heard. The Doctor fumbled with his pen, The dawning thought took wings and flew, The sound repeated came again— It was a faint reminding “Mew!” From Hodge, the cat.

“Poor pussy!” said the learned man, Giving the glossy fur a pat, “It is your dinner time, I know, And, well, perhaps I ought to go; For if Sam every day were sent Off from his work your fish to buy, Why—men are men—he might resent, And starve or kick you on the sly— Eh! Hodge, my cat?”

The dictionary was laid down— The Doctor tied his vast cravat, And down the buzzing street he strode, Taking an often-trodden road, And halted at a well-known stall; “Fishmonger,” spoke the Doctor, gruff, “Give me six oysters—that is all; Hodge knows when he has had enough— Hodge is my cat.”

Then home; Puss dined, and while in sleep He chased a visionary rat, His master sat him down again, Rewrote his page, renibbed his pen; Each I was dotted, each T was crossed; He labored on for all to read, Nor deemed that time was waste or lost Spent in supplying the small need Of Hodge, the cat.

That dear old Doctor! Fierce of mien, Untidy, arbitrary, fat, What gentle thoughts his name enfold! So generous of his scanty gold, So quick to love, so hot to scorn, Kind to all sufferers under heaven— A tenderer despot ne’er was born; His big heart held a corner even For Hodge, the cat.

PUSSY AND THE MICE.

Some little mice sat in a barn to spin; Pussy came by and popped his head within; “Shall I come in, and bite your threads right off?” “Oh, no! kind sir, you’ll snap, instead, our heads all off!”

BAD PETER, BAD JOE.

I suppose you’ve heard tell of those frolicsome kittens Who covered their paws with some bright woolen mittens, And behaved so politely in every way. Well, we’ll never mind them, for they died long ago. And I now want to tell you of Peter and Joe, Two troublesome kittens who live at Herne Bay!

They are always in mischief, and leave nothing alone! Run away with my knitting or dear doggie’s bone! Roll over and over the clean kitchen table, Climb up to the very tip top of the stairs, Then race to the bottom as mad as wild hares, Rush out to the garden and hide in the stable.

You never can catch them unless they are sleeping, And e’en when they scratch you they don’t mind your weeping; But stare at you boldly and stiffen their tails, These very sad kittens, bad Peter! bad Joe! And the worst of it is, one never can know Any way to improve them, for every plan fails!

There are two little boys just like Peter and Joe, For they’re always in mischief wherever they go. Till the people say, “O what a bother they are!” No! I won’t print their names, for perhaps they’ll be good; Perhaps behave, for the future, as gentlemen should; So instead of their names, why, I’ll put a big X.

Yes! and if very soon they’re behaving no better, Why, their names _must_ be printed—every letter.

* * * * *

What is it that looks like a cat, walks like a cat, but isn’t a cat? _A kitten._

THE KIND BOY.

MRS. FREDERICK W. PENDER.

_Written especially for this book._

The boy who strives To honest be, And shows a dog Or cat that he Will be their friend, In want or woe, Why _that’s_ the boy I honor so.

He never tries By act to do What oft will make Some kitten mew; But he defends Her with his might And takes a stand That’s brave and right.

To see a creature Suffer much From some rude hand His heart will touch; And he will shun A wicked mate Who tortures pets For pleasures’ sake.

In all this land, How grand ’twould be A mighty band Of boys to see Who make a point At home or play To treat all pets In kindly way.

A bird or dog A horse or cat, Will grateful be For kindly pat In friendly way; And thus you’ll do Some good each day, I know ’tis true.

Then, too, a boy With heart so warm Will nobler grow As years roll on; And his strong arm Will oft be sought To check some wrong That mischief wrought.

LITTLE PUSSY.

TAYLOR.

I like little pussy, her coat is so warm, And if I don’t hurt her she’ll do me no harm; So I’ll not pull her tail, nor drive her away, But pussy and I very gently will play.

THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVES.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

See the kitten on the wall,[1] Sporting with the leaves that fall[2] Withered leaves—one, two and three—[3] From the lofty elder-tree![4]

Through the calm and frosty air Of this morning bright and fair,[5] Eddying round and round, they sink[6] Softly, softly. One might think, From the motions that are made,[6] Every little leaf conveyed Sylph or fairy hither tending,[7] To this lower world descending,[8] Each invisible and mute,[9] In his wavering parachute.[10]

But the kitten, how she starts,[1] Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts![11] First at one and then its fellow,[12] Just as light and just as yellow: There are many now—now one;[13] Now they stop, and there are none.[14]

What intenseness of desire In her upward eye of fire![15] With a tiger-leap half-way Now she meets the coming prey,[16] Lets it go as fast,[17] and then Has it in her power again;[16] Now she works with three or four,[18] Like an Indian conjurer; Quick as he in feats of art,[19] Far beyond in joy of heart.[20] Were her antics played in the eye Of a thousand standers-by,[21] Clapping hands with shout and stare,[22] What would little Tabby care[1] For the plaudits of the crowd,[22] Over-happy to be proud, Over-wealthy in the treasure[23] Of her own exceeding pleasure![20]

DIRECTIONS.

BY BERTHA L. COLBURN.

[From “Graded Physical Exercises,” by permission of the Publishers.]

[Imagine that you really see the kitten playing with the falling leaves; then, as you point to her and illustrate her movements, your gestures will be natural and expressive instead of awkward and mechanical.]

[Footnote 1: Point to right.]

[Footnote 2: Same, with circular movement of hand.]

[Footnote 3: Point to three leaves in same direction but slightly different places.]

[Footnote 4: Point higher.]

[Footnote 5: Raise arms front to shoulder level and carry outward to half sides, turning palms upward.]

[Footnote 6: Turn palms down, and move arms in circles, lowering slowly.]

[Footnote 7: Arms extended at front shoulder level, palms up.]

[Footnote 8: Turn palms, and lower to low front.]

[Footnote 9: Peer forward.]

[Footnote 10: Extend arms at front shoulder level, palms down, and wave hands slightly to sides.]

[Footnote 11: Bend forward; extend arms; move hands downward, and give leaping movement with arms.]

[Footnote 12: Point left, then right.]

[Footnote 13: Point outward with both hands; lower right.]

[Footnote 14: Lower left.]

[Footnote 15: Look up eagerly.]

[Footnote 16: Give leaping movement with arms, and close hands.]

[Footnote 17: Open hands.]

[Footnote 18: Movement of leaping and catching leaves.]

[Footnote 19: Carry left arm out to half side mid line, palm up.]

[Footnote 20: Clasp hands joyously.]

[Footnote 21: Carry both arms out to mid line at half sides, palms up.]

[Footnote 22: Clap hands.]

[Footnote 23: Lift forearms to mid line at half sides, palms up.]

* * * * *

What does a cat have that no other animal has? _Kittens._

DE BLACK CAT CROSSED HIS LUCK.

J.D. CORROTHERS.

[From “The Black Cat Club,” by special permission.]

O de Black Cat cotch ole Sambo Lee, As he come home f’om a jamboree! De cat sot up in a juniper tree, Shakin’ ob his sides wid glee. De moon was sailin’ oberhead— Sam’s h’aht felt lak a lump o’ lead. Black Cat grinned an’ wonk one eye, Licked his paws an’ gib a sigh, An’ den he cried: “Me-ow, me-ow— Upon ma soul ah’m got you now! Fall down an’ pray, po’ cullud man, Foh de ole Black Cat done call yo’ han’.”

Sam los’ his job de very nex’ day; An’ when he went to git his pay, Got bit by a po’ man’s dog— Policeman beat him wid his log— Got arrested, put in jail— Had to hustle hahd foh bail— Lost his lawsuit, sprained his jaw Wranglin’ wid his mother-in-law— Lost his best ob lady lubs— Got knocked out wid de boxin’-glubs— Got hel’ up an’ lost his roll— Robber almose took his soul! Sam went to de hospital— Three weeks passed ’fo’ he got well. Played de races—got broke flat; An’ all because ob dat Black Cat!

Den to de cunjah-man Sam sped, An’ dis am whut de cunjah-man said: “Black Cat am a pow’ful man; Ruinin’ mo’tals am his plan. Ole Satan an’ de ’Riginal Sin Am de daddy an’ mammy o’ him. He’s got nine hundred an’ ninety-nine libes— Nineteen thousan’ an’ ninety-nine wibes— He’s kin to cholera an’ allied To smallpox on de mammy’s side; An’ all de ebils on de earf Stahted at de Black Cat’s birf!— Jes’ stop an’ die right whah you’s at, Ef yo’ luck bin crossed by de ole Black Cat!”

An’ den Sam read in history Dat a cat crossed Pharaoh by de see, An’ burried him, as sho’s you bo’n, Too deep to heah ole Gabriel’s ho’n! An’ dat de cat crossed Jonah once, An’ made him ack a regular dunce. Crossed Bonaparte at Waterloo, An’ got Jeems Blaine defeated, too. “Oh, Laud a-mussy now on me!” Cried Sam, “an’ on his history!” An’ den Sam went an’ killed de cat— Swo’e he’d make an end o’ dat:— Burried him in de light o’ de moon, Wid a rabbit’s-foot an’ a silver spoon. But de Black Cat riz, an’ swallered him whole— Bu’nt his house an’ took his soul!

* * * * *

“I know where there is a catbird’s nest,” said Jack, as he came in to dinner, “and it’s full of young ones.”

“Let me see,” shouted wee Bessie. “I want to see the kitty birds.”

BARON GRIMALKIN’S DEATH.

_A Parody._

WILL M. CARLTON.

O’er a low barn, the setting sun Had thrown its latest ray, Where, in his last strong agony, A dying tom-cat lay. One who had caught full many a mouse, By pantry, barn, and shelf, But now, by unrelenting Death, At last was caught himself.

“They come around me here, and say My days of life are o’er! That I shall snoop in pans of milk, And scratch and fight no more. They come, and to my whiskers dare Tell me now, that I, The oldest tom-cat on the place! That I? y-o-w! y-o-w! must die.

“And what is death? I’ve braved him oft, Before the poker’s thrust; I’ve fought full many a cat and dog, For many a bone and crust; I’ve met him, faced him, scorned him, When the fight was raging hot! If he comes here I’ll scratch his eyes, Defy and fear him not.

“Ho! sound the signal from the barn, And raise a mighty din! Go round to every house and farm, And call each tom-cat in; Away, and do my bidding, now, My every order mind! Bring hither every rat and mouse That you can catch or find!”

A hundred cats were busy then; A feast of rats was spread; And everything was done in haste As the old cat had said; While, through a crack, the rising moon Lit up the novel scene, And shone on poor old Thomas cat Of sad but gritty mien.

Soon hurrying through the great barn door The neighboring pussies came; Some black, some white, some grizzly gray Some wild, and others tame. They gathered quickly round the feast, Each sitting firm and straight; While, at their head, the dying cat, With tail curled round him, sat.

“Let every one be filled, my cats; Eat all you can, to-night! And then, when we have done our feast, We’ll have a glorious fight! Are ye all there, my Thomas cats; Mine eyes are waxing dim; Now, wash your faces, bristle up, And get in fighting trim.

“Ye’re there, and yet I see ye not— Come, clinch together, now, And let me hear you scratch and fight; We’ll have a glorious row! I hear it faintly; louder yet! What clogs my breath, I say? Up, all, and scratch, and fight and yawl, And scare grim Death away!”

Teeth bit with teeth, cat fought with cat, And rose a deafening yawl, And scared the horses in that barn, And made the cattle bawl! “Ho! cravens, do ye fear him? Slaves, traitors, have ye flown? Ho, tom-cats, have ye left me, To meet him here alone?

“But I defy him! Let him come!” Down came his sharp, old claws; And rage and fury grimly clashed, Within his teeth and jaws; And with his staring, yellow eyes Protruding from his head, There, on a bunch of barley straw, Lay the old rascal, dead!

LITTLE KITTY.

_Action Poem._

[1]What does little Kitty say? “Please give [2]me a [3]taste to-day! [4]Bread and [5]milk so nice, I see, Leave a [6]little, please, for [7]me.”

DIRECTIONS.

[Footnote 1: Move right forefinger.]

[Footnote 2: Point to self.]

[Footnote 3: Raise hand to mouth.]

[Footnote 4: Spread hand out to right.]

[Footnote 5: Spread hand out to left.]

[Footnote 6: Show first two fingers of left hand, and cross them with first finger of right hand.]

[Footnote 7: Point to self.]

[Illustration: From Painting by E. Lambert.

A MUSICAL BASKET.]

[Illustration: THE PLAYFUL KITTENS.]

A FELINE FATE.

ANNA ROBESON BROWN.

Because the night was bitterly cold, Dick Eaton put on his heavy overcoat, in which everything was furlined, even to the pockets, before starting for Mrs. Leighton’s dinner.

He was, in general, a happy-hearted fellow, but when one has just received a severe snub from one’s lady love, one does not contemplate a dinner with much satisfaction.

Dick was in love with a girl of wit as well as of beauty; a young lady who could afford to pick and choose.

Dick’s friends sang his praises all day long, much to Miss Girton’s astonishment.

“I can not understand,” she said, “what it is that makes that young Eaton fellow so popular. He hasn’t an ounce of brains.”

So it happened that on this particular evening he was discouraged.

The wind blew the sleet in his face. He stumped along, growing less inclined for the chilly formality of a dinner at every step. Half the distance had been traversed when he felt something brush against his foot.

It was a kitten—a very weak, very wet, and very miserable kitten.

“Hello, old man,” said Dick. “Whom do you belong to?”

The kitten continued to blink at Dick and to shiver helplessly.

It was so very small that it staggered and slid about when it tried to stand.

“Well, I’m awfully sorry, but I can’t help it, you know. Run home to your mamma. You’re far too little to be out alone.”

He started to move away, but the kitten sprang feebly up his leg, and clung there. Dick was fond of cats. He lifted it, and rubbed the rough fur for dryness; the kitten sat on his arm and held its head first to one side and then to the other. “Well, you are cool; but I say, old man, what am I to do with you, you know?”

The kitten purred. The purr settled it.

“Well, I suppose you have got to come; only, old man, I must say I wish you had chosen to favor me on my way home.”

And the kitten gave a jubilant burst of purr which sounded apologetic.

Dick transferred it to his pocket, which, as it was a very small kitten, was roomy quarters. Dick walked briskly on, chuckling to himself, yet reflecting on his situation with some anxiety.

He simply could not produce the beast upon entering Mrs. Leighton’s parlors. If the animal would stay quietly in his pocket it might not be so hard to conceal it during the meal, and he would excuse himself as early as possible.

“Now, old man,” he said to the kitten, as they stood on the door-step, “I have done you a good turn, you know, so I expect you to do me another by lying low and keeping dark. Don’t give yourself away, if you love me.”

Never was a dinner so long. They had allotted him to a little girl in her first season, and he was far away from Miss Girton’s end of the table.

With the third course came a new torment. That kitten was starving, Dick had no doubt of it. He looked about him for something to slip into his pocket. Chicken with truffles, or Roman punch was hardly the diet any self-respecting cat would select for her offspring. Dick passed three courses endeavoring to manufacture some excuse for leaving the table, but finally gave up in despair, resolving to wait until the ladies retired to the drawing-room.

When the cigars had been lighted and chairs pushed back, he felt his hour had come.

“Leighton,” he said, addressing his host, “would you—could I—ah, that is—would it be too much trouble to get me a glass of milk?”

An amazed silence fell upon the party.

“Milk!” said the host.

“Well, you see, the doctor ordered me after every meal——”

“Oh, of course, if you like,” and the butler brought a large tumbler of milk and placed it solemnly before Dick, during a rather chilly silence. He was forced to gulp down at least half the glass. Meanwhile, how to get away?

“Leighton,” he said, “did I hear you say that Gladstone had been criticized in the ‘Times’ for that last speech of his?”

“Yes,” said Leighton, “and of all the unwarrantable——”

The men pushed the bottles into the center of the table, squared their elbows, and in ten minutes, as Dick had anticipated, were far too deep in politics to observe his movements. With the half-finished glass of milk in his hand, he rose and wandered out of the door and down the hall to where his overcoat hung.

The kitten was awake and restless. Dick felt that he was just in time. He held it under one arm, and carefully tilted the glass for it until every drop was gone.

“There, old man, you feel better, don’t you? Have a cigar after you drink?” The sound of chairs being pushed about in the dining-room struck him with sudden panic. He spilled the kitten hastily into his pocket again and sped back with the empty glass.

In the drawing-room Miss Girton was in her element, and Dick eyed her from afar with a heavy heart.

Soon the people wandered out by twos and three, a few into the softly lighted hall. Miss Girton was one of these, and Dick as a matter of course joined the group of men gathered around her. The ribbon of her bouquet had become untied, and she rolled it in her fingers, and trailed it to and fro over the shining wood floor as she talked.

Suddenly there was a stir among the overcoats and two bright spots met Dick’s eyes—two sparks of topaz fire. Oh, that fascinating blue ribbon! How it curved and trailed about! What kitten could have resisted the temptation?

Dick made a sudden plunge.

“Your ribbon is untied,” he said, offering it to Miss Girton, with nervous politeness.

“Thank you,” she said. She let it dangle from her hand for a minute, and then shook it out in a long curved line. No mortal kitten could withstand that.

There was a bound and a rush and the scamper of four soft little paws, and Dick’s unfortunate waif lay on its back under Miss Girton’s very feet, kicking and clawing at the ribbon in an ecstacy of playful excitement.

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Miss Girton. “Where did that come from?”

“It’s a cat, by Jove!” said somebody.

Then Dick, feeling cold and weak all over, made a step forward.

“It’s mine; I picked it up. It was so cold and wet, you know——”

“Did you find it?”—“Was it here all the time?”—“Where did it come from?” Everybody crowded around, while the kitten made short charges at the ribbon, batted at it with its paws, and kicked at it frantically with its hind legs.

Dick told the story with a sinking heart. What would she think of him? What would she say? She did not say anything, but nearly everybody else did.

“Come, Eaton,” cried the host, laughing. “That milk——”

“Yes,” said Dick, scarlet, but sturdy, “it was for the kitten.”

There was a roar of laughter from the men, and then the joke had to be explained to the ladies.

“And why did you not produce the beast right away,” said Leighton. “By the way, there’s a smart fox-terrier of mine upstairs. Let’s introduce them and have some fun.”

Dick made a dash for his protege.

“No, you don’t. This little beast’s had quite enough of that sort of thing, I fancy. I’m going to take it home and make it comfortable. You don’t mind living with me, old man? We’ll be pretty good chums so long as you don’t smoke bad tobacco.”