Part 2

Chúrgoro, who was very generous, and who wished all the world to be as fortunate as himself, told the whole story to Gizæmon. Immediately the miser asked that Tamá should be lent to him, that he might once more catch the King of the Field-Mice. The gardener willingly agreed, and Gizæmon took Tamá, and started across the fields, with the cat trotting at his heels. All of a sudden, Tamá darted swiftly away, and came bounding back over the grass with something in his mouth. It was the King of the Field-Mice again! Gizæmon set him free, and--for he was very ungrateful--drove Tamá harshly away. The mouse thanked the rich man as he had Chúgoro, and, in the same way, begged him to come that night to the door of his Palace. The miser’s heart swelled with pride and vanity.

“Now,” thought he, “I will be richer than my neighbor, for all that the Field-Mouse gives me, and all that I have myself, will be mine.”

He could hardly wait for the sun to set, he was so anxious to gather up his riches.

The King met him at the doorway, and touched him with his paw. Like Chúgoro, he grew smaller and smaller until he could follow the King down the little winding passage. When the banquet hall was reached, he was seated at the King’s right hand, and served with all sorts of delicious food; but the greedy man looked around instead of eating, and, as he saw how many fine things there were in the room, and, as he heard the little kitchen mice singing away, as they pounded:--

Ton, ton! Neko sai oraneba, Nezumi no yo zakare. Ton, ton!

he thought, “What a fine thing it would be for me if I could make these mice believe that a Cat _was_ here! Then they would run away, and all these riches would be mine!”

So he called out in a loud voice, “Miaou! Miaou! Miaou!” and the little, frightened mice fled away in a tremble. Gizæmon was beginning to gather up the gold and silver dishes, when, all at once, he found he was growing taller and taller and taller. He ran to the door, but he was much too large to get out. He dropped all his stolen riches, but he kept on growing bigger and bigger and bigger until he grew right up in the field like a potato, and a farmer who was digging there cracked his head with a hoe.

And so his greediness and ingratitude were rewarded, but as for Chúgoro Yamakawa and his wife Ino-yo San, they lived with Tamá, their cat, happy for ever and ever afterwards, as you say.

* * * * *

“But I _do_ think,” Impty added, as he jumped down from the bed, and went to hide under the arm-chair, “I do _really_ think that Tamá was a wonderful cat not to have eaten the field-mouse that last time. I’m afraid _I_ should.”

THE THIRD NIGHT

Impty came dancing out of his hiding-place as soon as the sound of Miss Jane’s footsteps died away on the stair.

“‘Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, where have you been?’” cried the little girl gayly.

“Well, I haven’t been _quite_ to London to look at the Queen,” answered Impty, as he pranced across to Dolly’s pillow, and curled down beside her. “But I’ve been somewhere that’s very nearly as good, for I’ve visited the Court of the Countess von Rustenfustenmustencrustenberg, and heard there the story of ‘The Discontented Cat,’ and I’m going to tell you to-night the tale of her adventures, and how she was taught to be happy instead of being always dissatisfied.”

[Illustration:

THE DISCONTENTED CAT ]

Once upon a time--I can’t say exactly when it was--there stood a neat, tidy little hut on the borders of a wild forest. A poor old woman dwelt in this hut. She lived on the whole pretty comfortably; for though she was poor, she was able to keep a few goats, that supplied her with milk, and a flock of chickens, that gave her fresh eggs every morning; and then she had a small garden, which she cultivated with her own hands, and that supplied her with cabbages and other vegetables, besides gooseberries and apples for dumplings. Her goats browsed upon the short grass just outside the garden, and her chickens ran about everywhere, and picked up everything they could find. There were some fine old trees which defended the cottage on three sides from the cold winds, and the front was to the south, so it was very snug and sheltered. The forest afforded her sticks and young logs for fuel, so that she was never in want of a fire; and, altogether, she managed to make out a pretty comfortable life of it, as times went.

The only friend and companion the old woman had was her gray cat. Now, the cat was a middle-aged cat: she had arrived at a time of life when people grow reflective; and she sat by the hearth and reflected very often. What did she reflect about? That is rather a long story. You must know, then, that a few leagues from the old woman’s hut, at the other end of the forest, there rose a grand castle, belonging to a very great baron. And sometimes, on fine summer mornings, as the old woman and the cat were sitting in the sunshine, by the door, the old woman at her spinning-wheel, and puss curled up for a nap after her breakfast, the forest would suddenly ring with the sound of hunting-horns, shouts, and laughter; and a train of gay ladies and richly dressed gentlemen would sweep by on horseback, with hawk and hound, and followed by servants in splendid liveries; for the Baron was fond of hawking and hunting, and frequently took those diversions in the neighboring forests. Now, it so happened that in one of the tall trees behind the cottage there lived a magpie, not by any means an ordinary magpie, but a bird that had seen a good deal of the world; indeed, at one time of her life, she had, as she took care to inform everybody, lived in the service of the Countess von Rustenfustenmustencrustenberg. How she happened to leave such a grand situation, the magpie never explained: to be sure, some ill-natured people did say that there had been an awkward story about the loss of one of the Countess’s diamond bracelets, which was found one fine morning in the inside of a hollow tree in the garden; and that Mag was turned away in disgrace directly. But how the matter really was I cannot say; all I know is, that she took up her abode halfway up one of the large oaks, behind the old woman’s hut, a long time before our story begins; and that, being of a particularly sociable and chatty disposition, she soon established an ardent friendship with the cat, and they became the greatest cronies in the world. So when, as I said just now, the Baron’s grand hunting parties swept past, they afforded the magpie a fine opportunity for displaying her knowledge of life and the world. And sometimes, too, she would dwell at great length on the splendor and happiness she had enjoyed while she lived with the Countess in her Palace, till the cat’s fur almost stood on end to hear the wonders she related. What a place that Palace must have been! Very different, indeed, from the old woman’s cottage.

Now these conversations with the magpie sadly unsettled the mind of the cat; more particularly when the magpie related to her how daintily the Countess von Rustenfustenmustencrustenberg’s cat always lived,--what nice bits of chicken she dined upon, what delicious morsels of buttered crumpet she often had for breakfast, what soft cushions she lay upon, and a great deal more to the same purpose: all of which made a powerful impression upon our wondering friend. So she sat and reflected by the fire, while the good old woman, her mistress, went on spinning the wool which she sold afterwards at the nearest town, to buy food and clothes.

The more the cat talked to the magpie, the more dissatisfied she became with her present condition; till, at last, I am sadly afraid that when, in a morning, the old woman gave her her breakfast of goats’ milk with some nice brown bread broken into it, she began rather to despise it, instead of taking it thankfully, as she ought to have done, for she was very comfortably off in the cottage--having bread and milk every morning and night, and something for dinner, too; besides what mice she could catch, to say nothing of a stray sparrow or squirrel now and then. But, as I said just now, the magpie’s chattering stories unsettled her; she thought it would be so charming to dine upon bits of roast chicken, and have buttered crumpets for breakfast, and fine cushions to lie upon, like the Countess’s cat. All this was very silly, no doubt; but she wanted experience: she knew nothing of the thousands and thousands of poor cats who would have thought her life quite luxurious. It is a very bad thing to get unsettled; it sets people wishing and doing many foolish things.

One fine bright evening the magpie was perched upon the projecting bough of her oak, and the cat, who thought the cottage particularly dull that day, had come out for a little gossip.

“Good evening!” screamed the magpie, as soon as she saw her; “do come up here and let us chat a little.” So the cat climbed up, and seated herself on another bough a little below.

“You look out of spirits to-day,” began the magpie, bending down a very inquisitive eye to her friend’s face. “I am afraid you are not well. But I am not surprised. That old sparrow I saw you eating for dinner must have been as tough as leather. It’s no wonder you are ill after it! You should really be more careful, and only catch the nice tender young ones.”

“Thank you,” replied the cat, in a rather melancholy tone, “I am perfectly well.”

“Then what in the world ails you, my dear friend?”

“I don’t know,” answered the cat, “but I believe I am getting rather tired of staying here all my life.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the magpie, “I know what that is--I feel for you, Puss; you may well be moped, living in that stupid cottage all day. You are not like myself, now; _I_ have had such advantages! I declare to you I can amuse myself the whole day with the recollection of the wonderful things I have seen when I lived in the great world.”

“There it is,” interrupted the cat. “To think of the difference in people’s situations! Just compare my condition in this wretched hole of a hut, with the life you say the Countess’s cat lives. I’m sure I can hardly eat my sop in the morning for thinking of her buttered crumpets. It’s a fine thing to be born in a Palace!”

“Indeed,” replied the magpie, “there is a great deal of truth in what you say; and sometimes I half repent of having retired from her service myself; but there’s a great charm in liberty--it is pleasant to feel able to fly about wherever one likes, and have no impertinent questions asked.”

“Does the Countess’s cat ever do any work?” inquired puss.

“Not a bit,” answered the magpie. “I don’t suppose she ever caught a mouse in her life. Why should she? She has plenty to eat and drink, and nothing to do but to sleep or play all day long.”

“What a life!” cried the cat. “And here am I, obliged to take the trouble to catch birds or anything I can, if I want to make out my dinner. What a world it is!”

“Your most obedient servant, ladies,” just at that moment hooted an old owl from a neighboring fir-tree. “A fine evening to you!”

“Dear me, Mr. Owl! How you made me jump!” cried the magpie, quite crossly, “I nearly tumbled down from the bough!”

To tell the truth, the magpie did not particularly care for the owl’s company. He was apt to say very rude things sometimes; besides, he was thought a very sensible bird, and Mag always declared she hated sensible birds--they were so dreadfully dull, and thought themselves so much wiser than other people.

But the cat was not sorry to have a chance to tell her woes to any one who was so generally respected for his wisdom, and she said at once:--

“We were talking, my dear sir, on the wide differences there are in the world.”

“You may well say that,” answered the owl, giving a blink with his left eye. “I suppose,” he added, turning to the magpie, “that your ladyship finds a good deal of difference between your present abode and the Countess’s grand palace garden. I only wonder how you could bring yourself to make such a change--at your time of life, too.”

“What a very rude speech,” thought the magpie; she fidgeted upon the branch, drew herself up, and muttered something about people minding their own business.

“But you, my dear cat,” went on the owl, “you have every reason to be satisfied with your lot in life.”

“I am not so sure of that,” said the cat. “I think I have a good many reasons for being quite the contrary; the Countess’s cat has cream and buttered crumpets for breakfast, and sleeps on a beautiful soft cushion all night, and all day, too, if she likes it; and just look what a dull life of it I lead here! And I have nothing but the hearth to lie upon, and nothing for breakfast but milk and brown bread!”

“And you ought to be thankful you can get that,” cried the owl, quite angrily. “I can tell you what, Mrs. Puss, I have seen more of the world than you have, and I just say this for your comfort--if you could see how some poor cats live, you would be glad enough of your present condition.”

“Humph!” muttered the cat, “I really don’t see how _you_ have contrived to see so much of the world, sitting as you do in a tree all day. I should think that the magpie ought to know something of life, after the high society she has lived in; and I _do_ say it’s a shame that one cat should have buttered crumpets and cream for breakfast, just because she happens to live in a palace, while another has only brown sop, because she happens to live in a cottage!”

“But suppose,” replied the owl, “that some other cat, who lives in a cellar, and never gets anything to eat, except what she can pick up in the gutters, should take it into her head to say, ‘What a shame it is that some cats should have nice, snug cottages over their heads, and warm hearths to sit by, and bread and milk for breakfast, while I am obliged to live in this horrid, cold cellar, and never know how to get a mouthful?’”

But the cat could not believe him.

“My dear Mr. Owl,” she said, “you can’t really mean that there are any such poor cats in the world. I am sure that the magpie, with all her experience of life, would have told me about it, if it were really so. You must be mistaken.”

The magpie was, by this time, very tired of such a long silence, and she broke in with:--

“You will excuse me, my worthy friend, but really you do sit there so, day after day, blinking in the sun, without a soul to speak to, that I don’t wonder at your taking very strange fancies into your head. I can only say that, during the whole of my residence in the Palace of the Countess von Rustenfustenmustencrustenberg, my late respected mistress, I never came in contact with any cat in the condition you are pleased to mention, and _I_ should know something of the world, I think.”

“Well,” said the owl quietly, “I will not dispute your ladyship’s knowledge of the world, but I strongly advise our friend, Mrs. Puss, to remain contented at home, and not try to improve her fortune by going into the town. People should learn to know when they are well off.”

Just then, patter, patter, patter, came a few large drops through the leaves; the magpie, making a prodigious chattering, and declaring that a tremendous storm was coming on, flew down from the bough; and whispering to the cat not to mind what the owl said,--“a stupid old bird,”--she hid herself, very snugly, in a hollow place in the trunk--not at all sorry, to tell the truth, to end the conversation. The owl nestled himself in a thick bush of ivy that grew near, and the cat ran into the cottage, to sit by the fire and reflect, for between her two friends her mind was a little puzzled.

The old woman shut the cottage door, heaped some dry fir logs on the fire, and sat down to her spinning-wheel. The rain pelted against the shutters, the wind howled in the tree tops, and roared loudly in the forest behind the hut; it was a terrible night out of doors, but within the cottage it was snug enough; the fire was blazing merrily, the old woman’s wheel turned briskly round, the kettle was singing a low, quiet song to itself beside the crackling logs, and the cat was sitting on the hearth looking warm and comfortable. But she was not at all comfortable in her mind, for discontented people seldom are. It never entered her head to consider whether there were any poor cats abroad that night, without a shelter over them. In fact, she could think of nothing just at this time but the luxuries enjoyed by the fortunate cats who might happen to be born in grand palaces: so, curled up in the warmest corner of the hearth, she sat watching the little spouts of flame that kept flashing up from the pine logs, and wishing for the hundredth time that day, that she had had the good luck to be a palace cat. Presently a very strange thing happened.

All of a sudden, she felt something very lightly touch her coat, and looking round, there stood, close by her, the most beautiful little thing that anybody ever dreamt of. She was not many inches high, her robe seemed made of gold and silver threads fine as gossamer, woven together. On her head she wore a circlet of diamonds, so small and bright that they looked like sparks of fire, and in her tiny hand she bore a long and very slight silver wand.

The cat looked at her with astonishment; it was very odd that the old woman did not seem to see her at all.

The beautiful little lady looked at the cat for a minute or two very steadily; and then said, “You are wishing for something; what is it?”

By this time the cat had recovered from her fright, and was able to speak, so she answered, “Please your Majesty, whoever you are, you have guessed right for once--I _am_ wishing for something. I wish to live in the Palace of the magpie’s grand Countess!”

Wonderful to relate--the words were no sooner spoken than the fairy struck her wand upon the floor three times, and lo! and behold! instantly there appeared a car made of four large scallop-shells joined together, and lined with rich velvet; the wheels were studded with the whitest pearls, and it was drawn by eight silver pheasants. The fairy seated herself inside, and told the cat to step in after her. Puss obeyed, and in an instant the hut, the old woman, and the little garden, all had vanished, and she and the fairy were sailing through the air as fast as the eight pheasants could fly.

“Where in the world are we going, please your Majesty?” said poor puss in a dreadfully frightened tone, clinging to the sides of the car with her claws, so that she might not be tossed out. “Hush!” said the fairy, in a voice so solemn that the cat did not venture to ask another question.

On, on, on they flew, and the wild heath swelled into mountains and sank again into plain and valley; and they heard beneath them, like the distant sea, the rustling of the wind among the clumps of pine trees. On, on, the birds flew, till at length there appeared far below them, the glimmering lights and dim outlines of a stately city. On, on, the birds flew, and the city grew nearer and nearer; turrets and spires and ancient gables rose in the bright moonlight, and the houses grew thicker and thicker together.

At length the pheasants flew more slowly, and the cat saw that they were approaching a marvellous building. How her heart beat, partly with fright, partly with the rapid motion, partly with hope. Yes, they were really drawing near a magnificent Palace. It had high towers and carved gate-ways, that threw strange deep shadows upon the walls, and the panes of the lattices glittered like diamonds in the moonbeams, and smoke from the chimneys curled up into the cat’s face, and got down her throat, and made her sneeze dreadfully--she wondered how the fairy could bear it. But now, slowly, slowly, slowly, the magic car began to descend, till it was just on a level with one of the windows, which happened, very conveniently, to have been left wide open; so in flew the pheasants, car and all, and alighted on the hearth-rug. “Jump out; be quick!” cried the fairy. The cat did not wait to be told twice--she was out in a twinkling; but before she could turn her head round, car, fairy, and pheasants had vanished, and she was left alone in the strange room. And what a room it was! It was so large that three or four huts like her old mistress’s would have stood in it. The floor was covered with something so thick, so warm, and so beautiful, all over flowers in bright colors, that she had never seen anything like it before: in short, everything in the room was so fine or so soft or so large or so bright, that the cat could not conceive what such strange things could be meant for.

However, she soon decided that the hearth-rug was the most delightful bed she had ever rested upon; and stretching out her limbs upon it, before the huge fire that was burning in the grate, she tried to collect her scattered ideas before she went any farther in these unknown regions. Suddenly the door opened.

“Dear me! What a pretty cat!” cried a waiting-maid, entering the room, “and just when we are wanting another, too. My lady, the Countess, will be quite pleased.” Then, coming up to the cat, she took her in her arms, and began stroking her most affectionately. “Pretty Pussy! How did you ever get into the room? Oh, I see! They left the window open, and so you wandered in out of the street, poor little cat. It’s really quite lucky, just as the old one is dead.” So saying, she again stroked the cat, and carried her away into the inner room, where there sat an old lady in an easy chair by the fire eating her supper.

“Please, your ladyship,” said the waiting-woman, “here’s a poor cat come into the house to-night, just as we were wanting one--will your ladyship be pleased to let it remain here?”