Part 5
The fox, full of pride, looked at the cat from head to foot, and hardly knew what to say to her for a long time. At last he replied: “Oh, you poor little whisker-cleaner, you old gray tabby, you hungry mouse-hunter, what are you thinking about to come to me, and to stand there and ask me how I am getting on? What do you know, and how many tricks have you?”
“I only know one trick,” answered the cat, meekly.
“And pray what is that?” he asked.
“Well,” she said, “if the hounds are behind me, I can spring up into a tree out of their way and save myself.”
“Is that all?” cried the fox. “Why, I am master of a hundred tricks, and have, over and above all, a sackful of cunning. But I pity you, Puss, so come with me, and I will teach you how to baffle both men and hounds.”
At this moment a hunter with four hounds was seen approaching. The cat sprang nimbly up a tree and seated herself on the highest branch, where, by the spreading foliage, she was quite hidden.
“Turn out the sack, Master Fox, turn out the sack!” cried the cat; but the hounds had already seized him, and held him fast.
“Ah, Master Fox,” cried the cat, “your hundred tricks are not of much use to you. Now, if you had only known one like mine, you would not have lost your life so quickly.”
* * * * *
“And now I really must go,” said Impty. “I’m sorry not to tell you more to-night, but our Caterwauling Class meets at eight in the backyard, and I’m leader. They say I’ve a wonderful voice for so young a cat. Isn’t it lucky that the shutter doesn’t close quite tight? If it did I’d never see the fence, nor my friends, either, and, just as likely as not, they’d elect Tabby Gray in my place out of spite. Good-by!”
THE SEVENTH NIGHT
Outside it was cold and wet; twilight had come early, and Impty trotted in shivering and a little cross.
“I almost wish that I wasn’t black,” he growled, as he cuddled up beside Dolly. “Miss Jane’s airing her furs; _she_ says there’s frost in the air, and she picked me up just because she thought I was her old muff. The idea of mixing up a respectable kitten with a monkey muff!”
“What did you do, Impty?” asked Dolly, curiously.
“Oh, I just stuck out my claws, and miaoued a little. _Any_ cat would, and then she said, ‘There’s that everlasting kitten!’ and shooed me out of the door, and I got all wet before I could run in again.”
“Poor kitty!” said the little girl, patting him.
“To-night is Hallowe’en,” went on Impty, “and people used to believe that witches and cats could go where they pleased on that night. They can’t, really. I wish they could, for then I’d sail off through the air with Miss Jane’s furs, and never, never bring them back! Or, perhaps, I’d bite her boa in two like ‘The Cat and the Pudding-Bag String.’ But it does seem a little odd that, long, long years ago on this very Eve of All Hallows, Dick Whittington heard the Bow Bells calling to him, ‘Turn, turn again, Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of London!’ Do you know the tale of Dick Whittington and his wonderful Cat? If not, I’m going to tell it to you to-night.”
[Illustration:
Dick Whittington And His Wonderful Cat. ]
A long, long time ago there lived in England a little country lad, Dick Whittington by name. Now Dick’s father was a poor man, a farm-laborer, working early and late in the fields that his family might be able to live on even the simplest fare. Sometimes there was very little of this, and at last Dick made up his mind to go to London and win a fortune for the whole family. There, so he had heard, the streets were paved with gold, and any one might become rich for the asking.
So one night, when every one else was fast asleep in his bed, Dick tied his Sunday clothes together in a bundle and ran away on the wide high-road that led to London-Town. Many a weary mile he walked; and, when he was very hungry, and it seemed as if his tired feet could not take another step, he cheered himself up by thinking of those streets of gold. At last he came to London, and what was his disappointment to see only rough cobble-stones, looking just like those in the market-square near his own home. As he was wandering up and down, footsore and not knowing where to go, he caught sight of a little golden-haired girl. It was the only gold he had seen since he came to London. She stared from the window above at the little ragged fellow, and then, as if she suddenly thought that he might be hungry, she ran down and begged the porter to let Dick in.
Now this little girl was Alice Fitzgerald, the daughter of a rich merchant, his only child, and petted and loved by all who knew her. Even the cook, crabbed and cross to every one else, could deny her nothing; and because she asked him so prettily to feed the hungry boy, he took Dick in, gave him some supper, and, the next day, made him his scullion.
Dick worked harder than he had ever worked in all his life before. He never saw Alice except when she went out to walk or ride, for the kitchens were a long way from the parlors above. The cook was cross, the work was dull, and, worst of all, the little, chilly garret in which the boy slept was filled with mice and rats. These worried him so, running over him at night, waking him from the happy dream that he was at home again, that he spent his last penny for a cat which a ragged urchin was carrying through the streets. Soon the mice and the rats ceased to trouble him, and life seemed easier after all.
Master Fitzgerald, the merchant in whose kitchens Dick worked, was a kind-hearted man, and whenever he sent out a ship laden with his goods, he let his servants add some venture of their own, too, upon which they could make a profit. Soon after puss had driven away all the rats and the mice in her little master’s garret, the merchant called together his household, and asked each one what they would send with his fine new outward-bound ship. Some brought one thing, some another, but Dick Whittington had only his cat to send. All the servants laughed at him, and the cook called him a little fool for putting so silly a thing on his master’s vessel. But the merchant said that if Dick wished to sell the cat it should go, and pussy was carefully put on board the ship. After she was gone how Dick did miss her! He had never realized how fond he was of her until she was so far away that he could not call her back; and the rats and the mice, as if they knew that there was no cat lying in wait for them, ran back into the garret again. At last Dick grew so discouraged that he packed his clothes in a little bundle and stole out of the house softly one All Hallow’s Eve to run back to his home. There the skies were blue, and the people kind, and even if the streets were not paved with gold, all the woods and fields were yellow with Autumn.
[Illustration: SOME BROUGHT ONE THING, SOME ANOTHER, BUT DICK WHITTINGTON HAD ONLY HIS CAT TO SEND.--_Page 194._]
But, as he walked quickly along the road that led to the open country, the great Bells of Bow Church began to ring, and the sound came to Dick Whittington’s ears like a voice, for it called, “Turn, turn again, Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of London!” The little boy listened, and said to himself, “Perhaps there’s good luck yet in store for me!” and once more the Bells of Bow pealed out, “Turn, turn again, Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of London.”
So back to his garret and his work went Dick, resolved to stay a while longer at least, and give the Bow Bells’ prophecy a chance to come true. The cook was still cross, the work was as hard as ever, and, as the mice and rats gnawed and gnawed, Dick missed his furry friend very much. But he kept on steadily working, and, by and by, his patience was rewarded. The ship that had sailed so long before with his little venture on board, returned, and the captain told a marvellous tale.
A favorable wind had brought the vessel quickly to the coast of Barbary, and there the sailors went ashore, carrying with them some bales of merchandise to sell to the Sultan, who was so much pleased with the wonderful things that he bought them all, and bade the captain and his officers dine at the palace. They went, but, no sooner were they seated at a long table spread with magnificent gold and silver dishes, and everything good to eat and drink, than swarms of rats and mice ran out of the walls, and devoured all the banquet. The captain, vexed to lose his dinner so, sent the cabin-boy for the cat which had been left on board the vessel, and, as soon as she came to the palace-door, and saw the mice and rats, she sprang from the boy’s arms and chased them all away, just as she had done in Dick’s attic in far-off London. Then the Sultan of Barbary begged to buy this wonderful creature, and offered the captain three hundred thousand pounds for her. So pussy was sold, and a great fortune came in her stead to the little scullion.
And Dick Whittington was worthy of his good luck, for he sent for all his family to come to London and live like lords; he even gave presents to the servants who had laughed at him and his cat.
His master, the wealthy merchant, made him a partner in his ships and ventures; his fortune yearly increased, and when he had grown to be a young man, he married Alice Fitzgerald, and, last of all, he was knighted by the king, became Sir Richard Whittington, and was thrice Lord Mayor of London, as the Bow Bells had long, long ago chimed in his ears.
* * * * *
“And the best of it all is,” added Impty, with a wide, red yawn, “that Sir Richard never forgot what had brought him his good-fortune when he was only poor little Dick Whittington; for, in all his statues and pictures, there is a little cat curled down in one corner, in memory of his own puss.”
“How I wish I could see one of them,” said Dolly, earnestly. “I do love people to remember things.”
“My grandfather, the King of the Cats, has lots in his palace in Cat-Land. Now, if I could only take you with me--but I can’t; it’s no use wishing, so good night!”
THE EIGHTH NIGHT
As Impty settled down into his place the next night, his purr sounded almost like a laugh.
“Why, Kitty, what _are_ you laughing at?” Dolly asked, for the black kitten was usually a sober little person.
“I was just thinking of a prank my grandfather played in his young days, long, long before he ever thought of being the King of the Cats. If you like, I’ll tell it to you.”
[Illustration:
THE FUNERAL OF TOM GRIMALKIN ]
There were once four crows that sat in an ash-tree near an old farm-house. It wasn’t long before the owl that lived hard by looked out of his window under the eaves of the loft, and said to them:--
“Good day to you.”
“Good day,” answered the crows.
“Have you any spare time?” asked the owl. “Then I can put you in the way of earning an honest penny.”
“Indeed, we’d like to,” said the four, for the snow was lying old and thick over the whole country, and there wasn’t much to be earned.
“My good comrade, Tom Grimalkin, is dead,” said the owl. “Now, I was thinking you might carry him to his grave. When my old friend was alive, he often used to say to me: ‘Jan Owl,’ he would say, ‘you must give me a decent burial. A respectable life deserves a respectable funeral,’ he used to say, for he was a clever cat. Now, look here! You four have good black coats on, and are honest people--”
“Come along, then,” said the crows, and crept in through the owl-hole after him, one by one.
Now it was pretty dark in the loft, and the thatched roof was low, but they could see Tom Grimalkin where he lay. He was stretched at full length in the hay, without a move in him. The owl took up his post at his friend’s head, and the crows hopped along, all askew, just as they do in windy weather among the young wheat.
[Illustration: “HAVE YOU ANY SPARE TIME?” ASKED THE OWL.--_Page 205._]
“Many’s the mouse we’ve caught in this loft together, Tom,” said the owl. “We’ve always been good friends, and many’s the spree we’ve had with one another. But that’s all past and gone now. Oh, Tom! Tom, old fellow! How you’d rejoice, and what a spring you’d make, if you were only alive, and I said to you, ‘Tom, four stupid black crows are standing round you this minute!’”
Then up sprang the Tom-Cat, and there was a crow-hunt, the like of which you’ve never seen.
* * * * *
“Didn’t I tell you that owls were more like cats than birds? Why, even that silly song that your uncle sings sometimes, about the owl and the pussy-cat that went to sea in a pea-green boat, and lived on honey, says so. I don’t think that any self-respecting cat would eat honey, but the rest of it’s true enough. This isn’t getting on with my next story, though, and directly I’m through I’ve got to go to Cat-Land. There’s to be a grand ball at the Palace to-night, and I’m to open it with my cousin, the Princess Miaoulina. You never heard, did you, about the way my grandfather happened to learn that he was King of the Cats? Well, then, I’ll tell it to you.”
[Illustration:
The King Of The Cats ]
A number of years ago, a gentleman, who was travelling through the eastern part of Germany, lost his way at nightfall, and at last found himself wandering through a large, dense forest. He walked his horse slowly for some hours among the trees, and finally, as he was getting very cold and tired, he thought he saw a light about a quarter of a mile away. He turned his steps toward it, for he hoped to find some peasant-cottage where he could pass the night, but, when he came nearer, he saw that the light was streaming through the windows of a ruined church. Looking over the sill of one of them, he saw a number of cats gathered round a small grave, into which four of them, crying bitterly, were lowering a little coffin with a crown and Grimalkin the Fifteenth engraved upon it. Instead of stopping to ask the way, the traveller jumped on his horse, and rode off, fortunately finding the right path at last. His friends had been expecting him for several hours, and, after they had given him a good dinner, and made him as comfortable as they could, they asked him why he was so late.
“Well,” said the man, “I lost my way, and wandered for some hours without knowing where I was, and finally I did strike the right path by some great good luck. But, while I was lost, I saw the strangest sight I have ever seen in my life!”
“What was it?” asked his hosts, eagerly.
“Why,” the traveller began, “I saw more cats than I ever beheld in all my life before; every one sad and crying, as a coffin, with a crown and Grimalkin the Fifteenth marked upon it, was being lowered into the ground.”
He had got no farther in his story than that, when the large black cat who had seemed to be asleep in front of the fire, leaped up and cried: “What! Grimalkin the Fifteenth dead! Then I’m the King of the Cats!” and springing up the chimney, he disappeared, and was never seen again!
* * * * *
“The reason he was never seen again,” Impty explained, “was because he went straight to Cat-Land, and people can’t go there, you know. That black cat was my grandfather, and he’d never hoped to be King so soon. But, you see, Grimalkin the Fifteenth lost all his nine lives at once, and so my grandfather succeeded to the throne immediately. Some day, perhaps, I’ll be King of the Cats, and if I ever am, I’ll make a new law so that you can come to Cat-Land just as you are without changing your shape. Wouldn’t that be nice? Good night!”
THE NINTH NIGHT
Dolly was sitting up in bed when Impty came purring in the next evening. She looked very happy, and she called out gayly to the black kitten: “Oh, Impty! Mother is coming home to-morrow! Miss Jane told me so when she was undressing me.”
“I know,” answered Impty, curling up comfortably. “The cook was talking about it to Eliza when I was eating my supper in the kitchen. Yes, this is our last night together, and because it’s the very last time I shall ever talk to you, I’m going to tell you the finest cat-tale in the whole world. It’s ‘Puss-In-Boots.’”
[Illustration: PUSS-IN-BOOTS]
Once upon a time, long, long ago, in a little country village, there lived a miller and his three sons. He was poor, but he had been able to bring them up respectably, and let them live well enough; though, when he died, his sons found that all he had left them was his mill, his donkey, and his cat.
The oldest son took the mill, the second the donkey, and for the youngest there was left only the pet cat. He was sad indeed when he thought of his inheritance. “What shall I live on now?” he asked himself. “My brothers can go into partnership, and so always earn their living; but when I have eaten my cat, and made myself a muff out of his fur, all that will be left for me is beggary.”
While he was thus thinking aloud, the cat came and rubbed up against his legs, purring, and then, to his great surprise, spoke.
“Master,” said Puss, “you haven’t fared so badly as you seem to think. Just have a pair of boots made for me, and get me a sack, and you’ll see fine things!”
The young man hardly knew whether to believe he was awake or asleep. He had never even heard of a cat talking before, but he remembered how clever Puss had always been about catching mice and rats, hiding in the grain and playing dead; and he thought it would do no harm to try what luck his cat would bring him.
So a fine pair of high, yellow leather boots was made for the cat, and when Puss had slipped them on, and slung the sack over his shoulder, his master began to have faith in his good-fortune at once.
[Illustration: “MASTER,” SAID PUSS, “YOU HAVEN’T FARED SO BADLY AS YOU SEEM TO THINK.”--_Page 220._]
The cat hurried straight to the warren, where hundreds of rabbits were nibbling grass and clover leaves, and lying down, he opened his sack wide and scattered bran at its mouth. Soon, a silly little rabbit, who knew nothing of tricks and traps, came and entered the sack the better to eat the bran. Quick as a flash Puss drew the strings and killed him without mercy.
Very proud of his prey, he went to the palace of the King, where all the court wondered at seeing a booted cat who could talk. He was shown at once into the throne room, and there, after he had made a low bow, he laid the rabbit at the King’s feet, saying, “Here, Sire, is a present from my master, the Marquis of Carabas,” for so he had chosen to call the miller’s son. The King was very much pleased. “Thank the Marquis, my good fellow,” he said, “for sending me such fine game, and here’s a piece of gold for you.”
Soon after, Puss caught a brace of partridges, and these, too, he carried to the palace. The King was as gracious as before; again he thanked the Marquis, and gave the cat a handsome present. So things went on; from time to time Puss carried game to the King, who always showed him the greatest favor. At last, one day, when the cat had learned that the King and his daughter, the loveliest princess in the whole world, were to drive through their village that afternoon, he ran to his master, and cried: “Quick! Quick! Do as I tell you, and your fortune is made forever. Take off your clothes, jump into the river, and leave the rest to me.” So saying, he took the young man’s workaday clothes and hid them under a large rock. Then, as he heard the rumble of chariot wheels on the high road, he began to cry at the top of his voice: “Help! Help! My master, the Marquis of Carabas, is drowning!”
The King, hearing these shouts, popped his head out of the coach window, and seeing the cat who had so many times brought him presents of game, he commanded his guards to go to the rescue of the Marquis.
“Alas, your Majesty!” cried Puss, “my master’s clothes have been stolen. While he was bathing, robbers came and carried them away, and although I cried, ‘Stop, thief! Stop, thief!’ I could not prevent them from doing this wicked deed. And now he cannot appear before your Majesty.”
“I will send the groom of my wardrobe for one of my finest suits,” said the King; and when the suit was brought, and the Marquis of Carabas had put it on, every one marvelled to see how handsome he was. The King invited him to get into the coach and drive with them, and, as for his daughter, the pretty Princess, she fell head over heels in love with him.
All this time Puss had been busy, too. He ran quickly ahead of the coach, and, stopping at a fine field, he cried aloud to the peasants who were mowing it: “Good people! If you do not tell the King, when he rides by, that this field belongs to the Marquis of Carabas, I will chop you into mince-meat!”
The peasants were very much frightened at this threat, and, when the King passed by, and asked them who owned the field, they cried with one voice, “It belongs to the Marquis of Carabas.”
Puss, who was keeping ahead of the coach, had already come to the next field, a rich meadow which the laborers were reaping. “Good people,” he said to them, “when the King rides by, if you do not tell him that this meadow belongs to the Marquis of Carabas, I will make mince-meat of you!”