Pussy and Doggy Tales Part 3

"YES," said the tortoisesh.e.l.l cat to the grey one, as she thoughtfully washed her left ear, "I have lived in a great many families. You see, it's not every trade that deserves to have a cat about the place. My first master was a shoemaker, and I lived with him happily enough, until one morning in winter, when I found the wicked man sewing strips of--let me whisper--_cat's fur_ on a pair of lady's slippers!

"I mewed as I saw it, and he, thinking I wanted milk, put down his work to get me some, for he was fond enough of me. I drank the milk, and then I ran away. I could not live with such a man.

"My next home was in a garret, with a half-starved musician who made violins. A violin is a musical instrument that miauls when you touch it just as we cats do, and it was amusing to live with a man who could make things with voices like my own. He was very poor, and often had not enough to eat, but he always got me my cat's-meat; and when there was no fire on, he nursed me to keep me warm. But one day I learned, from the talk of one of his friends (a man as lean as himself) who came to see him, that the strings of the violins were taken from the bodies of dead cats. No wonder the voices were like my brothers' voices, since they were stolen from my brothers' bodies. He might take my own voice some day.

"So next day, after the cat's-meat man had called, I walked quietly out, and never saw that bad violin-maker again.

"I was picked up in the street by a child, who took me home to her mother's house. They were rich folk; they had curtains, and cus.h.i.+ons, and couches, and they did very little but nurse me, or sometimes, not wis.h.i.+ng to hurt his feelings, the Italian greyhound. But they liked _me_ best, of course. They were a n.o.ble family; and I should have been living with them still, but one year, when they went to the seaside, they forgot to provide for my board and lodging, and I had to go into trade again.

"'Milk ahoy! milk ahoy!' I heard that well-known music as I sat lonely on the doorstep of the deserted mansion in the Square. The milkman looked lonely too; so I thought it would be only kind to go home with him. I did. He was a very well-meaning man, but his tastes were low. He took skim milk in his tea, and gave me the same. Of course, after that, I could not stay another hour under his roof.

"I tried two or three other houses, and I could have been happy with a very nice butcher who kept a corner shop, but he kept a dog also, a dog that no cat in her senses would live in the same street with; so I came away--rather hurriedly, I remember--and the dog saw me off. Now I live with a worker in silver, and I have cream every day; and when he makes a cream-jug, and I remember what will be put in it some day, I lick my lips, and think what a happy cat I am to live with such a good man.

Where do you live?"

"With a poor widow, in an attic. I never have enough to eat." And, indeed, the grey cat was thin.

"Why do you stay with her?"

"Because I love her," said the grey cat.

"Love!" replied the tortoisesh.e.l.l cat.

"Nonsense! I never heard of such a thing."

"Poor puss!" said the parrot in the window. The grey cat thought it was speaking to the tortoisesh.e.l.l, and the tortoisesh.e.l.l was certain it meant the grey. Which do _you_ think it meant?

Meddlesome p.u.s.s.y

I WAS separated from my mother at a very early age, and sent out into the world alone, long before I had had time to learn to say "please" and "thank you," and to shut the door after me, and little things like that.

One of the things I had not learned to understand was the difference between milk in a saucer on the floor, and milk in a jug on the table.

Other cats tell me there is a difference, but I can't see it. The difference is not in the taste of the milk--that is precisely the same.

It is not so easy to get the milk out of a jug, and I should have thought some credit would attach to a cat who performed so clever a feat. The world, my dear, thinks otherwise. This difference of opinion has, through life, been a fruitful source of sorrow to me. I cannot tell you how much I have suffered for it. The first occasion I remember was a beautiful day in June, when the sun shone, and all the world looked fair. I was destined to remember that day.

The fishmonger (talk of statues to heroes! I would raise one to that n.o.ble man!)--the fishmonger, I say, brought his usual little present to _me_. I let the cook take it and prepare it for my eating. I am always generous enough to permit the family to be served first--and then I have my dinner quietly at the back door.

Well, he had brought the salmon, and I followed the cook in, to see that it wasn't put where those dogs could get it; and then, the dining-room door being opened, I walked in. The breakfast things were lying littered about, and on the tea-tray was a jug.

Of course, I walked across the table, and looked into the jug; there was milk in it.

It was a sensible, wide-mouthed jug, and I should have been quite able to make a comfortable breakfast, if some clumsy, careless servant hadn't rushed into the room, crying "Shoo! scat!"

This startled me, of course. I am very sensitive. I started, the jug went over, and the milk ran on to the cloth, and down on the new carpet.

You will hardly believe it, but that servant, to conceal her own carelessness, beat me with a feather brush, and threw me out of the back door; and cook, who was always a heartless person, though stout, gave me no dinner. Ah! if my fishmonger had only known that I never tasted his beautiful present, after all!

But though I admired him so much, I could not talk to him. I never, from a kitten, could speak any foreign language fluently. So he never knew.

My next misadventure was on an afternoon when the family expected company, and the best china was set out. Why "best"? Why should a saucer, all blue and gold and red, with a crown on the back, be better than a white one with mauve blobs on it? I never could see. Milk tastes equally well from both.

I went into the drawing-room before the guests arrived--just to be sure that everything was as I could wish--and, seeing the tea set out, I got on the table, as usual, to see whether there was anything in the saucers. There was not, but in the best milk-jug there was--CREAM!

The neck of the best milk-jug was narrow. I could not get my head in, so I turned it over with my paw. It fell with a crash, and I paused a moment--these little shocks always upset me. All was still--I began to lap. Oh! that cream! I shall never forget it!

Then came a rush, and the fatal cry of "Shoo! scat!"--always presaging disaster. I saw the door open, and, by an instinct I cannot explain, I leaped from the table. In my hurry, my foot caught in the handle of the silver tray. We fell together--neither the tray nor I was hurt--but the best china!!!

I picked myself up, and looked about me. The family had come in. I read in their faces that their servant's unlucky interruption-of my meal had destroyed what was dearer to them than life--than _my_ life, at any rate. I fled. I went out homeless and hopeless into the golden afternoon.

I live now with a Saint--a maiden lady, who takes condensed milk in her own tea, and buys me two-pennyworth of cream night and morning.

And cat's meat, too!

And the glorious fishmonger still leaves his offerings at my door.

Nine Lives

"MOTHER," said the yellow kitten, "is it true that we cats have nine lives?"

"Quite, my dear," the brindled cat replied. She was a very handsome cat, and in very comfortable circ.u.mstances. She sat on a warm Turkey carpet, and wore a blue satin ribbon round her neck. "I am in the ninth life myself," she said.

"Have you lived all your lives here?"

"Oh dear, no!"

"Were you here," the white kitten asked, in a sleepy voice, "when the Turkey carpet was born? Rover says it is only a few months old."

"No," said the mother, "I was not. Indeed, it was partly the softness of that carpet that made me come and live here."

"Where did you live before?" the black kitten said.

A dreamy look came into the brindled cat's eyes.

"In many strange places," she answered slowly; adding more briskly, "and if you will be good kittens, I will tell you all about them. Goldie!

come down from that stool, and sit down like a good kitten. Sweep! leave off sharpening your claws on the furniture; _that_ always ends in trouble and punishment. s...o...b..ll! you're asleep again! Oh, well; if you'd rather sleep than hear a story----"

s...o...b..ll shook herself awake, and the others sat down close to their mother with their tails arranged neatly beside them, and waited for the story.

"I was born," said the brindled cat, "in a barn."

"What is a barn?" asked the black kitten.

"A barn is like a house, but there is only one room, and no carpets, only straw."