[SeeNote E, Addenda.]
SAGACITY OF CATS.
Few people now-a-days think of denying, that man’s noble friend the dog possesses a large amount, of what can only be termed reason. I myself believe, that almost every animal does; but in these pages I shall only claim the gift for our mutual friend, the domestic cat. Reason, I consider, is quite different from mere instinct. Instinct is born in an animal; reason is that instinct matured by experience.
I hardly think that you can find a more sagacious animal than the cat. I doubt, indeed, if the dog is; for pussy’s peculiar mode of existence, the many enemies she has to encounter, and the struggle she often has to obtain sustenance sufficient to keep life in her poor little body, bring all her faculties into better play, and tend to the development of her reasoning powers.
Before you can fully fathom, what a wonderfully clever and wise creature even the commonest cat is, you must study her life in every phase, both out of doors and at the fireside. No relation of mere sporadic acts of sagacity, such as unfastening a door to get out, breaking a window to get in, or pulling a bell-rope to call the servant, can do justice to pussy’s wisdom. Everything she does has a reason for it, and all her plans are properly schemed and thought out beforehand, for she never fails to look before she leaps. Why, my reader, with all due respect to your intellectual powers, if you were to be changed into a cat for four and twenty hours, and had a cat’s routine of pleasure and duty to perform, with all your wisdom you would be as dead as a dried haddock before sun-down. Let us try to imagine one day in a cat’s life.
Pussy wakes in the morning as fresh as a daisy, for she has slept the sleep of the just and temperate. She finds she has been shut into the parlour; but, though it is broad day-light, the family won’t be stirring yet foranother hour. A long weary hour for puss, although she has the patience of Job.
“Now,” she thinks, “if a mouse would only pop out from under the fender; sometimes one does.” But watching won’t bring it; so she jumps upon the window-sill, and gets behind the blind to gaze out at the bright morning, and watch the sparrows, and think of all she will do to-day. “At any rate,” she muses, “I shan’t be shut in here another night. So silly of me to go to sleep before the fire! And, happy thought, I’ll go and see—yes, I must go and see—himto-night; he’ll be at the old thorn tree, I know, dear,dear, Tom.”
The hour has worn away, and at last Mary comes to “do out the room.” “N.B. Stand by to bolt through between her ugly legs. Done—successful.” Now upstairs to mew hungrily at her mistress’s door—that ensures a cuddle; and so pussy sings while her mistress dresses. Down to breakfast at last. Soles. Oh! she doats on soles. But why does her mistress get up and leave her alone for a minute with the cream and thesoles, and she so hungry too. What a chance to dip one paw in the cream-jug, or help herself to only just the tail of that inviting sole! But no, she won’t; and she doesn’t, though the temptationwasvery great. Then mistress returns, and pussy is rewarded for her honesty with a delicious breakfast, and duly purrs her grace after meat.
Two hours afterward she is in her mistress’s boudoir alone. Oh! St. Anthony!Alone with the canary!Her eyes are drawn magnetically to the cage, her mouth opens of its own accord, her teeth water, and unconsciously she fires off a series of miniature mews, expressive of extreme desire. One little spring, and that beautiful bird would be hers. But again she won’t, she’ll only just look at it; and if a cat may look at a king, surely, she may at a canary. Reader, have you ever eaten a canary? A live canary, feathers and all? No! then I fear there is but little chance of your giving pussy half the credit due to her, for resisting that sore temptation and letting birdie live.
But, rats and rabbits! what has pussy done now? While canary-gazing, she has been standing on the escritoire, and inadvertently spilled all her mistress’s purple ink; and, to make matters worse, that young lady enters, in time to witness the accident and see puss making a face at the canary.
“Oh! you wicked, wicked, ungrateful cat!” Pussy flies and hides beneath the sofa. Those cruel, unjust words, how they rankle in her breast! “She will never never speak to her mistress again, nor to any one in the world, not even to Tom. She will die beneath that sofa.” So in doleful dumps she spends two whole hours. How very irksome! If her mistress would only speak now, she might come out, perhaps; but she only knits, knits. Suddenly, down rolls the ball of worsted. Hurrah! out pops puss like an animated arrow, and darts round and round the room after it like a mad thing. Her mistress smiles, and pussy is up on her lap in an instant, singing for joy because she is restored to favour.
Somehow, pussy in the afternoon accidentallyfinds herself in Farmer Hodge’s pigeon-loft. She has merely come to have a look at the pretty creatures, being fond of that sort of thing. Hark! though, a footstep on the ladder, and enter Farmer Hodge himself. Poor pussy’s intentions in the pigeon-loft have been vilely misconstrued by that rude man, and she herself kicked right out of the gable-door—a fall of twenty feet at least; however, she has the presence of mind to whirl round, and alights on her feet, and thus saves her neck. It is only a quarter of a mile to run home; so she is off, hotly pursued by the farmer and his horrid collie. There is one tree on the way, and she gains it just in time to save her back; and the ugly dog stops and barks up at her. A long way astern comes, puffing and blowing, the farmer himself, and when he arrives he will stone her. One minute to get her breath; then down, flop on the back of the collie, jumps pussy. Round and round the tree she rides him twice, then dismisses him howling. The dog runs back to his master, with a bloody nose and one eye seriously damaged, while pussy, scot free,regains the shelter of her home, just in time for dinner. “Now, my little lady,” says pussy’s mistress, about bed-time, “I see you are watching to get out, and indeed you mustn’t; so come with me.” A little deceit is absolutely necessary now, if pussy wants to gain her ends. After all, it is only policy; so pussy purring complacently accompanies her mistress to her bed-room. But having duly sung the young lady asleep, she quietly steals from her side and creeps to the window. Luckily, it is open. Fifteen feet is a tallish jump though; but she remembers that when Farmer Hodge gave her a hint to leave the pigeon-loft, she leaped twenty feet. She feels that hint on her rump even now; but here goes. She has done it, and is safe. Then what a delicious sense of freedom and prospective bliss! And, hark! yonder is Tom’s melodious voice in the distance, and pussy is off in the moonlight to meet him, and she “won’t go home till morning.”
Cats are very sensitive to kindness, and are never ungrateful for benefits received.
A certain labouring woman got a cat, towhich she became greatly attached. When the time came round, for her absence for six weeks at harvest, in a distant part of the country, she took her cat, and the one kitten it was giving suck to, and gave it in charge of a brother who lived three miles from her own village. But here poor pussy wasn’t happy. The children beat and otherwise annoyed her; so she returned to her own home in the village, leaving the kitten behind her. Finding the house shut up, she sought shelter in a kindly neighbour’s house; and having established herself in her new home, she set out for the house where she had left the kitten. She did not attempt to remove it, however, but simply gave it suck and left again. Twice a day regularly, for three weeks, did this queer pussy trot those six long miles to suckle her kitten, until one day she found it drinking milk from a saucer. After this she never went back. On her mistress’s return from harvest, pussy again became her faithful companion; clearly showing that although she was grateful to the neighbour, she knew she did not belong to her. But every year pussystayed all the harvest with her benefactress until the return of her mistress; and this habit she kept up all her life, fourteen years.
How do cats know certain days of the week, such as Saturday or Monday?
A shopkeeper, whom I knew, had a nice Tom tabby, which he kept night and day in his shop, to protect his wares from mice and rats. On Saturdays, Tom was allowed to accompany his master home, a distance of nearly a mile, and to remain at home until the following Monday. Pussy got used to this; and as the shop was always kept open until ten o’clock on Saturdays, Tom used regularly to leave the place and go home fully three hours before his master. On the Monday morning, he was always quite ready to accompany him back again. When this cat grew a few years older, he began to tire of night duties. He, no doubt, thought he had done enough when he had been on guard all day. So to get off the night shift, he used to leave the shop when his master made signs of putting up the shutters. He would wait at a convenient distance till his mastercame; but finding that he was invariably captured and carried back, he fell upon another plan: he took to leaving the shop an hour before closing time. His master used to meet him half-ways home, but never could put a finger on him.
This same cat had been rescued from an ugly death, when quite a kitten, by a son of his master. Tom was greatly attached to this boy. When the boy grew to be a man, and only visited the house once a year, Tom still knew him, and manifested great delight in seeing him.
Cats, however, do not show the joy they feel on meeting again with a long lost friend in so exuberant a manner as the dog.
On first seeing you they exhibit surprise, then quietly show how glad they are by rubbing round you, singing, and following wherever you go, as if afraid of being again separated. A dog is a more excitable animal, and more demonstrative in every way than the thoughtful pussy.
Every one knows how cats can open doors by jumping up and pressing down the latch;this trick is more common in tortoise-shell cats than in any others, and often descends from generation to generation.
A lady’s favourite cat the other day saved the life of her pet canary. The door of the bird’s cage having been by some accident left open, Dickie flew out, and at once made for the outside door, which happened to be open. The cat, however, immediately gave chase, and captured the bird in the lobby. Tom at once returned, and placed the poor bird—half dead with fright—at his mistress’s feet.
I know of a cat—not at all a moral specimen—that took a fancy to eat one of her master’s rabbits. Knowing that she could not well do this within sight of the dwelling-house, she managed to chase one, or rather walk one, for she was too wise to hurry it, nearly a quarter of a mile from the house. She was just beginning her feast when discovered.
A cat that dwelt in an outhouse, was seen one day to deliberately take a portion of her dinner, and place it in front of a mouse-hole in a corner. She then retired to a distance,and set herself to watch. Not many minutes after, a fine plump mouse came out, gave one look round, and seeing nothing suspicious, commenced to eat the crumbs; while doing so, pussy sprang upon and captured it easily.
It is a common custom in the north of Scotland, and I suppose is so in other places, for the household cat regularly to attend at the milking of the cows, and to receive her allowance squirted directly from the cow’s pap. No matter to what distance it is sent, pussy will adroitly stem the current with open mouth, and eyes closed with delight.
A friend of mine once saw a cat, attempting to suck a quiet good-natured cow. She failed, however; but walked directly up to where the gentleman was standing, and mewing in his face ran back and sat down below the udder, plainly requesting the favour of his assistance. He good-naturedly complied, and every day for weeks afterwards, the cat used to come for him to perform the same kind office.
There is an old old man lives in K——, who has an old old cat. He is over onehundred years, and the cat is gone nineteen; in that long time they have come to know each other pretty well. One evening, some years ago, pussy was sitting in a particularly studious attitude before the fire, as if it had something important to tell and didn’t know how to begin. The old man was looking at her thoughtfully.
“That cat,” he said presently, “has something on her mind; haven’t you, puss?”
Pussy, to his grandchild’s no small astonishment, at once mewed in reply; and jumping up, patted the old man’s leg, and commenced trotting to the foot of the stair, looking over her shoulder and asking him to follow.
“Go you, Lizzie,” said the old man; and Lizzie went, following the cat up the stairs and into an old lumber garret. There the cause of pussy’s anxiety was soon discovered: a litter of five fine kittens, which pussy had had without the knowledge of any one in the house.
Cats are as fond of bird-nesting as any school-boy. A cat last summer found a starling’s nest in the gable-end of an oldbarn. There were five eggs in it at the time, but these pussy did not touch, she preferred waiting until they were hatched. She was seen to go, sometimes as often as three times a day, and have a peep into the nest. When at length she was rewarded for her patience with the sight of goslings, she coolly put in her paw, drew out the little things one by one and devoured them before their distracted parents’ eyes. I did not feel at all sorry for that bereaved mother starling, for she and her impudent husband had rummaged every sparrow’s nest about the place, and eaten the eggs.
TORTOISESHELL and WHITE.First Prize—Owned byJ. Hurry, Esq.
TABBY and WHITE.First Prize—Owned byJ. Gamble, Esq.
A man of the name of Claughie, shepherd to a nobleman in the West of Ireland had an enormously large Tom cat, who, as far as milk was concerned, was a notorious thief—the result, no doubt, of a deficient education in his youth. However, Tom was in the habit of committing depredations in the milk-house almost every night. Being always forgiven by the shepherd’s wife, he became at last quite a nuisance, and the shepherd determined to give him one sound hiding. He caught Tomin the very act of stealing cream, and he warmed him accordingly. Tom went out in high dudgeon, and no more was thought of it. But that night Tom returned, and with him a number of other cats. Having surrounded the hut, they proceeded in true Fenian style, to break the windows and force an entrance. The shepherd, afraid of his life, fled to a loft, drawing up the ladder after him. His wife, however, showed more courage. She at once produced two large pansful of cream, and invited the intruders to drink. They did not require a second bidding, and having regaled themselves, they departed in peace and came no more.
But cats will often leave a house and never return, if they have been threatened with a severe licking.
A man residing in Ireland had a nice cat, which was fully eleven years of age, and which he had reared from kittenhood. One day this cat received correction for some offence, and that same night it disappeared. It not only disappeared itself, but enticed a neighbour’s cat along with it. Neither ofthem ever returned. The two cats had always lived on terms of great intimacy with each other.
Another cat had succumbed to temptation and stolen some fish; she was so afraid of getting whipped for the theft, that she did not enter the house for two whole days. At the end of that time she was coming quietly in, when the goodwife, half in fun, seized hold of the poker, and shaking it at the poor delinquent, “Go out, you thieving hussy,” she cried, “and never darken my door again.” The cat drew back, and slipped away, and was never seen more in that neighbourhood.
Of the eggs of fowls some cats are exceedingly fond, and if they once acquire a taste for this particular luxury, nothing can ever break them from it, and they will always find ways and means of indulging in the propensity. A cat of my acquaintance used to content herself with two, or at most, three a day. She belonged to a grocer, and was quite honest with regard to everything else. It was the shopkeeper himself who was toblame for this fault in poor pussy: for in unpacking his eggs he would occasionally drop one, then call pussy’s attention to the fact, saying, “Here, pussy, you take that.” So in process of time the cat took rather a penchant for eggs. She would jump on the counter whenever the whim struck her, and take an egg from the basket; then, with a face beaming with mischief, she would proceed to make a mouse of it, paw-pawing it until it rolled over on to the floor, as if by the merest accident in the world. Then it was amusing to see the air of astonishment pussy adopted, as she peered wonderingly over the edge of the counter, as much as to say,—“Hullo! broken? Here, pussy, you take that.” And down she would jump and lick it up.
[SeeNote F, Addenda.]
A CAT THAT KEEPS THE SABBATH.
Yes, far-seeing reader, you are right, it is a Scotch cat. In England a deficient educational scheme is dead against the chance of any such anomaly. In some parts of bonnie Scotland you “daurna whistle on the Sabbath,” the dogs “daurna” bark, the cows “daurna” low, and the cock is confined beneath a barrel, to prevent him giving expression to his independence. England is looked upon as a poor benighted country, living in darkness and ignorance; and a tourist is termed a “poor daft Englisher,” or a “gangrel body.” But now for the cat.
This pussy completes a family circle, who dwell in a remote village of Forfarshire. It is the only live stock they possess, is an old old-fashioned cat, and of course a great pet. It has a daily round of duties, from which it never varies any more than the clock does. It sleeps with the children, and getsup at the same hour every morning. It first strolls round all the rooms, watching for a little every mouse-hole, where it has ever killed a mouse. It then goes to its mistress’s bedroom, wakes her and sees her dressed, trots before her to the door and is let out, coming in at the same hour every day for breakfast, and showing signs of indignation if its porridge and milk are not ready waiting, or if they are too hot, which it ascertains by a preliminary touch with its toe. Breakfast over, comes a long hour’s sleep before the parlour fire in winter, or in the sun in summer-time. Then comes the time for the forenoon constitutional—a mere walk for pastime; true, if a sparrow pops down before its nose, it is nimbly caught and eaten; but at this early hour pussy prefers lighter amusements,—catching butterflies, turtle-turning frogs, climbing trees, or dancing ghillie-callum on the back of the shepherd’s unhappy collie-dog. She is always at home a quarter of an hour before her master, with whom she dines. Reinvigorated by the mid-day meal, pussy now starts on a huntingexpedition, the scene of action being a wood about a quarter of a mile from her residence. Here this cat stays bird-catching among the trees, until the sun sets and there isn’t a bird to be seen, and then comes trotting home. A drink of sweet milk forms a light but nutritious supper, and not a bad narcotic; then this methodical puss curls herself up at the “bairnies’” feet, and sings herself and them to sleep. Such is pussy’s week-day work, never varying, day by day and year by year. But on Sundayshe does no work, and neither fights nor hunts, but keeps the house, dumb and demure, like the pious little puss she is; musing with half-shut eyes over the fire, or basking in the sunshine on the garden walk.
What an example to the wild strath-vagrant, Sabbath-breaking cats of other places! Early to bed and early to rise, who can doubt this pussy’s wisdom? Who can doubt that in her rural home—
“She’ll crown, in shades like these,A youth of labour with an age of ease.”
[SeeNote G, Addenda.]
HONEST CATS.
Numerous instances of the honesty of well-trained cats might be given. My own cat and travelling companion Muffie, has always taken her place on the table at meals, and I have never had reason to repent of the indulgence. Even should I leave the room for half an hour, nothing could tempt her to lay a paw upon anything; neither will she allow any one else, not even the waiter, to touch the viands without my permission. If I go to sleep on the sofa, she immediately mounts guard over me, and it would be very incautious in any one to come within reach of her nails. All sorts of property she guards just the same, and of my starling she is particularly careful.
A gentleman of my acquaintance used to have a cat, which brought home wild rabbits almost daily, but he knew his master’s tame ones, and many a romp and rough-and-tumblethey had together on the lawn. Tom’s master had a mavis. This bird did not live in a cage, but roamed about the house at its own sweet will; yet pussy never made any attempt to injure it; in fact, seemed to like it. What was most singular, the cat was in the constant habit of bringing in live birds,—sparrows, larks, and sometimes even a mavis, which she quietly devoured beside Dickie, he standing on the floor in front of her, looking on and whistling to himself. Birds being the natural prey of the cat, the foregoing anecdote just shows to what a high state of training they can be brought, and how well worthy pussy is of being trained. There is as much too in the breeding, as in the educating; for you always find that honest cats have honest kittens, andvice versâ. Of course it is contrary to nature to expect a cat to live on terms of intimacy with a bird and not sometimes make a mistake.
An old toll-keeper, in Stirlingshire, had a favourite cat and a pet canary at the same time. Living all alone, and having plenty ofspare time, he had the pussy taught to allow the bird to take any liberties with her he chose, and to perch on her back or head whenever he had a mind. Indeed, Dickie was seldom in his cage, when he could be with the cat. Many people came to see them; and to remove all scepticism the toll-man used to open the cage-door, when the bird would immediately fly out, alight on pussy’s head, and at once burst into song. One day, when working in his garden, a cat passed Mr. Tolly, apparently in a vehement hurry, with a bright yellow bird in its mouth, and hurried away towards the wood. “Losh!” said Tolly, sticking his spade in the ground and scratching his poll, “that can never bemycat surely!” and “Lord, have a care o’ me!” he added; “that can never surely bemybird.” With a beating heart he rushed towards the house, and there got proof positive it was both his cat and his bird; for the cage-door was open, and puss and Dick had both disappeared. It was a case of elopement, or rather abduction of the most forcible nature. Poor Tolly was now avery lonely man indeed; for, well aware of the heinous nature of the crime she had committed, and afraid of the consequences, the cat never returned.
“In our city house,” writes a lady to me, “we have a fine grey and black cat. This cat is the most honest of creatures, and guards our larder from the predatory inroads of the neighbour’s cats. On one occasion a stray cat was observed to run away with a cold stewed pigeon. Our cat rushed after the thief, and with some difficulty induced it to drop the spoil; she then brought the pigeon back and laid it down at its master’s feet.”
It is by no means an uncommon thing in Scotland, to see a large tabby on a shopkeeper’s counter, kept to look after bigger thieves than rats or mice. Some of these animals I have known to especially hate little boys, and indeed to raise serious objections to their being served at all. I remember one cat in particular, a very large and powerful Tom, who used daily to mount guard on the counter, to protect his master’swares. He used to walk up and down, generally keeping close to the shopkeeper, and his quick eye on the customer. If the latter paid the money down, he was allowed to take up and pocket the articles; but if he put a finger on any little package before paying, Tom’s big paw was down on him at once, a hint that never required repeating to the same customer. It is almost needless to say that Tom himself was the pink of everything that was fair and honest; he was never, under any circumstances, known to steal. One day, the merchant had gone for a few minutes into the back shop, leaving Tom sitting, apparently asleep, beside a large piece of butter, which had just been weighed. An urchin, who happened to be passing, seeing the state of affairs—the coast clear and the sentry asleep—determined not to let slip so golden an opportunity; he had a large piece of oat-cake in his hand. He would butter that at least, he thought. He had just got the knife stuck into the butter, when, quick as lightning, Tom nabbed him. Deeply in, through the skin, went the cat’sclaws, and loudly screamed the urchin. Tom raised his voice in concert, but held fast, and the duet quickly brought the shopkeeper to the spot. Tom appeared to have great satisfaction in seeing that little Arab’s ears boxed.
I know an instance of a cat, which brought home a live canary in its mouth, which she presented to her mistress. The bird was put in a cage, and turned out a great pet; and pussy and the bird were always great friends; the cat one day punishing severely a stray puss that had been guilty of the unpardonable crime of looking at the canary.
[SeeNote H, Addenda.]
THE PLOUGHMAN’S “MYSIE.”
Ten miles along dusty roads in a hilly country, and on a hot summer’s day, was rather fatiguing, and I was glad to find the ploughman’s cottage, or rather hut, at last. It was placed in a picturesque little nook, at the foot of the Ochil mountains, and consisted simply of a “butt and a ben,” with a potatoe patch and kail-yard in front. The mistress was at home; her goodman, she said, was busy sowing turnips. But she kindly asked me in, and showed me into the best room, with its mahogany chest of drawers, old-fashioned eight-day clock, and bed with snowy counterpane in the corner. While I rested, the good woman produced her kebbuck of last year’s cheese, a basin of creamy milk, and some delicious oat-cakes,—a banquet for a hungry king,—and bade me eat, apologising that she had no whisky in the house.
“And so,” she said, “you’ve come a’ this lang road too see our Mysie. Well,” pointing towards the bed, “yonder she is, sir.”
I was certainly a little disappointed. Mysie was a tortoise-shell and white, pretty well marked, but small and with an expression, as I thought, of bad temper about her little face, which just then seemed the reverse of pleasant; but this wore off when I patted and caressed her.
“Is there anything remarkable about her?” I asked.
“Weel, sir,” said her mistress, “she can catch mice like winking.”
“Cats generally do,” said I laughing; “anything else?”
“She’s a queer cratur. She has never slept a single night in the house since her e’en were opened, and——But you’re no eating, sir.”
I praised the cakes and kebbuck, and remained silent.
“The fact is, sir,” she said at last, “she saved my husband’s lifelast fa’ o’ the year. For George is a proud proud man, andwould never accept meal or maut that he hadna worked or paid for.[1]But he had been lang lang ill; and ae day when I followed the doctor to the door, he told me that my poor man must die if he didna have his strength kept up. ‘Flesh and wine,’ said the doctor, ‘flesh and wine and plenty of both.’ Ah! little he kenned. So I put awa (pledged) my marriage gown and ring to get him wine; but we had naething in the house but milk and meal. Surely, sir, it was the Lord Himself that put it into that cat’s head; for, that same night, she brought in a fine young rabbit, and laid it on the verra bed;”—the good woman was weeping now—“and the next night the same, and every night the same, for a month, whiles a rabbit and whiles a bird, till George was up and going to his work as usual. But shenever brought onything hameafter that. She’s, maybe, no bonnie, sir; but, God bless her, she is unco good and wiser than many a human.”
By this time I could perceive no expression on Mysie’s face but that of unalterable fidelity and unchangeable love.
“You wouldn’t like to part with her, would you?”
“Part wi’ Mysie, sir? No for a’ the warld’s wealth.”
So I bade them good-bye, not now regretting my long walk to the Ochil mountains, and the ploughman’s faithful Mysie.
[SeeNote I, Addenda.]
TENACITY OF LIFE IN CATS.
“As many lives as a cat,” and “a cat has nine lives,” are sayings which we hear almost every day. The truth of the latter we must all acknowledge; not indeed as regards the imputed plurality of lives in the cat, but, as illustrative of the extreme tenacity of the one life she possesses. As an Irishman would say, pussy may be many times “kill’t,” but only once “kill’t entirely;” or, as a Zanzibar nigger would have it, she may be often-times dead, but only once “gone dead.”
Joy was a farmer’s cat, a beautifully-marked lady-tabby. She was extremely fond of horses, used to jump on their backs, and often sleep there at night. She was consequently nearly always in the stable. One day, however, one of her pets kicked her,—accidentally it is to be hoped, but so severely that one of the men found her, lying coldand stiff beside the wall. He lifted her up and laid her on the dunghill, until he should find time to give her a decent burial. Here the poor animal lay all day in the sun, and here she was found at milking-time, by a kind-hearted servant girl. Thinking she perceived some tokens of life about it, and remembering the proverb, she took the pussy into the kitchen, and rolling it carefully in a flannel petticoat, placed it in front of the fire. When she came in from milking, she was rejoiced to find that pussy was so much better, as to be able to lift her head and taste a little warm milk. With three days’ careful nursing the cat recovered. She lived to a goodly old age, but abjured the turf,—she never backed a favourite again.
Another cat, found in a trap, was cruelly beaten about the head by a brutal keeper, until the blood gushed from both ears. He finally cut off the poor thing’s tail as a trophy of his bravery, and left her on the ground for dead. Her mistress, hearing of what had happened, was soon on the spot, and carried home what she thought wasthe dead body of her cat. She tried every means of resuscitation, nevertheless, and in three weeks had the satisfaction of seeing pussy as well as ever, and as full of fun; only it was now a Manx cat, an artificial one. Pussy must often have seen her own tail hanging on the game-keeper’s wall, in company with a dead hawk, an owl, and a few hoody-crows. The man had the tail frizzed up to make it look big; and pointing it out to many a cockney sportsman, used to relate a story of a dreadful encounter he had with a “real wild cat, sir,” which he at last slew; “and yonder,” he would always add, “hangs the buffer’s tail.”
A man going one morning into his dovecot, which in this case was an attic at the top of a house eight-storeys high, found his own cat killing the pigeons right and left. Greatly enraged, he kicked the animal through the open window. On going down shortly after, rather ashamed and sorry for what he had done, he was greatly surprised to see pussy gather herself up, and slink in at the back door. Apparently she wasnone the worse of her rather hurried descent from a height of over fifty feet.
In the case of the cat which the keeper “kill’d,” there was no doubt fracture of the skull. In the following case, the apparent death was no doubt due to severe concussion of the brain, or stunning.
A boy in going to school one day, saw a large cat sitting not far from its master’s door. Without meaning to hurt the pussy, but with that recklessness of consequences which characterizes most school-boys, he picked up a stone to have “just one shy at her.” He struck her on the head, and pussy dropped to all appearance as dead as the stone itself. Afraid of the consequences of detection, he picked the cat up and threw it in a cornfield not far off. As murderers are said to haunt the scene of their guilt, so the boy every morning, for the three following days, found himself irresistibly drawn towards the field of corn, and every morning there lay his victim stark and still. On the fourth morning, however, she was gone; and in returning from school the same evening,the boy’s astonishment was very great indeed, on seeing the identical cat, washing its face at its master’s door, as if nothing had ever occurred to annoy it.
Kittens, too, possess the same tenacity of life which is so remarkable in the full-grown cat.
A friend of mine, for example, had a cat which gave birth to a litter of five kittens, four of which were ordered to be drowned. The execution of the sentence was duly carried out, the same evening in a pail of water. When full time had been given to the kits to give their final kick, the pail was emptied on a heap of manure. Next morning, however, all the young pussies were found alive and well in their happy mother’s arms. She was allowed to rear them. I do not know what means pussy adopted to revivify her apparently drowned offspring, or I should at once send the recipe to the Royal Humane Society, and patiently wait for a silver medallion by return of post.
I remember, when a boy, seeing a horrid old woman dig a hole in the earth anddeliberately bury three kittens alive. The ground heaved above them, and she clapped the earth with the spade till all motion ceased. The same aged wretch used to toast snails in a little flannel bag before the fire, in order to extract the oil for sprains, and I have often shuddered to hear the snails squeak; but this of course has nothing to do with the subject of cats. I went and told my little sister of the cruel interment; and, watching our chance—we really thought the old woman would bury us if she caught us—we dug up the kittens fully an hour after, and were successful in nursing two of them back to life. We reared them on the spoon.
The following anecdote might, perhaps, have been more properly related, in the chapter on cruelty to cats; however, as illustrative of the subject in point, we give it here. At a certain farm-town, about ten years ago, one of the men-servants conceived a great antipathy to his master’s cat. The cat had been guilty of some little delinquency in the bothy, or farm-servants’ hall,for which the man had punished pussy. The farmer had taken his cat’s part, and scolded the man, and hence thecasus belli. The man swore vengeance on poor pussy, whenever an opportunity should occur. Nor had he long to wait; a fast-day came round, and nearly every one had gone to church. The brutal fellow got the cat in the stable, and commenced putting her to death with a horsewhip. This he had well-nigh accomplished, when puss by some means effected her escape. She was unable, however, to make much use of her legs, so he whipped her round and round the farm-steading, until the poor creature took refuge in a hole, which happened to be in the barn wall. This hole was acul-de-sac, having no opening on the inside of the wall. It now occurred to this fiendish lout, that he might easily accomplish pussy’s death and burial at the same time, and he forthwith proceeded to build up the hole with stone and lime. The cat was missed, and a whole week elapsed without any tidings of her; and although suspicion fell upon the right party,there was no proof. A whole week elapsed, when one evening the farmer was standing near the barn wondering if ever he would see his little friend again. Suddenly his eye fell upon the servant’s handiwork. That wall, he thought, was never repaired by my orders; my poor cat is buried there. To fetch a pick and tear out the stones did not take many seconds, and then from her very grave he pulled the pussy. Strange to say, she was alive; and though dreadfully emaciated, by careful nursing she got all right again in a few weeks. She had been eight days immured in a cramped position. Only fancy her sufferings.
Some schoolboys, not long since, stoned a poor cat till she fell down apparently dead. Afraid of what they had done, they determined to kill it outright, and bury it in an adjoining field. This they endeavoured to do by dashing the cat’s head against a stone fence; not succeeding, however, and being in a hurry to get off, to escape detection a grave was hurriedly dug, and pussy interred. The ground was still moving over her whenthe young wretches left. Bad news travels apace; and the owner of poor puss hearing of her favourite’s death and burial, hastened to the grave and dug her up. There was still life in her, and by careful treatment she made a good recovery, and was seen about her old haunts four or five days after.
The following case of suspended animation may seem almost incredible; it is authentic nevertheless, and not unaccountable either on scientific grounds.
The owner of a black and white cat determined, for private reasons, to get rid of her. He had not the heart to hang her, or he was not sufficiently enamoured of Calcraft’s profession to do so; there was no poison in the house; and as he lived away up in the centre of a hilly country, there was no water, without walking a long distance, sufficiently deep to drown her. Thinking, however, that suffocation, in whatever way produced, was as easy a death as any, he got a small bag, in which he placed the cat, tying the mouth of the sack. He then dug a hole in the garden and lowered her down.
“I’ll no hurt ye, poor puss,” he said, as he pressed the earth firmly but gently over her; “and ye’ll no be lang o’ deeing there—God! she canna live wantin’ breath.” This grave was merely meant for a temporary resting-place; so next morning the man went to open it, with the intention of placing her remains at the foot of a tree. To his surprise pussy jumped out of the bag “alive and well;” well enough, at any rate, to make her feet her friends. That cat thought she had lived long enough, in that part of the country.
The same black Tom mentioned in a former chapter, as guarding his master’s wares, and keeping his eye on questionable customers, was certainly very exemplary in his honesty; but as every pussy has one little failing so had big Tom. An egg was Tom’s stumbling-block. He could have got dozens of them on his master’s counter, but that would have been theft; besides, he preferred his eggs new-laid, and not imported. So, with the intention of ministering to his cravings, Tom used to pay occasional visits to the henneries of theneighbours. He also had a habit of making a pilgrimage to an adjoining village, and calling at the house of a man called Archie, a weaver and customer of his master’s. Archie was very fond of Tom, and always made him welcome. Not so, however, a man called Dan, who lived in the next house. For this man openly accused Tom of stealing his eggs; and there was no doubt some truth in it, for Dan’s wife swore she had seen Tom more than once, coming out through the hen-hole in the barn door, with his beard still yellow with the yolk of a stolen egg. Dan resolved to be revenged, and at once set about encompassing the poor pussy’s death. He so arranged a bag beneath the hen-hole, that on Tom’s going through he would be certain to pop into it, and so make himself prisoner. The first time the bag was set Dan only captured his own cock, the next time a stray hen of a neighbour; but this only made him the more determined; and eventually he was successful. Tom was a prisoner, and condemned to instantexecution by Dan and his wife Bell. Bell indeed was even more bitter against the cat than her husband. Just then pussy’s friend the weaver happened to come upon the scene, and hearing what had occurred, and what was about to follow, he pleaded long and hard for his little friend’s life, and even threatened the terrors of the law; but Dan was inexorable. Die Tom should, he said, if he himself should hang for it. He “kill’d” the cat by dashing the sack, many times against the gable-wall of his own house. “He’s quiet enough now,” said Dan.
“Make siccar,” said Bell; and she commenced hitting Tom with the spade she had brought to dig his grave.
“You ugly black brute,” she cried; “you’ll steal nae mair eggs in this warld.”
Dan then threw the sack over his shoulders, and accompanied by his wife as grave-digger, and Archie the weaver as chief mourner, they proceeded to the garden to bury the unfortunate Tom. A grave was dug at the foot of a gooseberry bush, and Dan opening the mouth of the sack,proceeded to shake out the mangled remains of the cat. You may judge of the chagrin and disgust of Dan and his cruel Bell, when those same mangled remains no sooner touched the ground, than they got together again somehow, and springing out of the grave, made their way like greased lightning out of the garden and off. The tables were turned. Dan was chief mourner now.
“Curse the cat!” he roared.
Dan’s wife was equal to the occasion.
“You’re a fool, gudeman,” she said,—and indeed, he did not look much unlike one,—“the cat’s the deevil, and you can fill in the grave yersel’.”
[SeeNote J, Addenda.]
NOMADISM IN CATS.
There are few, if any cats, that can withstand the temptation to occasionally roam abroad, and lead for a while the life of a gipsy puss. Perhaps pussy thinks she has as much right to her holiday, as master or mistress. Home life must at times grow monotonous and irksome, and a change no doubt highly desirable. Besides, cats are of a more social disposition among their species than dogs are. They like to meet and exchange ideas with their fellow cats. Night is the season almost invariably chosen for these socialréunions. There is then more seclusion, and less likelihood of their being disturbed. They know that dogs stick closely at home after dark, and that little boys are sound asleep. By night, moreover, the voices of the gentlemen who give addresses are more easily heard. Everything else being so still, each inflection and intonationof voice is beautifully distinct. It matters not that the nervous lady in No. 5. is kept awake till the close of the meeting, and can’t sleep a wink after that; that No. 3. can’t get her baby to sleep; or that No. 2. is writing a letter to theTimes, and can’t follow out any single idea;—the concert in the back-garden of No. 4. goes on all the same. How sweetly that old tabby cat imitates the harmonies of a bass violin! How grandly that black Tom’s voice rises and swells, floats and soars, on the night breeze! How beautifully those five cats in the corner, are imitating the dulcet strains of the great highland bag-pipe! Three of them are told of as drones, the other two do the lilting, and the effect is quite startling. So at least thinks that old bachelor wretch in the two-pair back, who now throws open the window, and rains curses and cold water on the influential meeting, momentarily interrupting the flow of harmony. Only momentarily however.
“Move on a garden or two,” suggests black Tom; “that old beast has no soul.”
STRIPED, or BROWN TABBY.First Prize—Owned byMiss M. E. Moore.
RED TABBY.First Prize—Owned byMiss Forshall.
And the concert goes on as before.
Cats are republicans of the rubiest red. Communism is rampant in their ranks; and indeed, they seem to thrive on it. In our day, we hope communism will always be confined to the cats. There is no respect of persons shown among cats. One cat is as good as another; and the sharpest claw and the strongest arm rules supreme for the time. Beauty, rank, and breeding are alike despised. At pussy’s balls and assemblies, there is no such officer as master of ceremonies. Any gentleman may introduce himself to any lady, he chooses, provided always she does not spit in his face, and box his ears; for, in this way, the lady never hesitates to express disapprobation of her partner. In so outspoken a community, boredom is thus practically done away with, and there is a freedom from all affectation which is highly refreshing. There you may see my Lord Tom-noddy, whose noble form rests by day on a tiger-skin mat by a sea-coal fire, whispering, nay, rather howling, soft nothings in the ears of Miss Pussy Black-leg, whose mistress keeps a marinestore, at Wapping Old-stairs, and sits up nightly to “wait for Jack.” Yet no one can doubt the genuineness of his lordship’s proposals, who marks his earnest manner, or listens to the impassioned tones of his voice as he beseeches her to
Fly, fil-ly with him now, ne-ow-w.
The young and beautiful Lady Lovelace, with fur so long and white, and softer than eider-down, with eyes of himmel-blue, who sleeps all day on a cushion of scarlet, and sips her creamy milk from a china saucer, is yonder in a corner, flirting with the coal-heaver’s Bob. Bob’s ears are rent in ribbons, his face is seamed with bloody scars, he is lame, his fur nearly all singed off, and he has only one eye and half a tail; but his voice, that is what has won the heart of the young beauty; and when the ball is over he will convey her home in the moonlight to her splendid mansion in Belgravia—he himself will be content with an hour’s nod in the coal cellar. The pretty pussy’s mistress is anxiously waiting for her darling, and will not sleep till she comes. But witness this lady-cat’s slyness;she kisses Bob fondly on the top of the conservatory, then with bushy tail and fur erect, she springs to the bedroom window, and enters growling, and casting frightened glances behind her, and her doating mistress caresses her gently, and tries to calm her fears. “And did the nasty Tom-cat follow my litsy prettsy darling, then? And was it nearly frightened out of its bootiful, tootiful lifie? Ah! pussy, now, then, now.”
Sly, sly puss. Is slyness confined to the cat creation, or is it ever found among females of a higher persuasion—female women to wit?
Cats are remarkably fond of comfort, and when the usages of society compel her to be up all night at a ball or concert, she goes to bed immediately after breakfast, and sleeps off every vestige of fatigue.
I knew a cat that used to travel over six miles every other day to visit and have a gossip with another cat for which she had contracted a violent fancy. They were both lady-cats; but, strange to say, I never saw the other cat return the visit.
Cats will often make almost incredibly long journeys, and endure fatigue and hardships innumerable in order to find a lost master or mistress.
One cat I know travelled nearly a hundred miles into Wales, in search of her master, who had gone and left her. She had been three weeks on the journey, and when success at last crowned her efforts, she was so weak and emaciated, that she tumbled down with a fond cry at her master’s feet.
The difficulty of “wandering” cats is well known. You may “wander” a dog easily; but not pussy, for if so inclined, she will assuredly find her way back somehow at some time.
You may shut her up in a basket or bag and take her for miles through the most intricate streets, or over a covered country; but in all probability she will be back in a day or two, if indeed you do not find her on the door step on your return.
A gentleman in the neighbourhood of London, before going to reside in the city gave his cat away to a friend. Two years aftershe turned up at his city residence; and although very thin and impoverished, manifested great joy on seeing her old master. Whether or not the party to whom the cat had been presented had come to live in London, and brought the cat with him, I do not know; but the story is a fact. Moreover, the cat could not have been taken back on purpose, as she came by the tiles.
There can be no longer any doubt, that pussy possesses some power or instinct which enables her to find her way back, ever so far, to the place where she has once resided, and that too unerringly. We cannot pretend to understand this, any more than we can the principle that guides the carrier pigeon; but true it is, “there are more things in heaven and earth than we dream of in our philosophy.”
[SeeNote K, Addenda.]
“IS CATS TO BE TRUSTED?”
“Iscats to be trusted?” was to have been the title of an essay from the pen of poor Artemus Ward. “Iscats to be trusted?” my starling has been taught to repeat, and often does so while running round the cat on the floor, examining her tail, opening up her paws with his beak, and occasionally making determined attempts to open up her nose also, and peep down her throat. As far as she is concerned, the bird is I think perfectly safe; for although she often pats him with her gloved hand when he gets too insinuating, she never otherwise attempts to molest him. I fear in his essay Artemus meant to have had a few jokes at pussy’s expense. My aim is a more serious one. A question like this, which to pussy is a most momentous one, affecting not only her comfort and happiness, but her standing as a social pet and her very existence itself, cannot be treated lightly in a work likethe present. My own opinion is, and always has been, that if cats are properly fed and cared for, they will do anything rather than steal. But not content with giving my own experience, which some might say was exceptional, I have placed pussy in court, as it were, and given her a long, fair, and impartial trial, summoning evidenceproandconfrom every part of Great Britain and Ireland. The trial has lasted for months, and the Tichborne Case, as a Yankee would say, isn’t a circumstance to it in regard to the number of witnesses examined. The judgment has been overwhelmingly in pussy’s favour, and the verdict of the jury as follows:—
“Cats are not as a rule thieves, but quite the reverse.”
In every case investigated, where the theft was proved, it turned out that the cat was either starved, or illtreated, or spoiled. Moreover, the witnesses for the prosecution—in the minority—were, to use a homely phrase, a foggy lot, rude and illiterate, people with no definite ideas about their “h’s,” whose capitals were sown broadcast, who wrote“i Know,” and spelt cat with a “k”; while those for the defence were in every way the reverse, both socially and orthographically; people with crests and monograms, who wrote on one side of the paper only, and all letters prepaid.
So Miss Puss I think may stand down: she leaves the court without a stain upon her character.
Now, while boldly asserting that cats are as a rule honest, I do not mean to say that all are so. There are rogues among cats as well as among men; but just as we find that the law often makes men thieves, so likewise will cats become thieves if badly treated. What can be more disgraceful than the habit that some people have of systematically starving their cats, under the mistaken notion that they will thus become better mousers; or the custom of many of putting their cats out all night, no matter how wet or cold the night should be. Such treatment of pussy is greatly to be condemned, and only tends to foster habits of uncleanliness, of thieving, and of prowling. By regularfeeding, good housing, occasional judicious correction—when puss is found tripping—and kindness, you may make almost any cat honest.
Pussy does not soon forget having been corrected for a fault.
Black Tom, mentioned in a former chapter, never went back to Dan’s hen-house again.
A Tom-cat, called Bruce, lived some years ago, at a farm-house near Dundee. This cat—honest in every other way—could never resist the temptation to steal the cream. All efforts to cure him of this habit were resorted to in vain. But one day, Bruce, much to his own satisfaction found himself shut up in the milk-house. When all was quiet, Bruce came from his corner and had a look round. What a grand and imposing array of basins of milk and tubs-full of cream! One of the latter stood on a table beneath the window, the edge of the tub being on a level with the sill. It was the largest tub in the room; and blessing his luck, up jumped Bruce and began to lick. It was so delicious, and Bruce closed his eyes to get the fullflavour of it. Just then, however, some noise outside startled him,—he knew he was sinning, and was consequently nervous,—and in turning round, he missed his feet, and fell heels over head into the tub. Although half-choked, so soon as he came up, Bruce struck out boldly for the shore, but the sides of the vessel were too slippery even for a cat to hold on to; besides, the weight of the cream clogged his movements. He would fain not have screamed, but death stared him in the face, and the idea of dying in a tub of milk, as he had seen mice die, was awful; so he opened his mouth and gave vent to a smothered yell. That yell, loud-resounding through the house, brought “ben” the good-wife, and Bruce’s life was saved at the expense of about three pints of cream; but never more did that cat go near the milk-house. He was a reformed cat from that day; a burning and a shining light to all the cats in the country-side.
I know a cat—a Tom, as usual—who always sits on his master’s counter, surrounded by provisions of all sorts, but hewas never known to steal. This cat has a penchant for pickled herrings; and although he might easily help himself by day or night, he always prefers asking his master for one. This he accomplishes in the usual cat fashion, by running towards the barrel and mewing up in his master’s face; and of course this appeal is never made in vain.
Cats are remarkably fond of fish. The other day, a bonnie fishwife was standing on the pavement with her creel on her back. Suddenly she was heard to scream aloud. “For the love o’ the Lord, sir,” she cried to a bystander, “tell me what’s that on my back.” The party addressed looked about, just in time to see a pussy disappearing round a corner, with a large fish in its mouth. That was what the newspapers would call an impudent theft, and it was certainly a clever one.
If not properly trained and cared for, pussy comes—like the Ladrone islanders—to look upon stealing as a virtue; and no wonder, for she must think it hard to starve in the midst of plenty, and in her master’shouse. Besides, there is always two ways of viewing a matter. Out on the coast of Africa, I have often gone on shore—for the fun of the thing—with a party of other officers, to assist in replenishing our larder by the addition of a few fat fowls, a sucking grunter, or a kid of the goats. I rather think we stole them; but we called these little trips, “cutting-out expeditions;” still we swore “’pon honour,” and wore our swords none the less clankingly on a Sunday morning; nor would it have been safe for any one to have hinted that we were dishonest.
Just so with poor pussy. She is often tempted by hunger to make a little reprisal. It is vulgar to accuse her of stealing the steak, nailing a fish, or boning a cold chicken, “cutting-out,” is the proper term. It is a feline virtue, from the path of which she must be seduced in early kitten-hood, and by good treatment. But poor pussy is often made the scape-goat for the sins of others.
“Mary, bring up those cold pigeons.”
“O ma’am! howevershall I tell you? That thief of a cat—”
“The cat must be drowned,” says her mistress.
“Oh, no, ma’am! Poor thing! no, ma’am.”
It wouldn’t exactly suit Mary’s book to have pussy drowned. It would seriously interfere with those nice little suppers, she is in the habit of having with Matilda Jane.
“Sarah, we’ll have the remains of that cold lamb for supper.”
“Oh! dear me, ma’am; I forgot to tell you, the cat has eaten every bit of it. Can open the pantry-door, just like you or I, ma’am.”
I should think it could; the cat in this case being an enormous blue Tom tabby, with a stripe round one forearm, and a belt about his waist, and X 99 on the collar of his coat.
The following is the story of a real feline Jack Sheppard, I have no excuse to offer for this cat; I can only say that if he was a thief, he was aswell at it.
In a sweet little village not far from the famous old town of bonnie Dundee, lived, and I believe still lives, Peter McFarlane, a shoemaker, and his wife Tibbie; two asdecent old bodies as you would see in all broad Scotland. They were honest and industrious, and, as a rule, agreed, or as the folks say, they both “said one way,” except when Peter took a dram, when, it must be confessed, the ashes did at times find their way up the chimney along with the smoke. They had no family but one,—a cat. A fine gentlemanly fellow he was too; dressed in the blackest of fur, and faultless to a degree, barring that he was the biggest thief ever known in the village, or whole country-side. Every one complained of Tom; and, as he got older, his delinquencies were ever on the increase. Allowing thieving to be a virtue among cats of his class, Tom was a saint, and ripe for glory long ago. The butcher, do what he liked, could not save his kidneys,—it was remarkable that Tom never touched the sausages,—he was always content with kidneys, although if none were to be had, to pussy’s honour be it said, he did not despise a lump of steak or even a nice lamb chop. Tom was a regular customerat the fish-monger’s; his weakness here being for Loch Fyne herrings,—they were handy; but he delighted also in the centre cut of a salmon, and in half-pound sea-trout. It has even been said, that Tom did not share his custom equally among the shop-keepers, spending too much of his time at the fish-monger’s counter; but, as his biographer, I must defend his name from any such allegation. Although it must be admitted he never paid ready-money, still he was never too proud to carry away his purchase. Tom used to enter the poor people’s houses about dinner-time, watch his chance, and purloin the meat from under their very noses. Once he lifted the lid from a broth-pot, and decamped with the boiling chicken. This cat was never known to drink water when he could find a milk-pan; nor milk, either, if the cream-jug was at all handy. He was even accused of having sucked the cows; and when hard pressed with hunger, he did not despise a piece of cheese or a tallow candle from the grocer’s round the corner. He nevertroubled himself catching mice,—chickens came handier; and tame pigeons he found were more satisfying than sparrows. Tom could break in or out of any place, climb anything, and jump—the neighbours all said—“the d——l’s height;” I don’t know how tall that gentleman is at Dundee, but he must be over twenty feet, for Tom could do that easily, and alight on his pumps. At long-last the cat became so notorious, and the outcry against him so loud and universal, that the shoemaker and Tibbie, yielding to the entreaties of the villagers, resolved to have him drowned.
On a cold winter’s night, then, honest Peter and three of the neighbours might have been seen—had there been light enough to see them—trudging along towards the pier, with the unhappy but virtuous Tom in a sack. Arrived at the place of execution, a consultation was held as to how the job should be done. There wasn’t a stone to be had, and Peter said he wasn’t going to lose his sack; it was bad enough to lose the cat; so it was resolved to takeTom out and swing him clear off into the water. More easily said than done. Tom was no sooner out of the bag, than by a successful application of tooth and nail, he wriggled himself free, and in a moment more was lost in the darkness. Peter scratched his head, the neighbours scratched their three heads, and they all felt funny and foolish. They determined however not to make laughing-stocks of themselves, so they returned to Peter’s house with the joyful intelligence, that Tom was a cat of the past.
Here were the fishwife and the milkwife, and the grocer and his wife, and the butcher—who hadn’t a wife, all assembled to hear the good news; and it was unanimously resolved to celebrate the event by making a night of it; and, although the people of Dundee and round-about are generally glad of any excuse to make a night of it, still it must be admitted that the present occasion urgently called for “cakes and whuskey.” So the fishwife brought salmon, the milkwife brought milk,the butcher brought steak, and the grocer whiskey galore; Tibbie with her best new mutch did the cooking, and they all sat down to eat and to drink and be merry. No Indian villagers, just released from the dominion of a man-eating tiger, could have felt jollier than did those good folks at the thoughts of thieving Tom’s demise.
“May the deil gang wi’ him,” was one of the toasts to Tom’s memory.
“And a’ the ill-weather,” was another.
“If there be,” said the fishwife, “an ill-place for the souls o’ cats, that black beast ’ll hae a hot neuk in’t.”
“Ay, but,” said the grocer,—a godly man and an elder of the Free Church,—“speak nae ill o’ the dead, Eppie, but pass the whuskey, and I’ll gie ye a bit sang.” He sung the death of Heather Jock, which was by no means inappropriate.
“And so the nicht drave on wi’ sangs and clatter,” and the fingers of old Peter’s eight-day clock were creeping slowly towards “the wee short hour ayont the twal,” when,—
“Well, neighbours,” says Peter, the hypocrite, “we’re a’ glad the cat has gane we a’ his weight o’ crime on his sinfu’ shou’ders. Let us eat that last pound o’ steak, finish the bottle, and gang to bed.”
“There is many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip;” and scarcely had Peter done speaking, when the door opened, apparently of its own accord. The cold night-wind blew in with a ghostly sough, and the candles were extinguished. But lo! on the table, in their very midst, and dimly seen by the smouldering firelight, stood Tom himself, with back erect and gleaming eyes. Never was such kicking and screaming heard anywhere. The fishwife fainted, and the milkwife fainted, and the godly grocer and his wife fainted, and the butcher—who hadn’t a wife at all, fell down on top of the others, for company’s sake. But Peter and the three guilty neighbours stood in a corner—dumb. When order was at length restored, and the candles re-lit, the old shoemaker told his true version of the story, and was very properly forgiven. But where wasTom? Tom was gone, andso was the beef steak! And from that day to this, never again was Tom heard of in that sweet little village near bonnie Dundee.
That catwasa thief.