1.Blinks—the son of Muffie.2.Muffie—the mother of Blinks and queen of cats.3Pretty Dick—a starling who speaks oftener than he is spoken to.4.The Ogre—The Author.5.Theodore Nero—champion Newfoundland.6.The Cricket of the Hearth.
1.Blinks—the son of Muffie.
2.Muffie—the mother of Blinks and queen of cats.
3Pretty Dick—a starling who speaks oftener than he is spoken to.
4.The Ogre—The Author.
5.Theodore Nero—champion Newfoundland.
6.The Cricket of the Hearth.
The Birth of Blinks.
The entrance into the world, of the immortal hero of the following adventures, is veiled in the darkest and most inky obscurity. Whence he came, or where he had resided previous to his arrival, no one can tell. All that is positively known about the matter isthis: I, the writer, retired to rest about ten by the clock on a cold and sleety night in winter. Previous to jumping into bed, I, as usual, locked, barred, and bolted the door of my room, then, candle in hand, I peeped in below the bed, keeked into the cupboard and under the toilet-table, and even cast an eye up the chimney, in order to be certain there were no robbers or midnight assassins concealed in the premises. Being satisfied that the only occupants of the room besides myself were Nero, Muffie, and Pretty Dick, I extinguished the candle and crept quietly beneath the sheets. Now at that time there was no Blinks. Well, in the morning, like a good old boy, I awoke at seven; and after rubbing my eyes and untying my flannel night-cap, I put my hand once more below the bed-clothes, for I could distinctly feel something moving on my breast. I seized and hauled this something forth to the blessed light of day, and lo! and behold!—Blinks—blind little Blinks!
“Good heavens!” cried I in astonishment, for the windows were fastened, the door stillclosed, and the key-hole not unreasonably large, “where in the name of all creation did you come from?” And Blinks replied in a whisper; but I could not catch what he said.
Now, from some concomitant circumstances—namely, the birth of five kittens on the evening of the same eventful day—all of whom were consigned to a watery grave next morning, as soon as they had taken breakfast—I say from these circumstances, I think there can be little doubt but that Blinks is the son of my beloved cat and faithful servant Muffie; and that the name of his other parent is, and must ever remain, a mystery. Blinks was a lovely kitten, and is a lovelier cat. Of the brightest and most varied tortoise-shell, with stately limbs and bushy curling tail, he stalks abroad, a very prince among the feline tribes. His paws are white as mountain snow; and when he presents one to a human friend, it feels as soft as the finest velvet. But woe be to the mouse, or rat, or rabbit, on whom those paws descend, for sharp and deadly are the daggers hidden between thosesilken toes. His ears are long, his brow is broad, and his eyes beam with intelligence; love seems to float in their liquid depths as he purrs to some fair young lady cat, but fires of hate and scorn flash from them as he gazes on a feline foe. Such is Blinks.
Blinks’s Eyes.
When another week had glided slowly away, and the earth—this world into which Blinks had been so unceremoniously thrust—had made seven somersaults and was preparing for the eighth, Blinks, who was gently reclining in his mother’s arms, opened his little red mouth and whispered—
“My ma!”
“Yes, my chee-ild,” Muffie replied.
“When will I get eyes? Ever, my Ma?”
“Yes, my chee-ild.”
“When, my Ma?”
“On the ninth day, my chee-ild,” said Muffie. She spoke in a mournful tone ofvoice, for she had not yet ceased to lament the untimely fate of her other five children.
“Oh my eyes!” cried Blinks, not heeding his mother’s grief, “won’t it be a jolly lark!” and straightway he sucked himself to sleep.
Strange, is it not, that any mortal creature should sleep without any eyes to sleep with; but so it was, Blinks slept.
Blinks opens his Eyes. His first thrilling Adventure.
The ninth day dawned, a day to be big with the fate of the young and innocent Blinks, who was on that auspicious morning to open his eyes for the first time, on a world that, heretofore, had been as dark to him as if he had been living in an empty stone bottle with the cork in, or like a frog in a buried teapot, or like a toad in a stone. This day the cork of the bottle—so to speak—was to be drawn, the teapot dug up, the stone to be broken. He had innocently asked his mamma, where the eyes were tocome from; and she, in the beautiful imagery, which only Muffie could make use of, told him that a wee angel cattie, with snowy fur and wings all golden, would fly gently down while he slept, and, hovering over him softly insert a little bright eye on each side of his head, and by-and-by he would awake and—see.
Well, the sun rose,—the bats and the owls all went to roost in haunted castles and lonely groves, cocks clapped their wings and crew, hedgehogs fell asleep among the dewy grass, and weary authors went to bed; but Blinks like one of the ten foolish virgins, slumbered and slept. Why slumbereth our hero? Blinks had determined to lie awake the whole of the preceding and eventful night, in order to meet the first glimpse of the early dawn with open eyes, and study the wonders of nature with his newly acquired sense of sight. I say, this is what Blinkshaddetermined to do; it isn’t by any means what hediddo, for long before the shadows of night had begun to battle with the light of coming morn, poor wearyBlinks’s eyes—only half open—were sealed in sleep, and so he slept far into the day. His fond mother had eaten her matutinal meal and lain down again to watch him; Nero had had his breakfast and a long walk with his master; the starling had been piping and chattering from an early hour; carts and cars and carriages had been rolling and rattling past; trains had shrieked, and puffed, and stopped, and backed, and puffed, and gone on again; and still Blinks was slumbering.
A very prolonged scream from an express train awoke him at last, however; and our young hero sprang to his feet, gave a jerk with his brows, a nod of his head, and behold! his eyes, like the eyes of Adam and Eve, were opened; and, like Tam o’ Shanter,
“Vow! he saw an unco’ sight!”
Strange, too, that at the same moment one of Her Majesty’s ships, that lay in the bay, began to fire a salute of twenty-one guns. [Blinks here bids me say there was nothing strange about it.] No wonder then, that Blinks thought himself lord of the universeand monarch of all he surveyed; no wonder—a pair of real eyes and a salute of twenty-one guns. Ho! ho!
Funny-looking eyes they were too; light grey and glassy, and with scarcely any visible pupils or centre-bits. Blinks stood for a moment, evidently in a very undecided frame of mind, like one who has too much to do and can’t tell where to begin. He appeared to be looking very earnestly, and inquiringly at nothing in particular, and was withal rather shaky about the extremities. It was only for a minute however, for, on turning his head on a pivot, his eyes fell on the well-pleased and admiring face of his mamma, who had paused in the very act of washing her face with a spittle or two, that she might gaze on her youthful prodigy. So intent, indeed, was she, that she did not even lower the fist she had been licking; but sat with it raised in an attitude of such grace and beauty, that, had it been done in the theatre royal, would have brought down the house. Now, although Blinks had had a long and intimate acquaintance, with hismother’s honest face, it must be remembered that he only knew her by the touch or feel; and not havingseenher before, how should he, Blinks, be expected to tell who or what she, he, or it was that now gazed on his face?
“Might it not,” thought Blinks, “be some dreadful foe? Good heavens! might it not be awild mouse?”
The thought was certainly alarming enough, and he determined to, at once, act on the offensive; so, as a commencement of hostilities, he gave a warlike leap backwards, “in order,” as he afterwards remarked, “to make the spring the more dreadful.” This backward leap did to be sure cause him to lose his balance. [Blinks here begs me to substitute the word “equilibrium” for “balance,” as the latter is not soldier-like, and reminds him of shop-keepers and such.] Having found his balance [“Beastly!” says Blinks,—who, as I write, is sitting on and looking over my shoulder,—“beastly English! Can’t you say, ‘regained his centre of gravity,’ you dolt.”] Well, well, Blinks got on his pins again; then was his back erected like untoa Gothic arch, on which the hair did bristle like unto a fretful porcupine, or a cheap ham; his tail was transformed into a miniature bottle-brush, and from his jaws came a sound, intended to be at least awe-inspiring, but which an impudent author might liken to the striking of a lucifer-match. All this was but the work of a second, and only preparatory to a grand spring—a spring which, it is needless to say, would have resulted in the total demolition of all good looks in the face of his worthy parent. But, just then, struck with admiration at the pluck of her son, Muffie burst into a song of praise.
Blinks listened.
He closed his eyes, and listened again.
“That voice!” he cried, “them music!—it is—it is my ma.”
“My chee-ild! my chee-ild!” cried the fond parent; and Blinks, in the twinkling of—of—of a little star, was encircled by the hairy arms of his dear dam with a tit[4]in each hand, and one in his mouth.
Then, and not till then, did pretty Dick say, “Bravo! bravo!”
Further Adventures of Blinks.
After the dreadful adventure related in chapter third, exhausted nature coveted nutrition; that is, Blinks felt thirsty, and for the suck-seeding [succeeding] sixty minutes, Blinks was busily engaged discussing a dinner oftit-bits. He wandered from one tit to another, and from the other tit to the next, and so on to the last, and then back again to the first.
Couldn’t he stick to one tit? “No, sirree!” Blinks would have replied, “the foremost tits contain butter, the next cream, the next sweet milk, and the last whey. My brethren and sistren should have got the whey—they should, but then my brethren were drowned in the sistren [cistern]—good joke, that, for a nine-days’ wonder. Eh?”
Having at length satisfied the cravings ofnature, and filled his belly [Blinks fainted when he heard this expression, and on reviving bade me, try again], well, then having laid up a little store of the lacteal fluid, against further claims for sustenance, Blinks carefully put aside the skim-milk tit, as a thing all very good in its way, but which a hero 216 hours old, and with real eyes, ought to despise. He laid it past, and wheeling carefully round on one end, stood up, staggered for an instant, and finally reopened his new organs as wide as he could, and stared right in front of him, apparently with no very decided intention of what to do or how to do it. Just then there fell upon his listening ears—he had two, one for each eye, and was very proud of them too—a sound which made him start and turn red, so to speak, with indignation.
“Was it possible?” he mused. “Didhis ears deceive him?Didhe hear a laugh? A laugh! nay, even a sneer, a low snigger.”
He gazed steadily in the direction from which the noise seemed to proceed; and “dang his eyes” if it wasn’t repeated,wantonly repeated, daringly done again; and evidently the insult was aimed at him, for there, not many miles away, at most, were two great round goggle eyes a-glowering at him over a book, and a horrid great fleshy face all round them, with tufts of bristly hairs hanging from the cheeks, and a mouth with lips from which again came the sneer—the low insulting snigger.
Now Blinks, in the days of his darkness, had often heard the same despicable sound; and Blinks’s mamma called the voice Master.
“What!” thought he, “Blinks have a master! Blinks, the nine days’ wonder! Blinks, with two real eyes! But, dash those same two eyes! the thought was slavish. No, he wouldn’t give a suck for himself if he would bear it; and then that laugh, that snigger—come, he would at once go on the war-path, find out this ogre which his mamma,—the old idgit [idiot]—called master; and demolish for ever, and crush into the minutest smithereens, the mouth that dared to sneer, the lips that dared to snigger. Dash his eyes if he didn’t, that was all.”
“Walkingwasdifficult, though,” so Blinks continued to muse and talk, “over a confounded rug too.Wouldhis ma kindly take her stupid, awkward-looking stump of a tail out of his way? So-ho-oh! Gently! Hang it all!”
With this last exclamation Blinks tumbled off the rug, fell three long inches through the air, and screamed lustily for his ma.
“My ma! my ma!” roared Blinks.
“My chee-ild! my chee-ild!” cried his ma, “I am with thee, my chee-ild;” and he was forthwith carried by the nape of his warlike neck to his downy bed, and—happy thought—he would have a drink, and then ask his ma to get him a little golden carriage, with four white mice as horses, and a boy-mouse in buttons behind. For why?He, Blinks, was never made to walk, nor meant to walk, nor did he mean to walk; for it was mean to walk, and he couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t. So from thinking Blinks came to dreaming; then he once more slumbered and slept, while his mother, sitting over him, nodded and sang.
The Ogre. Blinks Goes Abroad into the World.
But it was fated that Blinks should not slumber long; he was soon awakened by the rattling of plates; or, to speak more poetically,
The deafening din of dindling delf,The clinking clang of knife and fork,As some poor wretch regaled himselfOn early greens and roasted pork.
He gazed in the direction of the sound, which seemed to him like the noise of fifty bulls and a corresponding number of steam-hammers turned loose in a china-shop. The goggle-eyed ogre was feeding himself. His huge form was perched aloft on a wooden erection supported by four massive pillars. In one hand he held a large knife, bigger than Blinks’s body; in the other he grasped a mighty trident, and our hero gazed in mute and mewless astonishment, at the immense shovelfuls of mash, and the tremendous lumps of sodden flesh the gigantic monster made disappear down his maw, and the oceans of coloured water that went gurglingdown his gullet. Then began Blinks to reason with himself and commune with his own thoughts, after the following fashion: “The world must be rid of such a monster, the Herculean labour must fall on him—Blinks. Would he flinch? No! Perish the thought! And then, had he better slay the ogre at once, and mingle his blood with his Irish stew, or wait until he had gorged himself.” The latter plan, after much deliberation, our young and hairy hero determined to adopt; for and because, no doubt, and to wit, in all probability after the ogre had eaten his fill, he would give a grunt like a satisfied mother-sow, give a grunt, tumble down in a corner, and sleep for a fortnight; and Blinks swore by every hair in his (Blinks’s) whiskers, he never again should wake in this world.
His mind being now fully made up, Blinks carefully washed his face, using up two spittles for that purpose. He had thought of having a bath; but then that would have taken time and ten spittles, and he was in a hurry, and deliberating had dried hismouth. He then lowered himself gently over the edge of the rug, and, for the first time in his life, stood alone in the world. Many and varied were the sensations that stole over his innocent mind, as he stood for a moment to gaze wonderingly, admiringly around him. The words of Byron came to his lips,
And now I’m in the world aloneAnd eating kitchen-fee,[5]Why should I not the butter bone?For the d——l a mouse I see.
“Now,” said Blinks, “I will go abroad upon the surface of the earth, and walk about to and fro like a roaring lion seeking whom I may devour.”
“My chee-ild! my chee-ild!” cried his fond and doating dam from the rug.
“Your grandmother!” answered the irreverent son.
“Stay, oh! stay,” exclaimed his sorrowing parent, catching a fly and swallowing it in her anguish. “Stay, my too sensitive chee-ild, and recline your little head on this here hairy bosom.”
“Which is much too hot to be happy,” said Blinks.
“Oh! stay with me,” continued Muffie. “Will you not be the prop of my declining years?”
“Never a prop,” quo’ Blinks.
“Then,” said the parent, “I myself abroad shall go.”
But Blinks was off, crying, “Not for Joe.”
A Terrible Sight.
Carefully advancing one foot a time, our young hero slowly made his way across what appeared to him an interminable desert. The ground was soft and mossy, and here and there clusters of mighty pillars (which he afterwards found were called chair-legs) towered skywards. He passed a great many strange things, and heard a great many strange sounds that he could not tell the meaning of; at last he arrived at the foot ofa tall iron wall (the fender?), round which he waddled for many a feline mile; but finding no gate at which to knock, he resolved to scale the barrier and solve the mystery. So he raised himself on his hind-legs, thinking at the same time how handy hind-legs were, and how happy he was to possess such appendages; then he gazed over the wall. The sight that was presented to him, would have turned a hero less brave into whinstone. But Blinks was Blinks.
It appeared to be a great blazing volcano, surrounded, or rather ribbed in, by gigantic bars of steel; in fact it looked like a small bad-place, in which he had no doubt the souls of dogs, and the gizzards of birds were getting purified of their sins. On the top thereof was a mighty cauldron, and the steam therefrom rose in dense clouds, and disappeared in the blackness of darkness; and there was much smoke and flame, and a loud spluttering noise, accompanied by hissing and crackling. And lo! even as he gazed, a mighty ball of fire was thrown out by a small and ugly fiend, that dwelt below thecauldron in the midst of the ardent element; and the ball of fire fell within a whisker-length of our gallant Blinks, who just then remembered that he was getting thirsty, and could spare time to gaze no longer. So, after casting one defiant glance at the ugly little fiend that crouched beneath the cauldron, he left the little Hades and journeyed on in quest of adventures.
The Cricket of the Hearth. Pretty Dick.
Blinks had not travelled many legs (leagues?) till he was met by a very funny little ill-shaped gentleman. He was like a very wee mahogany table, but not much bigger than Blinks’s mamma’s red nose (ifithad been a mahogany table); and he had two big nippers hanging down in front of him; and Blinks observed that he also had too small black eyes like the points of as many needles, and very shiny they were, and altogether very knowing and wicked-looking.Blinks stopped, and the little mahogany gentleman laid a dead fly on the ground, and did the same.
“Ho! ho! Mr. Fluff,” said the latter, looking up at Blinks with one eye and shutting the other, as if he had no immediate use for it, and thought that one was enough for the occasion. “Ho! ho, Mr. Fluff; so you’re learning to crawl, are you? Eh? Does your mother know you’re out? Eh?”
Blinks was highly indignant at this style of address, and also at being called Fluff, so he replied with considerable dignity,—
“I am not Fluff, sir; I am Blinks,Blinks, sir; and I may inform you, sir, that my maternal relative is entirely cognisant of my being abroad, sir.”
“Blinks, are you?” said the little fellow, not at all abashed. “Blinks! He! he! he! a pretty Blinksyouare. Let me see you.” And the small brown gentleman commenced running round him so quickly, that Blinks, in trying to wheel on a pivot, fairly rolled over on his back; and the man of mahogany was forced to hold his sides with laughing.
“He! he! he—e!” he laughed, and “Ha! ha! haa—a!” and “Ho! ho! hoo—o!” and then “He! he! hee—e!” again; and then “Oh dear!” he cried “I shall split;” and the tears ran out of his needle points and down over his nose and nippers.
To say that Blinks was angry, would but poorly describe the torrent of wrath that raged within his youthful breast. After carefully gathering himself up again, he confronted the wee brown gent, and——
“Sir,” cried Blinks, “imp or devil, tell me who you are and where you dwell; and should it even be in yonder evil-place, beneath yon horrid cauldron, a friend of mine shall wait upon you in the morning.”
“I,” said the mahogany one, drawing himself up to his full height, which was not much after all—“I, sir—I am, sir, the cricket of the hearth, sir! the cricket—of—the—hearth, sir; and I have a good mind to pull your nose, sir;” here he shook one pair of his immense nippers; “and the nose, sir—” here he shook his other pair of nippers—“of the ignorant old lady, your mother,who allows her fluffy fools of children, to trespass upon, and insult grown gentlemen on their own policies.” The little gent would have added much more; but just then he was interrupted by a loud voice, apparently in the air, making the remark—
“Bravo! br-r-ravo! bravo!” And looking up, Blinks espied a very large bird perched on a high wooden erection; the cricket of the hearth was observed to turn very pale at the same time. I say, he turned pale; and he also turned tail, and muttering, “Fire and fury!” made off as fast as six legs could carry him.
“I’ll fluff you,” cried Blinks; and was about to give chase, when the bird alighted on the ground in front of him, and almost at the same time the cricket disappeared, as suddenly as if he had vanished from the face of the earth; and indeed that is precisely what he had done.
“Why,” said Blinks, “what has become of our little mahogany friend?”
This question he put to the bird, who was now standing in a very ludicrous attitude,with his head and neck all awry, and a big swelling or lump in his throat, as if he had been improperly hanged.
“Did you hear me?” said Blinks, as the bird made no immediate answer and appeared slightly convulsed.
“Ca-can’t—you—see,” said Pretty Dick; for it was no other, and he spoke with great difficulty—“can’t you see—I’m—chic-chu-choking?” at last getting out the word and straightening his neck at the same time. “I ate him—bravo! Pretty Dick, whew, whew, whew;” and he burst into the “Sprig of Shillelah” and finished off with two bars of “Duncan Gray.”
“Good heavens!” cried Blinks, standing aghast, “did you real—you don’t mean to say that you positively swallowed him, you know?”
“Positively, damme,” said the bird. “Tse, tse, tse, whew, whew, whew; hurra, hurra, hurra! Bravo, Dick! He is now engaged turning over the stones in my gizzard and counting them; I fear I am two or three short. After that job is finished, I shallbring him up again, break him in pieces, and eat him properly. Whew, whew, whew! Bravo, Dick! Sugar, snails, and brandy! Tse, tse, tse!”
“Monstrous!” said Blinks.
“Is the darling starling pretty, snails?”
“Sir?” said Blinks.
“Yes!” said Dick.
“I thought you spoke,” said Blinks.
“Oh no,” said the bird, “I often talk to myself. What is that between your toes?” So saying, the bird hopped up to Blinks, and separating his toes with his beak in a very rude manner, he gazed between them.
“Don’t do that again, if you please,” said Blinks.
“Certainly not, if you desire it. Cock-a-doodle-doo, sugar and brandy, pretty darling; but what is that in your nostril? Sugar, snails.” And before our hero was aware, the starling’s bill was inserted, opened like the toes of a compass, and the nose of poor Blinks nearly torn open. This was too much of a good thing; and Blinks aimed a cuff and fired a lucifer-match at the bird,causing that gentleman to spring quickly backwards and ejaculate.
“Hurrah! hurrah! you rascal! Love is the soul of a nate Irish snail, you rogue.” After which he brought up the poor cricket again; and he, glad to see day-light again, said, “Thank you, sir,” and was moving off.
“No, you don’t now!” said the bird, seizing him by the hindermost leg. “How many stones in my gizzard, you unhappy little wretch?”
“Mercy, mercy!” cried the cricket, “I entirely forget.”
“Then down you go again,” said the starling; and down the cricket went.
Blinks stood gazing, horror-stricken, when the bird, piping a few bars of a tune, wheeled suddenly round, and made a determined effort to compass out Blinks’s eye.
“Is that an eye?” said he, as if he didn’t know.
“Rather,” said Blinks, a little proudly.
“Then give us a bit,” cried Dick. “Chickey, chick, chick; whew-w-w, whew, whew. Snails and brandy! Pretty starling! bravo!”
“Do you know,” said Blinks, “it strikes me you’re a fool.”
“No I ain’t,” said the bird, “only a foolosopher—always gay, you know. Love is the soul of a darling pretty starling; but I say, you know, you and I will be excellent friends, and you shall play in my cage, and I will give you sugar, snails, and brandy. Quack, quack, quack. Don’t be frightened, it’s only my fun; and now I must be off, master will want me to sing to him after dinner. He has just finished his sucking pig; he plays the fiddle and I sing. Just fly up with me on the table; but, oh! I forgot, you awkward creature,”—digging Blinks in the ribs,—“you haven’t the vestige of a wing; well, my master——”
“The ogre?” said Blinks.
“Bravo!” cried the bird, “just you call him an ogre, and he will soon have a new string to his fiddle.”
“What do you mean?” inquired Blinks.
“Why,” said the starling, “he has a pretty little box called a violin, filled with the souls of defunct cats, your brothersand sisters are all there,—and their insides are made into strings, and stretched all over; and when he tickles the strings with a hair, they all cauterwaul. Master sings, and pretty Dickie sings—Chick, chick, chick; chirl, chirl, chirl. But, snails and brandy! I’m off.” And away flew the beautiful bird, who was all shiny with black and blue and silver; and Blinks sat for quite a long time gazing up after him with his lack-lustre eyes; and then, getting to his feet, he commenced walking homewards, musing on all the strange things he had seen and heard.
Terrible Adventure with a hairy Snake.
Blinks’s ma lived away in a corner, on a rug of large dimensions; and he had a very long way to walk over the trackless plain, over the pathless desert, over the bounding prairie; and night too was beginning to creep down, and Blinks thought he could perceive enemies lurking in every corner,and monsters hiding in every shade; so that, had he been anything less than Blinks, he would certainly have thought it worth while being afraid; but being Blinks, he marched bravely on, only just by way of caution he gave an occasional glance over his right shoulder, then one over his left, then one behind, all the while keeping a sharp look-out ahead. Happening to look round, to his astonishment he beheld something like a snake, with its head reared high in the air, apparently following his every footstep. This caused Blinks to quicken his pace. He soon looked round again. The creature, whatever it was, was still there, waving its head from side to side, and evidently looking at Blinks with all its might; although never an eye it had at all that he could see.
“Then,” thinks Blinks, “I’ll spring smartly round and seize it.”
No sooner said than done; and brave Blinks jumped suddenly about and attempted to catch the snake—which was twice as tall as himself and covered with hair—by the throat. But the creature was toowide-awake, and when Blinks turned round, so did it. So round and round spun Blinks, and round and round went the hairy serpent, and always kept directly in our hero’s rear,—when he stopped it stopped, and when he went round again it went round again. At long last poor Blinks began to feel dizzy; but he was much too brave to think of giving in, till, finally, he tumbled on his back, and then the snake peeped up between his hind legs,—that is, Blinks’s hind-legs; for serpents never have hind-legs, by any chance.
“Ho! ho!” says Blinks, “Mr. Sea-snake, I’ll have ye now, without any more going about the bush.” So saying, he caught the creature by the end, just where his eyes would have been had he had any,—he caught it, and bit it; and as he did so, Blinks himself uttered a sharp cry of pain, and bit the snake again, and then cried again, and licked the part of the snake he had bitten tenderly with his tongue; this went on with great vigour for a length of time. At last Blinks desisted, and—
“Well, I’m jiggered,” says he, “if it isn’ta part of myself I’ve been a-running from, and a-fighting with, and a-chewing at, all the time. How provoking! and I don’t know any bad words, else wouldn’t I swear! Memo: to make my ma teach me to say bad words.”
“Bravo! Brr—r—ravo!” cried pretty Dick, who, perched on a stool, had been watching all the performance with singular interest.
“Bravo yourself,” cried Blinks, indignantly; but he felt very foolish nevertheless.
And that was how Blinks came to the knowledge that he possessed, that very useful and ornamental appendage called a tail; and that extremity was ever afterwards viewed by him with great interest, and treated with the utmost respect,—Blinks conducting himself with conscious pride and dignity, as behoves an animal of the feline persuasion who is possessed of two eyes, and is followed about, wherever he goes, by a living, moving, gracefully-waving tail.
Daring ascent of a Volcanic Mountain.
After another half-hour’s walk Blinks arrived at the foot of a great black mountain, all covered with rank black grass. The mountain had much the resemblance of a huge lion couchant.
“Seems a long way to walk round,” said our hero; “I’ll even go over, and I’ll get a fine view of the surrounding country from the top.” So saying, Blinks mentally girded up his loins, and began to climb. It was very steep, and very high, and he had to pause many times to take breath; but he cast no longing lingering look behind,—that wasn’thisnature. So he muttered, “Excelsior,” putting a great emphasis on the “r,” which is the pet letter of the feline race. After much toil and trouble, he stood on the highest peak of Mount Black;—and, St. Mary! what a scene burst upon his astonished eyes. The sun had gone down behind the distant window-frame; but the ogre had just lighted two moons, and placed them conveniently on theend of brass pipes, for which kind action Blinks postponed his executionsine die. Everything was thus rendered nearly as bright as day. As far as his eye could reach, nothing was visible but the flowery prairie, the ogre’s legs, and the great beams supporting the universe. The view was bounded by flowery walls, which, he doubted not, was the end of the world, while far away in a corner, the well-pleased and foolishly-affectionate-looking face of his mamma looked up from her rug. She spied her son, even at that distance, and turned up the white of her breast to lure him down.
“The old idiot,” said Blinks to himself, “howcanshe be so ridiculous and unromantic? Would Livingstone’s mamma do that to her son, if she espied him far away on the Peak of Teneriffe? No!”
Blinks was gazing skywards, and thinking that if he were spared to return to his native rug, he would write a book that would astonish the weak nerves of the tea-guzzling universe, and beat all creation, when he began to fancy he could hear a low rumblingnoise beneath his feet, and perceive a slight heaving motion in the body of the mountain. He bent down and listened. Yes! there it was;—there could not be a doubt of either fact; and, terrible thought! he stood on the summit of a living volcano. But he did not fear; nay he even caught himself singing for joy; but in a moment his joy was turned to very particular grief, and his wonder to something as nearly akin to fear as the heart of a Blinks could beat time to.
“For,” says Blinks, “isn’t it rising I am? Isn’t it bigger and bigger the mountain is getting?”
There was no longer any question of it at all; and Blinks hurried down the side of the mountain as fast as four legs could carry him; but judge, if you can, of his astonishment to find that the hill itself had four legs, as well as he himself had; so that unless he could manage to creep down one of these, he would have to leap through the sky, down—down—down to the vast plain below. For a moment only he stopped to think, to bring all the wonderful powers of his great mind tobear upon the terrible situation; but just then his deliberation was brought to a speedy conclusion; for, wonderful to relate, the whole head of the hill turned about, and looked him directly in the face with a pair of eyes as big, so thought he, as fish-ponds; while at the same time a great cold nose was thrust right beneath him, and he was hurled headlong to the plain below, and the volcanic mountain—which cats, jealous of the immortality of Blinks, have since averred was nothing else but the ogre’s large dog Nero—shook itself and walked away to the other end of the boundless prairie. And Blinks confessed, many days afterwards, that at that moment, though by no means afraid, he would not have undertaken to say whether his head or heels were uppermost. After all, no wonder; for at that precise moment Blinks lay on his back, and the world consequently had an up-side-down look about it.
The Ogre. The Baptism of Blinks.
It might have been thought that the trials and adventures of Blinks were now at an end for one day; but, no,—he had still another to add to the list. He had come through fire and earth and air; he was now to come through water. One other weary mile he had yet to wander, ere he could lay his war-worn head on his mother’s breast; and this mile he was engaged placing behind him, when, suddenly, and ere he was aware, a gigantic hand was laid upon him, and he was carried swiftly through space, wheeled quickly round, and immediately found himself face to face with—horror of horrors!—the ogre.
“Ho! ho! my little gentleman,” so spoke the ogre; “you’ve been and gone and got a couple of peepers” (that is what the ogre termed Blinks’s eyes, such desecration of terms can scarcely be credited, but it is indeed true),—“a couple of peepers, queer blue-grey blinkers they are too; so, so, you must be baptized, then.”
It may be observed here, that although our hero had got a name, the ceremony of baptism had not yet taken place. The ogre then pronounced these remarkable words, swinging our little hero through the immensity of space at every word, and finally plunging him feline fathoms below water, in a dark wooden-bound lake of murky water (bucket?).
“In the name—of your father—and your mother—and your sister—and your brother—who all—made a living—in the—software line—I baptize you Blinks.”
Down, down, down, did the ogre plunge Blinks, and the dark waves, cold and cruel, closed remorselessly over his head. Then did Blinks gasp,—he gasped, he spluttered and spluttering spat, kicked violently, and kicking, sunk into insensibility. When he revived, he found himself in the hairy arms of his loving ma, who was licking his wet and shivering body with loving tongue. Blinks soon dried; then tired out, war-worn, and weary, he sunk to rest with a tit in his mouth, while his mother crooned overthe following song, taught her byhermother,—Blink’s grandma,—in the happy days of her playful kittenhood.
THE THREE THREADS.(Tune,PURR—WURR-R-R,—PURR—WURR-R-R.)Hirple, dirple, dirrum dum,Three threads and a thrum,[6 (1)]The wee bit mousieMade a housie,—Made a housie in a drum;Scraped a hole,And made a housie,—Made its housie in a drum.The three threadies and a thrum,If ye canna sing, ye just maun hum;[6 (2)]When the mousie sleepit,Pousie creepit,—Creepit slily to the drum;Popped a paw in,Clook’t a claw in,—Clook’t a claw in the mousie’s wum.Och, hey, how, hum,Three threadies and a thrum:If ye canna sing, ye maun be mum.The mousie grat,[6 (3)]The cattie spat,And hauld the thingie frae the drum:It winked its eenies,[6 (4)]Like heads o’ preenies,[6 (5)]Gave ae wee cheep and syne[6 (6)]was dumb.Fee, fa, fi, fum,Cheer up my dear, and look na glum:[6 (7)]I bit off its heed,[6 (8)]I lickit its bleed,[6 (9)]And gnawed the beanies[6 (10)]beside the drum:Just three sips,And I lickit my lips,—Lickit my lips, and then said “Num!”[6 (11)]“Tinkle, tankle, tingle, tum,Weel, weel, and isn’t it rum?There is nae musie in the drum,”The manie cried,When he spiedThe mousie’s holie in the drum.“But deil gang wi’ it,That I should greet,[6 (12)]It’ll mak a very decent lum[6 (13)]Wi’ three threads and a thrum.”Thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum,Three threads and a thrum.
THE THREE THREADS.(Tune,PURR—WURR-R-R,—PURR—WURR-R-R.)
Hirple, dirple, dirrum dum,Three threads and a thrum,[6 (1)]The wee bit mousieMade a housie,—Made a housie in a drum;Scraped a hole,And made a housie,—Made its housie in a drum.The three threadies and a thrum,If ye canna sing, ye just maun hum;[6 (2)]When the mousie sleepit,Pousie creepit,—Creepit slily to the drum;Popped a paw in,Clook’t a claw in,—Clook’t a claw in the mousie’s wum.Och, hey, how, hum,Three threadies and a thrum:If ye canna sing, ye maun be mum.The mousie grat,[6 (3)]The cattie spat,And hauld the thingie frae the drum:It winked its eenies,[6 (4)]Like heads o’ preenies,[6 (5)]Gave ae wee cheep and syne[6 (6)]was dumb.Fee, fa, fi, fum,Cheer up my dear, and look na glum:[6 (7)]I bit off its heed,[6 (8)]I lickit its bleed,[6 (9)]And gnawed the beanies[6 (10)]beside the drum:Just three sips,And I lickit my lips,—Lickit my lips, and then said “Num!”[6 (11)]“Tinkle, tankle, tingle, tum,Weel, weel, and isn’t it rum?There is nae musie in the drum,”The manie cried,When he spiedThe mousie’s holie in the drum.“But deil gang wi’ it,That I should greet,[6 (12)]It’ll mak a very decent lum[6 (13)]Wi’ three threads and a thrum.”Thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum,Three threads and a thrum.
[SeeNote O, Addenda.]
HUNTING EXPLOITS.
Catching mice is, to a proper-minded cat, a mere parlour pastime, only to be resorted to on rainy days, or of a night when too restless to sleep. It stands to pussy in the same relation that indoor croquet, billiards, or reading a book in bed does to our noble selves. Rat-catching is only just one degree better, and principally enjoyed by cats who have not reached maturity in body and intellect—cats, in fact, in their hobble-de-hoy-hood. To the matured cat,—especially if highly bred,—belong all the joys and excitement of the chase a-field. There is as much difference between the hunting of an animal of the cat-kind and that of one of the canine order, as there is between the skilled tactics of German warfare, and the wild rush to battle of Arab cavalry. There is morehonesty in the one, more craft and cunning in the other. A dog is singularly destitute in what is called in Scotland, “canniness.” He also wants patience; but the cat, armed with this gift, combined with cunning, and skill gained from experience, is master for anything in the field which she considers game and chooses to square her moustache at. Even to a human being, stalking one’s prey is infinitely more engrossing than the mere hunting of it. The latter is pleasing, certainly, but the former is charming. Pussy prefers the charming, while our friend the dog merely runs down his prey, and takes little pains to show skill even in that.
Leaving rats and mice along with blue-bottle flies, in the category of mere kitten’s play, pussy’s game-list includes hares, rabbits, stoats, weasels, water-rats, and moles, besides everything that flies or has feathers, from the humble household sparrow to the black-cock of the mountain. Not before a cat reaches maturity—viz., three years of age—does the propensity for out-door hunting become a passion with her; but onceimbued with it, the desire never leaves her as long as she can run.
Pirnie is a little female pussy, belonging to a labouring man. At the time I write, she is over twenty years old; but hale and hearty, and as playful as a kitten. She is a perfect adept at catching all sorts of vermin, but more particularly goes in for mole-catching. When she spies a mole-hill, she at once sets herself down to watch it; nor will she raise the siege for hours, until the little gentleman in velvet gives signs of his presence by casting up a few grains of earth. Then is pussy’s opportunity. She springs nimbly on the bank, and plunges her arms up to the shoulders into the earth, and never fails to bring poor molie to bank; and the daylight has hardly had time to dazzle his eyes before he is dead.
Last year Pirnie—being then nineteen years of age—had a thrilling adventure with a large hare. The hare, which was at least double the size of pussy, had been enjoying a quiet nap during the heat of the day, in a field not far from the house, when Pirniestumbled across its trail, and on following it up the battle ensued. “The hare,” says my informant, “fought with great vigour, and often floored her antagonist; but Pirnie sent in her claws and teeth, till blood flew like rain, and fur like drift (driven snow); and the hare soon becoming exhausted, Pirnie seized it by the throat, and its plaintive screams were presently hushed in death.”
Graysie was a tom-cat, and rather famous for his hunting exploits. One day, Graysie, being on the war-path, encountered a very large weasel, and it was at once mutually agreed to try conclusions in a fair stand-up fight. The battle was witnessed by Graysie’s owners, and lasted the greater part of the afternoon, and ended triumphantly for pussy, in the defeat and death of the weasel. When Graysie found out that his fallen foe was indeed dead, he took it up in his teeth, and carrying it home, deposited it on the front-door steps, intending it no doubt as a present for his mistress, as well as a trophy of his own prowess.
A cat never springs on her prey unlesssure of catching it, and her aim is most unerring. I know a cat that killed over a score of large rats in one day, and on one of these she sprang from a height of no less than twelve feet.
I counted one day no less than 350 mice which a cat had killed single-handed at the removal of a rick of oats in a farmer’s yard. He was a fine, noble, red tabby, and it was quite a sight to see the surprising strength and agility with which he worked. He killed most of them with his paws, seldom putting a tooth in one. Every time there was a lull in the flow of vermin, he took the opportunity of clearing the ground of the slain, which he carried to a convenient distance and placed all together in a heap. When all was over, to see honest Tom set himself down in front of this heap of carnage, and thoughtfully and complacently contemplate his bloody handiwork, would have been a study for the great Landseer himself. But not one of his slain victims did Tom eat. Indeed, high-bred cats seldom care to eat mice unless they are very hungry; theymuch prefer fish to anything else, and the flesh of birds they consider a greater luxury than even that of rabbits.
Solomon, or Habakkuk, or Nebuchadnezzar, or some great Hebrew authority, says, “Coneys are a feeble folk.” Doubtless they were so in those days, and taken singly so they are in our day; but combinedly they are powerful indeed, as many a poor ruined farmer can testify. They are very wise too, and this wisdom is especially displayed in the number of doors they have in each of their dwellings; so that should an enemy, in the shape of a pussy, or a ferret, pop in at one door, Bunny would just pop out at the other. I knew a cat in the Isle of Man—she had no tail worth mentioning—who used to make this very habit of the rabbits a means of securing her prey. She used to enter one hole suddenly, and as suddenly reappear stern first. Of course, Bunny by this time was scampering off to the opposite hole, and there at the door pussy would nab him just as he came out.
Cats almost invariably bring home theirprey to be either leisurely eaten, given to their kittens, or presented to their owners.
A man in Banffshire rented a small farm from a game-preserving laird. This man was ruined by rabbits, and turned out of house and home by them. They first ate up all his oats, his grass, and turnips, so that only potatoes could be grown on the place. By-and-by they took to eating the stems of even those as soon as they appeared above ground, so that all the poor man’s live stock was reduced to one in number, namely, a big tabby cat. This cat throve upon the foe. She also took a few youthful prisoners, whom she brought home to play with and amuse a fine family of kittens, which she had in the cottage garret. These young rabbits lived and grew, and burrowed and made nests in the thatch. It was the awful row this happy family used to make every night which first led to the discovery. When the farmer found out one night the cause of the disturbance, he came down and awakened his wife and—
“Jane,” said he, and he looked almostsublime as he stood on the cold damp floor with a penny candle in one hand, in rather scanty shirt-tails and red Kilmarnock night cap—he was a study for a Rembrandt, “Jane, I’ve been a duffer too long. Those rascally rabbits—they’ve eaten up everything we have out of doors, now they’ve stormed and taken our castle. By-and-by they’ll eat the bed from under us, then they’ll eat ourselves; but, Jane, to-morrow morning I’m off,”—this he said self-sacrificingly,—“I’m off, Jane, to the lands of America.” And the good people went, leaving pussy and the feeble folks, in undisputed possession of house and farm.
Gamekeepers do all they can to destroy the life of poor pussy by setting traps for, and shooting her wherever met. But some cats come to know all about the treacherous wires and how to avoid them. They know too that hares and rabbits often fall into these snares, and accordingly they turn this knowledge to good account; and when they find a half-strangled animal in the gin, they quietly despatch, and if possible carry it home.
Cats are great enemies to birds in thebreeding season; but it is surprising with what terrible fierceness even the smallest birds will defend their nests from the inroads of predatory cats, whose evil intentions are thus often frustrated.
Pussy has many enemies to contend with on the hunting-ground.
A poacher, the other day, was returning home in the grey light of early morning, when he observed a large fox coming in his direction, with what the man took to be a hare over his shoulder. The man fired, and Reynard dropped. His burden was a fine large cat. Poor pussy had been promising herself a nice plump rabbit for breakfast; the fox thought he should like a fine healthy cat for a change. “There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip;” and the poacher’s gun brought matters to quite a different conclusion.
I know a case of a cat that returned from hunting, with two moderate-sized but full-grown rats in her mouth, andboth aliveand staring. They were no doubt sitting cheek-by-jowl when pussy made the spring.
If I tell the reader of a cat that is so clever that she can catch swallows on the wing, I suppose I may be allowed to close this chapter in peace. It does seem a little yankee-doodlish I confess, but it is nevertheless a fact.
At the foot of a certain post-master’s garden, flows a stream in which his cat takes many a good salmon-trout. This stream is spanned by an old-fashioned turf-covered tree-bridge, without any parapet. On this bridge crouches this sagacious cat, and often secures a swallow, as it skims out from under. That’s all.
[SeeNote P, Addenda.]
COCK-JOCK AND THE CAT.
Cock-Jock, as he was called, was the most famous of a famous breed of cocks, our family had possessed for many years. Descended from the black-cock of the mountain, with plumage like jet, save one bright spot of crimson and gold on each wing, short stout legs, and strongest of spurs, he had never met his match in field or pit. Many a brave but unfortunate bird he had stood upon, and crowed over, as he trampled out its last breath. I am speaking of twenty years ago, when cock-fighting in private was still a favourite pastime, with many otherwise sensible and honourable men, in the far north of Scotland. Cock-Jock possessed in the highest degree, all those princely and chivalrous qualities, for which animals of his species and breed are so justly celebrated. He was a perfect gentleman after his own fashion.He never would touch a morsel of food himself, until every member of his large harem had filled her crop; and thus his own share was at times small enough. If two hens quarrelled, and had recourse to their nebs, he used to peck them both, time about, until they desisted; he then gave them a sound rating, pointing out to them in forcible language, the extreme impropriety of such conduct among ladies of a well-regulated harem. Cock-Jock went to roost every night with his old mother—how beautiful is filial piety!—on one side of him, and a large white hen, his pet wife, on the other. Then he always crowed at the proper time and place; never, under any circumstance, would he mistake moonlight for morning, as some foolish brutes do. Dogs he especially disliked. He used to steal a march upon them, pretend to be busy eating, till he turned their flank, then, before the poor dog could say “wow,” he had two inches of spur in each hip; and that tickled him. He was very affectionate, and tame enough to eat from your hand; but if you dared to go near ormolest a hen, he would assuredly lame you for a month. Once upon a time, when a little bantam cock was sick, Jock never went to roost for weeks, but took the bantam to a nest and nursed it under his wings, as a hen would a chicken, and tenderly fed it daily till it grew well again. I knew a great deal of what that cock said, for the language of the lower animals is by no means difficult to understand. His remarks had reference principally to his food, its quantity and quality, his wives—their virtues and vices, and to his battles. He always backed himself to win. He used to ask every human stranger he met, in a manner not at all calculated to give offence, if he mightn’t have “just one shy at your shins.” He one day offered me a snail. He came a long distance out of his way too to give it to me. He offered me the delicious tit-bit with much ceremonious tick-tucking, and in quite a patronizing manner, as if, like old King Thingummy, I had advertised for a new pleasure, and he was about to introduce me to it. I’m sure I hurt his feelings by refusing it. But I couldn’t help it. I think Icould eat a snail now, if hard pushed, although I am told they taste “a little green.” But after one has lived on Navy weevils for many years, one isn’t so particular; but I was very young then.
I remember a gentleman’s satin hat being blown off near to his cockship. I wouldn’t have been that hat on any consideration. Heavens! how he battered it, and tugged at it, and tore it; finally he jumped on it, and crewoverit andatthe owner.
“Twenty shillings,” cried that unfortunate, “thrown to the winds! Curse the cock!”
Jock looked at him, as much as to say, “Perhaps, sir, you would like to come a little nearer, and repeat that expression.” But the gentleman didn’t. He preferred going home bare-headed.
I one day met a poor woman carrying a large stuffed cock. Like the cheeky brat they called me, I induced her to come and show the thing to Jock. She did so. Jock very soon laid bare the bird-stuffer’s art. Cotton-wool and wires and all went to leeward. Jock had never met with so curious a foe in his lifebefore, and he treated him accordingly. My father came. Jock crew. The woman wept, and I ran and hid.
One fine summer’s day my sister left a pillow in the garden. We were all in the parlour. Presently it came on to snow apparently, and the room got darkened. We soon discovered that it was not snow-flakes, but feathers. My father said, “In the name of all creation!” My mother put on her glasses, and remarked, “Every good thing attend us!” Then we all took umbrellas, and went out. When, half choked, we reached the garden, we discovered a clue to the mystery. Cock-Jock had spied the pillow, and could not resist having one kick at it. One kick led to another; and when the eider-down began to come out, Jock lost his temper, and went at it with a will. He had some extra animal energy to expend that morning, and he did it—so successfully, too, that for a whole week never a bit of work was done about the place. The horses had a holiday, and we had cold mutton every day, the servants being all engaged culling the feathersfrom the grass and trees, and picking the fluff from the flowers.
Now to Cock-Jock was granted the honour of walking about wherever he pleased—a privilege which was denied to the members of his harem, and it was on the garden walk the battle took place which I am about to describe. Gibbey, my father’s famous red Tom-tabby, had a saucer of milk on the foot-path, with which, although he did not drink it himself, he did not choose that any one else should meddle. The cat and the cock had always been on friendly terms till now; and being thirsty, and presuming on this friendship, Cock-Jock walked half-apologetically up to the saucer, and dipping his beak in to fill it, raised his head to swallow it. It was just as his eyes were thus turned heavenward, that Master Gibbey sprang up—he was always too ready with his hands—and without taking his gloves off, struck honest Jock a sound slap on the ear. The cock shook his head; but knowing he was in the wrong, he did not get angry yet, but attempted to reason with the cat. ForCock-Jock had this peculiarity: he never lost temper at the first blow from any creature he thought he was a match for. A strange bantam—and we all know how plucky and self-important they are—once alighted on Jock’s dung-hill, and immediately struck at him.
“Avast heaving, my little friend,” said the big cock, or words to that effect; “you must be aware that I could knock you into the minutest smithereens in the twinkling of a foretop-sail.”
“Oho!” thought the bantam, “you’re afraid, are you; take one for your nob, then,” and he struck him again.
“Hang it all, you know,” roared Jock, now fairly enraged. He gave the bantam one blow; and where that bird was sent to has never been ascertained to this day, never a feather of him being found. And so Jock attempted to reason with the cat.
“Cock a ro-ra-kuk? What does this mean, Master Gilbert? I own to having been in the wrong; but a blow, sir—a blow!”
He hadn’t long to wait for another either—thistime without the gloves; and then, as the Yankees say, his “dander riz.” The cock hopped nimbly over the saucer, and the battle began in earnest. Cock-Jock “showered his blows like wintry rain.”
But pussy adroitly avoided them all, and returned them with such practised precision and skill, that the poor cock’s pretty head was soon a mass of blood and gore. Jock, getting confused, held his head ground-wards, as if fighting with another cock instead of a cat, thus giving Gibbey all the advantage. The fight had now lasted fully five minutes, and as yet pussy rejoiced in a whole skin. I was beginning to think it was all up with the cock, when, crunch! the advantage came at last,—one stroke with that murderous spur, and Gibbey was stretched among the flowers, to all appearance dead. Cock-Jock bent cautiously down, examined him first with one eye then with another, and then, apparently satisfied, he jumped on his side and crew loud and long. But Gibbey did not die. He was out of the sick-list in four days;but he ever after gave the cock a wide berth, and plenty of sea-room. Poor Cock-Jock! he died at last on the field of battle. His life was literally trodden out of him by a band of hostile turkeys. Superior weight did it.