The Story of Limping Tom.
Youwill, perhaps, be surprised to hear that Limping Tom had two as good legs as were ever seen. Why then did he limp? That is a natural question, and I shall proceed to answer it.
Tom was not a boy—but a cat! He was born and brought up in a barn. One day, when he and his little brothers and sisters were frolicking over the barn floor, all alone, a little snappish dog peeped in and saw what was going on.
In he came, and began to chase the kittens. They were awfully frightened, and scampered in all directions. Some dove into a hole in the floor—one hid behind a barrel, and two attempted to climb up the hay-mow. One of these was our hero Tom. But, alas, as he was scratching up, the dog caught him in his back, and gave him a terrible grip with his long sharp teeth.
Tom screamed, and the old cat, who was out behind the barn watching a mouse, heard him. She knew that something bad was going on. She left the mouse in an instant, and ran into the barn. I wish you could have seen her as she approached the dog, who was shaking poor Tom, in his teeth.
Her back was sticking up as well as her tail. The hair of the latter was extended so as to make it look as large round as a lady’s boa. Her mouth was open, her teeth bare, her eyes flashing like fire. She seemed to dance along the floor toward the dog, as if the wind blew her.
Before the dog knew what was coming, puss was upon him with teeth and claws. Now was his turn to squeal. She bit his ears and scratched his eyes, before he could turn round. Then he fled, yelling with all his might. Puss followed, jump for jump, and laying her claws at every leap upon the dog’s hinder quarters, the hair flew as if her paws had been a couple of curry-combs. When the dog came to the street, he laid down his ears, hid his tail between his legs, and, stretching away, at last escaped.
Puss came back, and there lay poor Tom, unable to move. She took him up gently in her mouth, and carried him to the bed. She laid him down, mewed to him with a soft purring voice, as if to comfort him. She then licked off the blood, and finally curled herself around him, to keep him warm. Poor Tom at last went to sleep. What a good mother was old puss, and how much like the kind mothers of little children!
The next day Tom was very stiff and sore. He could not move, or sleep, or eat. Oh, how he did suffer! But puss was by his side, almost all the time. She licked his wounds gently, so as to soothe and not to hurt them. She kept him warm, and purred to him, and did all she could. In three or four days he began to get better. In a month his wounds were healed, but one of his hind legs, being broken, was shorter than the others, and always remained so. It was also rather weak; so that Tom, when he grew up, was lame, and therefore he got the name of Limping Tom.
Now, you might suppose that this defect would be a great evil to Tom, in life. But we shall see how it was. He was taken by a girl named Lucilla, or Lissa, as they called her. Why she chose him, rather than his more perfect mates, I cannot tell; though I guess it was because she had a tender heart, as many pretty girls have, and was guided in her choice by a sweet kindness excited by misfortune.
Well, Lissa carried Tom home. Though lame, he was still a cheerful kit as ever you saw. Some thoughtless people used to laugh at him, as he flew about, for his hinder parts went up and down in a very queer fashion, as he gambolled over the floor or grass. Lissa saw nothing ridiculous in all this; on the contrary, Tom’s limp was really graceful and interesting to her. I believe the girl loved him all the better for his imperfection.
You may be curious to know how this is to be accounted for. I will try to tell you. Tom was really a good, lively little fellow. He was not quite so nimble as other cats, but he did the best he could; he showed a good disposition. This was a great thing, for everybody loves a good disposition. It is not necessary to be smart in order to be loved. Do the best you can, and nobody will ask more. Make the best of everything, and you will satisfy and gratify all around you.
Now, this was the way with Tom; he was good-tempered; he did the best he could; he never had the sulks; whenever his mistress wished to play, he was ready; when she was busy, he kept out of the way. Being lame, he was humble; being good, he was cheerful. So Lissa loved him, and he was happy.
Thus, Limping Tom grew up. And now he was a cat. It was his duty to guard the house, to chase away the rats, and keep the mice in order. He looked grave, and seemed to feel the responsibility of his station. But still, he did not altogether lose his love of fun. Most cats, when they grow old, grow dull and uninteresting. They lay aside their gambols and frolics, and amusements, and accomplishments; they prowl about at night with melancholy cries; doze away life in the chimney corner, and if you chance to tread on their tails, woe be to you!
Not exactly so with Tom. Despite his lameness, he was rather a jolly fellow, still. He did his duty all day—but at night, he regularly came to Lissa, and provoked her into a game of romps. Lissa was now a young lady, and a black-eyed young man came to see her almost every night. Tom was jealous at first—but finding that Lissa liked the young man, as in duty bound, he began to like him too.
At last Lissa and her lover were married. They went to live in a house of their own, and Tom went with them. He was a marked cat, you may be sure. Everybody noticed his limp, and asked questions about him. This led Lissa and her husband to tell his story, and to praise him. So Tom came to be very celebrated, and a universal favorite. His limp actually made his fortune; and the reason was, that instead of growling and snarling about it, he made the best of everything, did his duty, and was good-tempered, industrious and faithful. So it seems that even a natural defect may, by good will and good sense, be turned to good fortune.