CHAPTER TWELVE
CLYTIE, THE CAT WITH MITTENS
C
CLYTIE was a cat who might certainly be called young for her age. She had frisked through a thoughtless kitten-hood with Ivanhoe, and now spent many hours in playing with Neddy, the white rat, for whom she had conceived an early passion. Neddy’s real name was Editor, because he sat up nights; and he differed from other rats in having a sense of humor. Clytie did not know this however; she only thought it must be fine to have pink eyes, and a tail that never swelled, no matter how embarrassed one might be.
Seated on the top of Neddy’s house, she would draw her claws across the wire netting, and Neddy would shoot out of his inner oatmeal box, as if cheese itself had called. Upand down he would chase the wandering paw, until it vanished above his head, and then there would be the large excitement of waiting for it to come again. There was a knot-hole in the top of the box, and one day Clytie’s tail slipped down through it. Shortly afterwards the family was summoned by howls of terror, to find Neddy swinging merrily back and forth on his furry chandelier, evidently not connecting it at all in his mind with the owner of the paw.
Clytie gave up playing with Neddy after this, and devoted herself to the general good. Every night Mrs. Wood made a tour of all the bedrooms with a folded newspaper, killing mosquitoes and flies, and after watching her several times Clytie suddenly decided what double toes were meant for. Bang! would go the newspaper on the wall, and, thud! would go the mittened paws beneath it. One fly for the newspaper, and yes—two for the mittened paws! Clytie did not stop to eat the flies, but swept them into a little heap to serve as aquick lunch later on. Ceiling flies had to be brushed off, of course, but even the most high-roosting flies adorned the heap before the swift paws ceased their work. Clytie had at last become a useful member of the family, and Franklin said that it was because her experience with Neddy had aged her.
When Eunice and Kenneth came back from the farm, they found Weejums and Clytie in full possession of the house,—Weejums with a new family of two, and Clytie with a new air of dignity and cathood. She was a very handsome pussy, yellow and white, with lovely brown eyes and a great deal of fur in her tail. Several people had wanted to buy her; but Eunice always answered: “No, she is Weejums’ eldest child, and not for sale.”
About a month after Weejums’ kittens came, Clytie had some of her own in the barn, and came in to tell the family about it. Eunice met her first, and knew that the proud quiver of her tail could mean but one thing.
“Biddy,” she said, “I know they’re there!”
“Well, whin it sthops rainin’ we’ll go out and see,” Biddy replied.
Eunice hovered about the house in a great state of excitement, making guesses as to the number of kittens, and what color they might be. Only two would be kept, she knew; but suppose that there should be one tortoise-shell, and one maltese, and one pure white!—which would she be able to spare?
“Weejums, you’re a grandmother! You’re a grandmother!Weejums,—do you understand?” she whispered. And Weejums looked up with what Eunice called “fumes” over her eyes, and smiled.
“I want to go, too!” Kenneth said, as Eunice and Biddy started for the barn.
“Me too,” Mrs. Wood added. So everybody joined the procession, and Clytie led them proudly across the yard to the barn, up the steps to the barn chamber, and over some old mattresses to an empty nest! There was the little bed that Clytie had made for her babies, but not one kitten was to be seen.
“Perhaps they’ve crawled under the mattress,” said Franklin, lifting it up; but there was no sign of a kitten anywhere in the room, and Clytie’s surprise was at first greater than her sorrow. Then, “Ow!” she remarked in a melancholy voice, and “Wow!” came in echoing tones from her mother on the stairs. “Yow!” said Clytie again, and “Row!” answered Weejums, sympathetically. “Come, let’s hunt for them!Pur-r? Wur-r?” So all day long, and all of the next day, the two cats hunted for the missing kittens, calling them high and low. But neither they nor any one else ever discovered what had become of them. Some members of the family thought it was rats,—others that a certain morose neighbor who rented a part of the barn for his horse, objected to having so many cats on the premises. In any case, Weejums’ grandchildren never turned up, and after a two-days’ search Clytie decided that she must have been mistaken about them, and that Weejums’ kittens were hers. So she walked in and took possession, and Weejums,who had always disliked the confinement of nursing, was very thankful to be rid of them. She resumed her social evenings with the family, attended midnight concerts, and chased boot-buttons around the kitchen floor.
Meanwhile, poor Clytie became pale and wan with anxiety, from trying to make month-old kittens behave as if they were new. Of course they liked to climb out of the box, but, as fast as they reached the floor, she would jump after them, and bring them back. She also carried them all over the house, and they became quite lazy from being carried, so long after their own little legs should have done the work. Their names were Paul Jones and Proserpine,—Paul Jones, black, with white nose, shirt, and slippers; and Proserpine, pure white, except for two inky ears and one black tail, most charming to behold. Proserpine’s ears and tail did not show at all after dark, so it looked as if she had none.
Both kittens grew up, thinking that Weejums was their grandmother, and once, whenTorn-nose inquired whose they were, she replied that they belonged to a yellow-and-white cat living in the same house.
“To be sure,” Torn-nose said, “I might have known that you could not have kittens of so advanced an age.”
But this was only his way, for he knew perfectly well that Clytie was Weejums’ daughter, and even paid her compliments when her mother was not looking.
The only times that Weejums showed any interest in her children, was when a dog entered the yard. Then both cats would fly at him, and send him off, ki-yi-ing down the street. They discovered so many new ways of scratching a dog, that it became a kind of fancy-work with them, and all the friends that Cyclone invited to dinner, sent polite but firm regrets.
One day two strange-looking animals trotted down the road, from some distant shanties, and began nosing around the back door after food. Weejums and Clytie decided that they must be dogs, although they were stouter than anydogs that they had ever chased, and made astonishing remarks, in a language that they failed to understand.
“Ooof—umph,” said the spotted one, who had brown, red-rimmed eyes, trimmed with white eyelashes.
“Humph—humph!” replied the white one, who had but one eye, and no eyelashes at all, except along the ridge of his spine. “Wee, wee! Murder! Help! Help!” they both squealed, as two spitting balls of fur shot across the yard, and landed on their backs.
“Hivin save us!” exclaimed Biddy, rushing to the window, as two shrieking pigs, each ridden by an angry cat, dashed past, and out of the yard. The departure of the pigs through a fence on the other side of the street, caused the cats to dismount before they had planned. But Franklin was so proud of this feat, that he went around boasting among his friends, that “his sister had a cat that could lick anything on four legs.” So, of course, allthe boys were anxious to prove that his sister had nothing of the kind.
“Bet you it couldn’t lick Boston’s bull-pup,” one of them said.
“Bet you it couldn’t lick my thorough-bred mastiff-poodle,” said another.
“Ho!” said Franklin, “Weejums would claw up the pedigree of your dog, so that you’d have to cart home the mastiff and the poodle part of him, in separate loads.”
It was this remark that caused Boston’s bull-pup to go in training for action, as it was well known that no cat on whom he was set, ever escaped him, and he had a shameful record of little paws hushed in the beginning of their play, and gentle purrs silenced through murderous intent. For the bull-pup’s owner was a cruel boy, and a boy’s dog always tries to be like his master.
“THE SASH WAS NOT TOO TIGHT TO ALLOW FOR DINNER”
“THE SASH WAS NOT TOO TIGHT TO ALLOW FOR DINNER”
That fall, Eunice had begun dressing all her cats in little blankets; and this naturally suggested petticoats, and, later on, pantalettes. The pantalettes were cut like cross-sections ofstove-pipe, and were held on the cat’s front paws by a little suspender going over her shoulders. Clytie had a charming pair made of white flannel, feather-stitched with light blue silk, and the effect of these, peeping from under her Mother Hubbard blanket with theguimpe, was most unusual. This blanket did not fasten with a buttoned belt underneath, like her plaid gingham ones, for morning, but had two little slits in the side, for a sash to come through, and tie in a huge bow on top. When fully dressed, she looked like a cross between a circus clown and a chrysanthemum.But of course she could run about perfectly well, and the sash was not too tight to allow for dinner.
Eunice had just finished dressing her one day, when a white dog with an ugly lower jaw, came into the yard. Clytie saw him from the window, and knew from the set of his legs that he meant business. This was no ordinary cur, to be frightened away by a spit, and a stiff whisker; and she was just rejoicing that her mother and kittens were safe in the kitchen, when, oh, horrible! around the corner came Weejums, alone, making straight for the dog, without having stopped to consider his lower jaw.
The dog saw her, and, as a low whistle sounded from somewhere, rushed at her in the deadly silence that is worse than a hundred growls. Franklin also saw her, and rushed out of the house with a hot poker, resolved that if Weejums’ time had come, Boston’s bull-pup should never live to tell the tale. But he would have been too late if the doghad not suddenly stopped in his wild charge, and stared in horror at a strange, white object that came tearing around the house, like the enraged ghost of all the cats he had slain,—a fearful ghost in panties and petticoats, and with no head,—for the wind had tossed Clytie’s Mother Hubbard skirt over her ears,—and an orange tail, like flame.
Bodily terror could not have alarmed Boston’s bull-pup; but this was something unearthly, and beyond his experience. His lower jaw weakened, and, with a yelp of dismay, he turned and bolted from the yard. Franklin followed with the poker, but the bull-pup was already miles away, and for months afterwards he could not be induced to chase another cat. Boston finally sold him in disgust to some one who wanted a tame, gentle dog, and spent the money that he received for him in trying to keep out of Franklin’s way.