Kitabı oku: «Aileen Aroon, A Memoir», sayfa 19

Chapter Thirty.
Ida’s Illness – Mercy to the Dumb Animals

 
“Then craving leave, he spake
Of life, which all can take but none can give;
Life, which all creatures love and strive to keep,
Wonderful, dear, and pleasant unto each,
Even to the meanest; yea, a boon to all
Where pity is, for pity makes the world
Soft to the weak and noble to the strong.”
 

E. Arnold’s “Light of Asia.”

It was sadly changed times with all of us when Ida fell ill.

Her illness was a very severe one, and for many weeks she literally hovered ’twixt death and life. Her spirit seemed like some beautiful bird of migration, that meditates quitting these cold intemperate shores and flying away to sunnier climes, but yet is loath to leave old associations and everything dear to it.

There was little done during these weeks, save attending to Ida’s comforts, little thought about save the child.

Even the dogs missed their playmate. The terriers went away to the woods every day by themselves. Eily, the collie, being told that she must make no noise, refrained from barking even at the butcher, or jumping up and shaking the baker by his basket, as had been her wont.

Poor Aileen Aroon went about with her great head lower than usual, and with a very apologetic look about her, a look that, beginning in her face, seemed to extend all the way to the point of her tail, which she wagged in quite a doleful manner.

Nero and she took turn and turn about at keeping watch outside Ida’s room door.

Ida’s favourite cat seldom left her little mistress’s bedside, and indeed she was as often in the bed as out of it.

It was winter – a green winter. Too green, Frank said, to be healthy; and the dear old man used to pray to see the snow come.

“A bit of a frost would fetch her round,” he said. “I’d give ten years of my life, if it is worth as much, to see the snow on the ground.”

The trees were all leafless and bare, but tiny flowers and things kept growing in under the shrubs in quite an unnatural way.

But Frank came in joyfully one evening, crying, “It’s coming, Gordon, it’s coming; the stars are unspeakably bright; there is a steel-blue glitter in the sky that I like. It’s coming; we’ll have the snow, and we’ll have Ida up again in a month.”

I had not quite so much faith in the snow myself, but I went out to have a look at the prospect. It was all as Frank had said; the weird gigantic poplars were pointing with leafless fingers up into a sky of frosty blue, up to stars that shone with unusual radiance; and as I walked along, the gravel on the path resounded to my tread.

“I’ll be right; you’ll see, I’ll be right,” cried Frank, exultant. “I’m an older man than you, Gordon, doctor and all though you be.”

Frank was right. He was right about the snow, to begin with. It came on next morning; not all at once in great flakes. No, big storms never begin like that, but in grains like millet-seed. This for an hour; then mingling with the millet-seed came little flakes, and finally an infinity of large ones, as big as butterflies’ wings. It was a treat to gaze upwards, and watch them coming dancing downwards in a dazzling and interminable maze.

It was beautiful!

It wanted but one thing at that moment to make me happy. That was the presence of our bright-faced, blue-eyed little pet, standing on the doorstep as she used to, gazing upwards, with apron outstretched to catch the falling flakes.

Frank was so overjoyed, he must needs go out and walk about in the snow for nearly an hour. I was in the kitchen engaged in some mysterious invalid culinary operation when Frank came in. He always came in through the kitchen now, instead of the hall, lest he might disturb the child.

Frank’s face was a treat to look at; it was redder, and appeared rounder than usual, and jollier.

“There’s three inches of snow on the ground already,” he remarked, joyfully. “Mary, bring the besom, my girl, to brush the snow off my boots. That’s the style.”

Strange as it may appear, from that very morning our little patient began to mend, and ere the storm had shown signs of abatement – in less than a week, in fact – Ida was able to sit up in bed.

Thin was her face, transparent were her hands; yet I could see signs of improvement; the white of her skin was a more healthful white; her great, round eyes lost the longing, wistful look they had before.

I was delighted when she asked me to play to her. She would choose the music, and I must play soft and low and sweet. Her fingers would deftly turn the pages of the book till her eyes rested on something she loved, and she would say, with tears in her eyes —

“Play, oh, play this! I do love it.”

I managed to find flowers for her even in the snowstorm, for the glass-houses at the Manor of D – are as large as any in the country, and the owner was my friend.

I think she liked to look at the hothouse fruit we brought her, better than to eat them.

The dogs were now often admitted. Even Gael and Broom were not entirely banished.

My wife used to sew in the room, and sometimes read to Ida, and Frank used to come in and sit at the window and twirl his thumbs. His presence seemed to comfort the child.

I used to write beside her.

“What is that you are writing?” she said one day.

“Nothing much,” I replied; “only the introduction to a ‘Penny Reading’ I’m going to give against cruelty to animals.”

“Read it,” said Ida; “and to-morrow, mind, you must begin and tell me stories again, and then I’m sure I shall soon get well, because whatever you describe about the fields or the woods, the birds or the flowers I can see, it is just like being among them.”

I had to do as I was told, so read as follows: —

“Mercy to the Dumb Animals.

“‘I would give nothing for that man’s religion whose cat and dog are not the better for it.’ —Dr Norman McLeod.

“‘We are living in an enlightened age.’ This is a remark which we hear made almost every day, a remark which contains just one golden grain of truth. Mankind is not yet enlightened in the broad sense of the term. From the night of the past, from the darkness of bygone times, we are but groping our way, as it were, in the morning-glome, towards a great and a glorious light.

“It is an age of advancement, and a thousand facts might be adduced in proof of this. I need point to only one: the evident but gradual surcease of needless cruelty to animals. Among all classes of the community far greater love and kindness is now manifested towards the creatures under our charge than ever was in days gone by. We take greater care of them, we think more of their comfort when well, we tend them more gently when sick, and we even take a justifiable pride in their appearance and beauty. All this only shows that there is a spirit of good abroad in the land, a something that tends to elevate, not depress, the soul of man. I see a spark of this goodness even in the breast of the felon who in his prison cell tames a humble mouse, and who weeps when it is cruelly taken from him; in the ignorant costermonger who strokes the sleek sides of his fat donkey, or the rough and unkempt drover-boy, who shares the remains of a meagre meal with his faithful collie.

“Religion and kindness to animals go hand in hand, and have done so for ages, for we cannot truly worship the Creator unless we love and admire His works.

“The heavenly teaching of the Mosaic law inculcates mercy to the beasts. It is even commanded that the ox and the ass should have rest on one day of the week – namely, the Sabbath; that the ox that treadeth out the corn is not to be muzzled; that the disparity in strength of the ass and ox is to be considered, and that they should not be yoked together in one plough. Even the wild birds of the field and woods are not forgotten, as may be seen by reading the following passage from the Book of Deuteronomy: – ‘If a bird’s nest be before thee in any tree, or on the ground, whether they be young ones or eggs, and the dam sitting upon the young or upon the eggs, thou shalt not take the dam with the young: but thou shalt in any way let the dam go.’

“The Jews were commanded to be merciful and kind to an animal, even if it belonged to a person unfriendly to them.

“‘If thou see the ass of him that hateth thee lying under his burden, and wouldest forbear to help him, thou shalt surely help with him.’

“That is, they were to assist even an enemy to do good to a fallen brute. It is as if a man, passing along the street, saw the horse or ass of a neighbour, who bore deadly hatred to him, stumble and fall under his load, and said to himself —

“‘Oh! yonder is So-and-so’s beast come down; I’ll go and lend a hand. So-and-so is no friend of mine, but the poor animal can’t help that. He never did me any harm.’

“And a greater than even Moses reminds us we are to show mercy to the animals even on the sacred day of the week.

“But it is not so very many years ago – in the time when our grandfathers were young, for instance – since roughness and cruelty towards animals were in a manner studied, and even encouraged in the young by their elders. It was thought manly to domineer over helpless brutes, to pull horses on their haunches, to goad oxen along the road, though they were moving to death in the shambles, to stone or beat poor fallen sheep, to hunt cats with dogs, and to attend bull-baitings and dog and cock fights. And there are people even yet who talk of these days as the good old times when ‘a man was a man.’ But such people have only to visit some low-class haunt of ‘the fancy,’ when ‘business’ is being transacted, to learn how depraving are the effects of familiarity with scenes of cruelty towards the lower animals. Even around a rat-pit they would see faces more revolting in appearance than those of Doré’s demons, and listen to jests and language so ribald and coarse as positively to pain and torture the ear and senses. Goodness be praised that such scenes are every day getting more rare, and that the men who attend them have a wholesome terror of the majesty of human laws at least.

“Other religions besides the Christian impress upon their followers rules relating to kindness to the inferior animals. Notably, perhaps, that of Buddha, under the teachings of which about five hundred millions of human beings live and die. The doctrines of Gautama are sublimely beautiful; they are akin to those of our own religion, and I never yet met any one who had studied them who did not confess himself the better and happier for having done so. One may read in prose sketches of the life and teachings of Gautama the Buddha, in a book published by the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, or he may read them in verse in that splendid poem by Edwin Arnold called ‘The Light of Asia.’ Gautama sees good in all things, and all nature working together for good; he speaks of —

 
“‘That fixed decree at silent work which will
Evolve the dark to light, the dead to life,
To fulness void, to form the yet unformed,
Good unto better, better unto best,
By wordless edict; having none to bid,
None to forbid; for this is past all gods
Immutable, unspeakable, supreme,
A Power which builds, unbuilds, and builds again,
Ruling all things accordant to the rule
Of virtue, which is beauty, truth, and use.
So that all things do well which serve the Power
And ill which hinder; nay, the worm does well⁷
Obedient to its kind; the hawk does well
Which carries bleeding quarries to its young;
The dewdrop and the star shine sisterly,
Globing together in the common work;
And man who lives to die, dies to live well,
So if he guide his ways by blamelessness
And earnest will to hinder not, but help
All things both great and small which suffer life.’
 

“Those among us who have tender hearts towards the lower animals cannot help day after day witnessing acts of cruelty to them which give us great pain. We are naturally inclined to feel anger against the perpetrators of such cruelty, and to express that anger in wrathful language. By so doing I am convinced we do more harm than good to the creatures we try to serve. Calmness, not heat or hurry, should guide us in defending the brute creation against those who oppress and injure it. Let me illustrate my meaning by one or two further extracts from Arnold’s poem.

“It is noontide, and Gautama, engrossed in thought and study, is journeying onwards —

 
“‘Gentle and slow,
Radiant with heavenly pity, lost in care
For those he knew not, save as fellow-lives.’
 
 
“When, —
 
 
“‘Blew down the mount the dust of pattering feet,
White goats, and black sheep, winding slow their way,
With many a lingering nibble at the tufts,
And wanderings from the path where water gleamed,
Or wild figs hung.
                    But always as they strayed
The herdsman cried, or slung his sling, and kept
The silly crowd still moving to the plain.
A ewe with couplets in the flock there was,
Some hurt had lamed one lamb, which toiled behind
Bleeding, while in the front its fellow skipped.
And the vexed dam hither and thither ran,
Fearful to lose this little one or that.
Which, when our Lord did mark, full tenderly
He took the limping lamb upon his neck,
Saying: “Poor woolly mother, be at peace!
Whither thou goest, I will bear thy care;
’Twere all as good to ease one beast of grief,
As sit and watch the sorrows of the world
In yonder caverns with the priests who pray.”
So paced he patiently, bearing the lamb.
Beside the herdsman in the dust and sun,
The wistful ewe low-bleating at his feet.’
 

“Sorely this was a lesson which the herdsman, ignorant though he no doubt was, never forgot; farther comment on the passage is needless. Precept calmly given does much good, example does far more.”

Chapter Thirty One.
Mirram: A Sketch from the Life of a Cat – About Summer Songs and Songsters

 
“The mouse destroyed by my pursuit
No longer shall your feasts pollute,
Nor rats, from nightly ambuscade,
With wasteful teeth your stores invade.”
 

Gay.

 
“Books! ’tis a dull and endless strife,
    Come and hear the woodland linnet;
How sweet his music! On my life
    There’s more of wisdom in it.”
 

Wordsworth.

Ida continued to improve, and she did not let me forget my promise to resume my office of story-telling, which I accordingly did next evening, bringing my portfolio into Ida’s bedroom for the purpose.

Ida had her cat in her arms. The cat was singing low, and had his round, loving head on her shoulder, and his arms buried in her beautiful hair. So this suggested my reading the following: —

Mirram: A Sketch from the Life of a Cat

“Mirram: that was the name of pussy. It appears a strange one, I admit; but you see there is nobody accountable for it except the little cat herself, for she it was who named herself Mirram. I don’t mean to say that pussy actually came to her little mistress, and said in as many words, ‘Mirram is a pretty name, and I should like to be called Mirram. Call me Mirram, please, won’t you?’

“For cats don’t talk nowadays, except in fairy tales; but this is how it was. She was the most gentle and kindly-hearted wee puss, I believe, that ever was born, and if you happened to meet her anywhere, say going down the garden walk, she would look lovingly and confidingly up in your face, holding her tail very erect indeed, and ‘Mirram’ she would say.

“You see, ‘Mirram’ was the only English word, if it be English, that pussy could speak, and she made it do duty on every occasion; so no wonder she came to be called Mirram.

“If she were hungry she would jump upon your knee, and gently rub her shoulders against you and say, ‘Mirram.’

“‘Mirram’ in this case might be translated as follows: ‘Oh, please, my dear little mistress, I am so hungry! I’ve been up ever since five o’clock this morning. With the exception of a bird which I found and ate, feathers and all, and a foolish little mouse, I’ve had no breakfast. Do give me a little milk.’

“This would be an appeal that you couldn’t resist, and you would give her a saucerful of nice new milk, telling her at the same time that it was very naughty of her to devour poor birds, who come and cheer us with their songs both in winter and in summer.

“Another morning she would come hopping in through the open window, when you least expected her, and say ‘Mirram’ in the most kindly tone. This would, of course, mean, ‘Good-morning to you. I’m glad to see you downstairs at last. I’ve been up and out ever since sunrise. And, oh! such fun I’ve been having. You can’t conceive what a fine morning it is, and what a treat it is to rise early.’

“And now, having introduced this little puss to you by name, I must tell you something about her playmates, and say a word or two about the place she lived in, and her life in general, and after that show you how pussy at one time came to grief on account of a little fault she had. Of course, we all have our little faults, which we should strive to conquer, and I may as well confess at once what Mirram’s was. Well, it was —thoughtlessness.

“The first and the chief of pussy’s playmates, then, was her child-mistress. Would you like to know what her name was? I will tell you with pleasure; and when you hear it I’m sure you will say it is a strange one. She had two Christian names – the first was Fredabel, the second was Inez – Fredabel Inez – the latter being Spanish.

“‘But,’ you will say, ‘is “Fredabel” Spanish too, because I never heard of such a name before?’

“No, I am quite sure you never did; for this reason: no child was ever called by that name before, the fact being that her papa invented the name for her, as it was the only way he could see to get out of a dilemma, or difficulty. And here was the dilemma. When pussy’s mistress was quite a baby, her two aunts came to see her, and they had no sooner seen her than they both loved her very much; so they both went one morning into her papa’s study, and the following conversation took place: —

“‘Good-morning, brother,’ said one aunt. ‘I love your baby very, very much, and I want you to call her after me – her first name, mind you – and when she grows up she won’t lose by it.’

“‘Good-morning, brother,’ said the other aunt. ‘I also love your dear baby very much, and if you call her first name after mine, when she grows up she’ll gain by it.’

“Well, when baby’s papa heard both the aunts speak like this, he was very much perplexed, and didn’t know what to do, because he didn’t want to offend either the one aunt or the other.

“But after a great deal of cogitation, he possessed himself of a happy thought, or rather, I should say, a happy thought took possession of him. You see the name of the one aunt was Freda, and the name of the other was Bella, so what more natural than that baby’s papa should compound a name for her between the two, and call her Fredabel.

“So he did, and both aunts were pleased and merry and happy.

“But at the time our tale begins baby hadn’t grown up, nor anything like it; she was just a little child of not much over four years old.

“Now, as the one aunt always called her Freda and the other Bella, and as everybody else called her Eenie, I think we had better follow everybody else’s example, and call her Eenie, too.

“Was Eenie pretty, did you ask? Yes, she was pretty, and, what is still better than being pretty, she was very kind and good. So no wonder that everybody loved her. She had a sweet, lovely face, had Eenie. Her hair, that floated over her lair shoulders, was like a golden sunbeam; her eyes were blue as the bluest sky, and large and liquid and love-speaking, and when she looked down her long dark eyelashes rested on cheeks as soft as the blossom of peach or apricot.

“Yet she was merry withal, merry and bright and gay, and whenever she laughed, her whole face was lighted up and looked as lovely as sunrise in May.

“I have said that Eenie was good and kind, and so she was; good and kind to every creature around her. She never tormented harmless insects, as cruel children do, and so all creatures seemed to love her in return: the trees whispered to her, the birds sang to her, and the bees told her tales.

“That was pussy Mirram’s mistress then; and it was no wonder Mirram was fond of her, and proud to be nursed and carried about by her. Mind you, she would not allow any one else to carry her. If anybody else had taken her up, puss would have said – ‘Mirram!’ which would mean, ‘Put me down, please; I’ve got four legs of my own, and I much prefer to use them.’ And if the reply had been – ‘Well, but you allow Eenie to handle and nurse you,’ pussy would have answered and said —

“‘Isn’t Eenie my mistress, my own dear mistress? Could any one ever be half so kind or careful of me as she is? Does she ever forget to give me milk of a morning or to share with me her own dinner and tea? Does she not always have my saucer filled with the purest, freshest water? and does she forget that I need a comfortable bed at night? No; my mistress may carry me as much as she pleases, but no one else shall.’

“Now Mirram was a mighty hunter, but she was also very fond of play; and when the dogs were in their kennels on very bright sunshiny days, and her little mistress was in the nursery learning her lessons, as all good children do, Mirram would have to play alone. She wasn’t afraid of the bright sunshine, if the dogs were; she would race up into a tall apple-tree, and laying herself full length on a branch, blink and stare at the great sun for half an hour at a time. Then —

“‘Oh!’ she would cry, ‘this resting and looking at the sun is very lazy work. I must play. Let me see, what shall I do? Oh! I have it; I’ll knock an apple down – then hurrah! for a game of ball.’

“And so she would hit a big apple, and down it would roll on the broad gravel-path; and down pussy would go, her face beaming with fun; and the game that ensued with that apple was quite a sight to witness. It was lawn-tennis, cricket, and football all in one. Then when quite tired of this, she would thrust the apple under the grass for the slugs to make their dinner of, and off she would trot to knock the great velvety bees about with her gloved paws. She would soon tire of this, though, because she found the bees such serious fellows.

“She would hit one, and knock it, maybe, a yard away; but the bee would soon get up again.

“‘It is all very well for you, Miss Puss,’ the bee would say; ‘your life is all play, but I’ve got work to do, for I cannot forget that, brightly though the sun is shining now, before long cold dismal winter will be here, and very queer I should look if I hadn’t laid up a store of nice honey to keep me alive.’

“And away the bee would go, humming a tune to himself, and Mirram would spy a pair of butterflies floating high over the scarlet-runners, but not higher than Mirram could spring. She couldn’t catch them, though.

“‘No, no, Miss Puss,’ the butterflies would say; ‘we don’t want you to play with us. We don’t want any third party, so please keep your paws to yourself.’

“And away they would fly.

“Then perhaps Mirram would find a toad crawling among the strawberry beds.

“‘You’re after the fruit, aren’t you?’ pussy would say, touching it gently on the back.

“‘No, not at all,’ the toad would reply. ‘I wouldn’t touch a strawberry for the world; the gardener put me here to catch the slugs; he couldn’t get on without me at all.’

“‘Well, go on with your work, Mr Toad,’ pussy would reply; ‘I’m off.’

“And what a glorious old garden that was for pussy to play in, and for her mistress to play in! A rambling old place, in which you might lose yourself, or, if you had a companion, play at hide-and-seek till you were tired. And every kind of flower grew here, and every kind of fruit and vegetable as well; just the kind of garden to spend a long summer’s day in. Never mind though the day was so hot that the birds ceased to sing, and sat panting all agape on the apple-boughs – so hot that the very fowls forgot to cackle or crow, and there wasn’t a sound save the hum of the myriads of insects that floated everywhere around, you wouldn’t mind the heat, for wasn’t there plenty of shade, arbours of cool foliage, and tents made of creepers? – and oh! the brilliancy of the sunny marigolds, the scarlet clustered geraniums, the larkspurs, purple and white, and the crimson-painted linums. No, you wouldn’t mind the heat; weren’t there strawberries as large as eggs and as cold as ice? And weren’t there trees laden with crimson and yellow raspberries? And weren’t the big lemon-tinted gooseberries bearing the bushes groundwards with the weight of their sweetness, and praying to be pulled? A glorious old garden indeed!

“But see, the dogs have got out of their kennels, and have come down the garden walks on their way to the paddock, and pussy runs to meet them.

“‘What! dogs in a garden?’ you cry. Yes; but they weren’t ordinary dogs, any more than it was an ordinary garden. They were permitted to stroll therein, but they were trained to keep the walks, and smell, but never touch, the flowers. They roamed through the rosary, they rolled on the lawn, they even slept in the beautiful summer-houses; but they never committed a fault – but in the autumn, when pears and apples dropped from the trees, they were permitted, and even encouraged, to eat their fill of the fruit. And they made good use of their privilege, too. These were pussy’s playmates all the year round – the immense black Newfoundlands, the princely boarhounds, the beautiful collies, and the one little rascal of a Scottish terrier. You never met the dogs without also meeting Mirram, whether out in the country roads or at home, on the leas or in the paddock; she pulled daisies to throw at the dogs in summer, and in winter she used to lie on her back, and in mere wantonness pitch pellets of snow at the great boar hound himself.

“The dogs all loved her. Once, when she was out with the dogs on a common, a great snarly bulldog came along, and at once ran to kill poor Mirram. You should have seen the commotion that ensued.

“‘It is our cat,’ they all seemed to cry, in a kind of canine chorus. ‘Our cat —our cat – our cat!’ And all ran to save her.

“No, they didn’t kill him, though the boarhound wanted to; but the biggest Newfoundland, a large-hearted fellow, said, ‘No, don’t let us kill him, he doesn’t know any better; let us just refresh his memory.’

“So he took the cur, and trailed him to the pond and threw him in; and next time that dog met Mirram he walked past her very quietly indeed!

“Mirram loved all the dogs about the place; but I think her greatest favourite was the wee wire-haired Scottish terrier. Perhaps it was because he was about her own size, or perhaps it was because he was so very ugly that she felt a kind of pity for him. But Mirram spent a deal of time in his company, and they used to go trotting away together along the lanes and the hedges, and sometimes they wouldn’t return for hours, when they would trot home again, keeping close cheek-by-jowl, and looking very happy and very funny.

“‘Broom’ this little dog had been called, probably in a frolic, and from some fancied resemblance between his general appearance and the hearth-brush. His face was saucy and impudent, and sharp as needles; his bits of ears cocked up, and his tiny wicked-looking eyes glanced from under his shaggy eyebrows, as if they had been boatman-beetles. I don’t think Broom was ever afraid of anything, and very important the little dog and pussy looked when returning from a ramble. They had secrets of great moment between them, without a doubt. Perhaps, if her mistress had asked Mirram where they went together, and what they did, Mirram would have replied in the following words —

“‘Oh! you know, my dear mistress, we go hunting along by the hedgerows and by the ponds, and in the dark forests, and we meet with such thrilling adventures! We capture moles, and we capture great rats and frightful hedgehogs, and Broom is so brave he will grapple even with a weasel; and one day he conquered and killed a huge polecat! Yes, he is so brave, and nothing can ever come over me when Broom is near.’

“Now, no one would have doubted that, in such a pretty, pleasant country home as hers, with such a kind mistress, and so many playmates, pussy Mirram would have been as happy as ever a pussy could be. So she was, as a rule; but not always, because she had that one little fault – thoughtlessness. Ah! those little faults, how often will they not lead us into trouble!

“I don’t say that pussy ever did anything very terrible, to cause her mistress grief. She never did eat the canary, for instance. But she often stopped away all night, and thus caused little Eenie much anxiety. Pussy always confessed her fault, but she was so thoughtless that the very next moonlight night the same thing occurred again, and Mirram never thought, while she was enjoying herself out of doors, that Eenie was suffering sorrow for her sake at home.

“On the flat roof of a house where Mirram often wandered, in the moonlight was a tiny pigeon-hole, so small she couldn’t creep in to save her life even, but from this pigeon-hole a bonnie wee kitten used often to pop out and play with Mirram. Where the pigeon-hole led to, or what was away beyond it, pussy couldn’t even conjecture, though she often watched and wondered for hours, then put in her head to have a peep; but all was dark.

“Perhaps, when she was quite tired of wondering, and was just going to retire for the night, the little face would appear, and Mirram would forget all about her mistress in the joy of meeting her small friend.

“Then how pleased Mirram would look, and how loudly she would purr, and say to the kitten —

“‘Come out, my dear, do come out, and you shall play with my tail.’

“But it was really very thoughtless of Mirram, and just a little selfish as well, not to at once let kittie have her tail to play with; but no.

“‘Sit there, my dear, and sing to me,’ she would say.

“Kittie would do that just for a little while. Very demure she looked; but kittens can’t be demure long, you know; and then there would commence the wildest, maddest, merriest game of romps between the two that ever was seen or heard of; but always when the fun got too exciting for her, kittie popped back again into her pigeon-hole, appearing again in a few moments in the most provoking manner.