Dixie and the Cottage
Lady was always kind to Dixie when they were under the trees together, but she had a way of going into the house and closing the door which the kitten thought was rather unfriendly. Some weeks passed; then, as Lady turned to close the door one morning, she saw a round black face with two shining yellow eyes pushing in shyly. “I don’t know about this, kitty,” said Lady; but Somebody Else said, “Oh, let her come in just a minute”; and Lady held the door ajar. The kitten crept in, but very timidly, for she had not forgotten that when she had run into a house before, she had been sent out at once. She did not venture very far, but she did put her little feet on a soft rug, and in a room beyond she saw cushions and a sofa that she thought would be a most delightful place for a kitten to lie down and have a nap. She took only one look, then she ran back to the door and slipped out, for she did not know what might happen if she stayed longer.
Every day the kitten became a little less timid, though she was still easily startled by anything that was new to her. All cats like to be rubbed gently under the chin; but when Lady first rubbed her there, right over her dainty bit of white fur that looked so like lace, the kitten drew her head away and looked back over her shoulder at Lady’s hand as if it was something she had never seen before and she did not know what strange things it might do. It was not long, however, before she learned that nothing Lady did would ever hurt her. She had now grown brave enough to follow Lady about under the trees and among the grapevines and roses and syringas; and when Lady stooped to pick a spray of forget-me-nots, she was very likely to feel a smooth black furry head pushed under her hand, for the wild little kitten who had made up her mind never to go near People was fast learning that to have a good friend among them was the best thing in all a cat’s little world.
Before long Lady said to the kitten, “Little cat, you really must have a name. Some dear friends of mine once had a pretty cat whose name was Dixie, and I am going to call you Dixie. Do you like it?” The kitten made no answer, for a fly was creeping slowly up the gate-post, and she was getting ready to jump for it; but it was only a short time before she knew her name as well as anybody. The other kittens would come if any one called “Kitty, Kitty,” but this one paid no attention to any calling unless she heard some one say “Dixie.”
So it was that Dixie found a friend and a name. Mothercat had watched this new friendship, and she did not seem to disapprove of it; but she never allowed Lady to come near herself. People had never been unkind to her, but still she was afraid of them. Lady always believed that if she had lived longer, she would have become friendly; but about this time Mothercat got a bone in her throat and could not get it out. Master and Mistress both tried their best to help her; but she was so wild and frightened that she would not let them do much for her, and before long Mothercat was dead.
All this time Mothercat and Dixie had been going to the barn for their food, and as the weather grew colder, they were finally obliged to go there to sleep. The stranger cats had taken the best places, of course, but they made warm nests for themselves and were not uncomfortable. After Mothercat died, Dixie hated to go to the barn. The stranger cats looked upon it as their home, and treated Dixie as if she were the stranger and had no right to come there. Sometimes they growled at her, and although she was a stout-hearted little fighter and was not one bit afraid of them, it was not at all pleasant to have to eat and sleep with cats who did not want her. She began to do some more thinking in her wise little head. She did not like the barn, and she did like Lady’s cottage. There were no other kittens in the cottage, and there was plenty of room; but would Lady let her come? She had followed Lady about the lawn, they had sat on the piazza together, and once or twice she had jumped into Lady’s lap. Lady had always seemed glad to see her, but had never invited her into the house. Nevertheless, Dixie meant to see what could be done.
The result of all this thinking was that one day, when there was a remarkably good smell coming from Lady’s kitchen, a little black nose was stretched up to the partly open door and a little red mouth was opened wide. Dixie seldom mewed, but when other cats would have mewed, she only opened her mouth appealingly. “Well, isn’t that cunning!” cried Somebody Else. “Dixie has come to dinner.” “Don’t feed her,” said Lady; “she belongs to Master and Mistress. She must understand that she can come to visit, but that the barn is her home.” Lady was called away just then. If she had not been, I am afraid that before long she would have done just what Somebody Else did, that is, cut off a nice bit of lamb and put it into the tiny red mouth.
So it went on day after day. At first Lady said firmly, “Somebody Else, you must not feed that cat.” After a while she said, “I am afraid it will make trouble if you keep feeding the kitten.” Then she said, “Somebody Else, we really ought not to feed Dixie”; and before long she came to the kitchen after every meal to make sure that there was a saucer of something good set down on the floor. At length matters actually came to the point where she said one day, “Somebody Else, we’ll have those oysters fried instead of scalloped; Dixie likes them much better fried.”
Dixie was now a happy little cat. She perched herself on the piazza railing and ran up the apple trees and played with the beetles and grasshoppers as much as ever she chose. When she wanted to come into the house, she jumped up on the sill of the piazza window, and there was always some one ready to let her in. When she ate her dinner, no other cat was there to growl at her, for was she not the one and only kitten of the house?
Of course the stranger cats had noticed what was going on, and sometimes they tried to come in and get a taste of the good things that smelled so tempting; but this Dixie would never permit. She did not growl or spit, but if any other kitten dared to take bite or sup from her dish, then a resolute black paw shot out quick as an arrow and struck the intruder with a hard little cuff that sent her scampering out of the door. Once or twice some one of the stranger cats slipped in first and emptied the saucer. Then Dixie was so angry that she dashed out of doors like a little black whirlwind, ran up the path toward the gate, and sat down with her back to the house. She swished her tail angrily and occasionally looked back over her shoulder reproachfully at Lady and Somebody Else, who had permitted such cruel things to happen.
Room after room, Dixie went over the house. She examined every foot of the cellar, for she hoped to find a mouse or two there. Early one morning she ventured upstairs for the first time. It was all new and strange and quiet, and Lady was nowhere to be seen. Dixie gave a faint timid mew, which meant, “I am lonesome and frightened. Lady, where are you?” Lady called, “Come, Dixie,” and Dixie sprang upon the great bed, the happiest little cat in the city. When Mistress came in, she often saw her kitten lying on the sofa or in Lady’s lap, or running about from one room to another, and she said, “You know she is only a barn cat, and she has never been taught how to behave. She may break things or get into the food.” But Dixie had pretty clear notions in her small head of how kittens should act, and she was a charming little visitor. Of course she made a few mistakes. One day Somebody Else found her on a shelf in the pantry having a fine time with a dish of corn. Dixie glanced at her with a look that seemed to say, “Of course this is all right, isn’t it?” and went on eating. Somebody Else set her down on the floor, saying, “No, Dixie, you must not touch that”; and Dixie understood that, no matter how tempting food might look, she must not touch it unless it was given to her. She learned her lesson so well that never again did she meddle with anything eatable, not even when she was shut into the storeroom by mistake one day and left there for half an hour. Here were corn and fish and milk, all on low shelves in plain view, and it was dinner-time; but not one mouthful did she take. When People sat down to the table, Dixie curled herself up on a cushion as if this business of eating was a matter with which she had nothing to do. Just once she broke through her rule of good behavior. There were guests at the table. They were busy talking, and it must have seemed a long, long time for a hungry kitten to wait for her supper. One of the guests had just said, “How well your cat behaves at meal-times,” and Lady was replying, “Yes, she never pays the least attention to us when we are eating,” when, behold, an impatient little cat made one bound to the sideboard and prepared for another to the table. This, however, was the only time that she ever did such a thing; and there are not many People who have not made at least one mistake.
