CHAPTER NINE
THE CANARY
Round the outskirts of the farm the wallflowers crowd in full bloom, flaming and glowing in the nearly risen sun.
A little fox-coloured cat curls in and out among the flowers, sniffing the yellow goose-grass and the purple thyme. With its own inimitable deftness it avoids the dew.
It follows a human “spoor,” the pursuit of which its big brother has long since abandoned on account of its acid smell.
Red reaches a garden; she enters—and now she scents spoor after spoor, all of which lead along the hedge towards a heap of branches, where they stand still for a long time.
She makes, as usual, a thorough investigation, sniffing each single stone and leaf; but this time she is unlucky, and fails to remark a little grey-brown partridge, which now, for the third year in succession, hatches its eggs under the branches on the opposite side of the hedge.
Here, in the leafy soil, the bird has formed its nest. The maid had found it one day when hoeing the weeds from the path, and now she goes there every day to look after her bird.
The ceaseless, soothing rustle of the poplar-leaves and the hollow, satisfied purring of the rye filter through the hedge and distract the scavenger’s attention. Then she surprises a dragon-fly with the morning dew still on its wings....
Suddenly a burst of chirping and whistling streams out from an open window: a bright yellow canary hops joyfully in its wire-bound cage.
Not a single “human” to be seen or heard! Red leaves the dragon-fly to work out its own salvation and wriggles like a worm towards the unsuspecting bird.
But how can she capture it?
Ah, that is her specialty! Out in the wilds she fails time after time; she is not quick enough, not bold enough, not sure enough! She does not understand how to work; but she is a genius at thieving!
The fear of detection stimulates her special powers and characteristics to an incredible degree. During these brief periods she becomes far more cunning and far more ferocious than any of the other kittens.
If only the bird could fly up and away—she would be foiled at once! Or if it could only keep calm and remain sitting in the middle of its perch in its safe, wire-bound cage—all her efforts would be useless.
But the terrified canary begins to flutter about wildly—and Red’s tactics make her still more confused.
The cat keeps jumping from one side to the other; and then up on the top of the cage and down again....
The more maddened and confused the poor bird becomes, the calmer and more composed is the cat. With cold-blooded precision she waits until her victim comes within reach, then thrusts her strong paw against the cage. The thin wires separate, and through the aperture her scythe-like claws impale the canary and haul it towards her. One mouthful and it is gone!
Now for flight....
Like a streak of sunlight she glides along the window-sill and leaps to the ground—while sparrows from the gutter fight for the yellow feather, which the warm summer breeze loosens from her whiskers and bears aloft.
Once in the garden she gets up speed, scurries along the hedge, through into the cornfield, and so along the hedge again.
But why run? No shout or bark breaks the silence ... it does not look as if mankind’s four-legged police have seen her this time!
BOX AND THE RED COMMUNIST
Red became more and more reckless—and the wretched Box, who often saw her from his kennel, suffered the agonies of Tantalus!
His defeat in the manure-well had not reformed the cat-nihilist. He was still in the mood for war, and bent upon taking a bloody revenge.
For two whole weeks he has been chained up—but now the farmer’s wife herself resolved to take him in hand. His constant assaults on all cats, and especially his occasional outbreaks on her own, have for a long time given her great annoyance.
Every day he spends several hours sitting in a basket of hay in the kitchen together with five little newly-born kittens, which crawl squeaking round his legs and body. By this treatment they hope to make him accustomed to cats!
He is watched very closely; the slightest suspicious movement on his part brings a crack on the head from ladle or poker. The little ones also treat him with the utmost disrespect: they hiss at him and spit right in his face!
When the “lesson” is over for the day and he is shut out of the kitchen, his sensitive mind is in such a turmoil that he scarcely knows what he is doing. The most weird things happen: he sees cats everywhere—the sun itself turns into a huge, shining cat-face—and with hair on end and tail between his legs he makes a frantic charge towards it....
One day just after his lesson Box meets a little red cat-devil out in the garden with an eel-skin in its mouth.
Black cats and grey cats were bad enough—but red cats turned him into a raving maniac!
He chases after the thief, who makes for the rye-field. The cheeky little red-skin does not trouble to abandon her “catch,” and even has the sangfroid to stop in her flight to dig it down!
The delay was almost fatal—and had she not been lucky enough, when crossing a strip of fallow ground on her way to the cornfield, to run across Grey Puss, who was stalking young peewits, there is little doubt as to how things would have ended.
The old she-cat, realizing the state of affairs, unhesitatingly takes her kitten’s place. She runs right across Box’s nose and inveigles him after her into the cornfield. To do battle in the open is not her intention at all; she knows far subtler tactics!
Once among the corn, she quickly contrives to lose sight of the dog; and then lies down in ambush, waiting an opportunity to attack in the rear.
Box is not smart enough to suspect her design. Feeling, as always, that he is the undisputed lord of the fields, he rushes about barking angrily and aggressively. Matters are taking their usual course, he thinks!
That devil of a cat has of course hidden herself somewhere, and imagines his nose cannot find her—as if a cat were not the simplest of all creatures to track down.... Why, every straw touched by a cat simply stank!
Box is easy to deceive, and runs right into the trap set for him by the little field tiger.
He has not the slightest idea how it happened—but this he knows: that the clawed she-devil is sitting on his back again, and is already tearing his skin to shreds.
His howls are so loud, and Grey Puss’ growls so deep and threatening, that they are heard at the burial-mound. The kittens start up from their day-doze and, fully understanding what is taking place, begin to strut about with stiff legs and erect tails, uttering little half-growls at intervals. “Madness” goes one better: he makes off through the corn towards the scene of action....
He is a real little cat-sportsman!
THE SMOKE-DOG
The nihilist was really beginning to reform. What the farmer’s wife failed to achieve with her dog lessons, Grey Puss succeeded in doing with her needle-like claws.
But Box had his allies!
One Sunday afternoon, when the farm hands felt the time hang heavily, one of them suggested a visit to the burial-mound. Box was always running out there and barking at something—probably there was a fox in the hole.
To be prepared for emergencies, one of the men snatched up an armful of hay, and off they went, the dog dancing excitedly in front. Box, who understood at once what was on foot, felt fearfully important—and the moment the mound came in sight he set up a mighty war-cry; and by so doing gave the kittens plenty of warning.
For a long time the inhabitants of the mound lay listening to the loud barking; then they heard the dull tramp of “humans,” and a little later the crackling of hay—and now a huge, foul-smelling creature entered the tunnel.
Slowly and silently it crept forward; dirty and grey, it swayed and swelled; soon it completely filled the passage.
Grey Puss growled threateningly and crouched low on the ground, her face towards the oncoming monster. Big-kitten lay at her side, ready to lend instant assistance; while “Madness” hissed and bared his teeth, prepared to fight to the death.
He had fought with moles, with rats, and even with a crow—but never with an opponent which stared so keenly back as this one. Although he could not see its eyes in the gloom, the smoke-dog’s glare made his own smart until they watered, so that he had to keep wiping them dry with his forepaw.
Now the mysterious beast was upon them! “Madness” saw his mother spring to her feet—and he rushed valiantly towards the enemy, his mouth opened wide to seize it by the throat. Instead, he himself was seized by the throat! He had to open his mouth still wider; he felt as if his tongue were being torn out; he coughed and spluttered; a suffocating feeling racked his nose; he could not draw breath; his nostrils pricked and smarted as if clutched by the monster’s invisible claws. Snorting and sneezing, he turned and fled for his life.
He has managed to escape; luckily the monster could not hold him! Also, it does not drive him to frenzy, like that confounded old crow, by jabbing at his tender whiskers all the time. It is more merciful, and allows him to retreat in peace.
He regains his breath and is almost himself again. He rubs his head well with both forepaws and prepares for another attack. This time he is determined not to run away—and he shakes his head up and down to see where he is.
Fortunately for little “Madness” as well as for “Terror,” who together with Grey and White lay crouched in a corner of the tomb, their eyes flashing green with fright ... fortunately indeed for the whole happy family, the “smoke-dog” abruptly ceased barking its stinking breath down towards them.
The bundle of hay brought by the labourers was consumed. They could have procured more easily enough—for there was plenty of corn round the hill, and it lay in sheaves—but they had found out by now that smoke was there in abundance—what was lacking was a draught to carry the smoke down into the hole.
And besides, what if they did manage to suffocate the beast—they would never be able to get it out and skin it; so that there would be no pelt to make an odd shilling or two out of! What was the use of it all?
Well, after all, they had killed time for a couple of hours ... and they threw themselves on their backs and began to play with Box, stroking his back and ears. Yes, he was a fine dog! “Here, Box, Box!”—and they smacked their trouser-legs—“seize cat, seize cat!”
That day was the last the kittens spent in the old viking-grave!
Just as once before in their lives Grey Puss had rescued them from the willow stump, so did she rescue them now from the burial-mound.
This time it was so simple! They knew all about it in advance—and she had only to place herself at their head and lead on....
They left the Hill Farm’s fertile fields, and crossed right over to the other side of the village. There, near a disused peat-pit, they found a dilapidated turf-house, in the deserted loft of which they made their home.