CHAPTER THREE
THE BURIAL-MOUND
She came to a mound which rose, peaceful and untrodden, in the middle of the field. On every side of it corn was growing, but the mound itself was green with grass and smothered in wild flowers: sorrel and heather grew side by side with the bright yellow calyx of the dandelion. A border of blackthorn wreathed the base of the mound, and a pair of great moss-covered boulders crowned the top.
Grey Puss sat down on one of the stones and stared out disconsolately over the landscape, whose colours were just retiring for their nightly rest.
Half unconsciously, she began to scratch among some tufts of grass and dried leaves which covered a depression in the turf; they came away very easily. She noticed how quickly she delved deeper and deeper down.
She became thoroughly interested....
She had happened upon an old, thinly-covered fox-hole, and when at last she had cleared the entrance, a narrow spiral passage lay open before her. She was accustomed to darkness; and happy at the possibility of finding a new home for her kittens, she bravely entered the opening.
After a short distance the tunnel made an abrupt turn, continued downwards in a curve over some enormous boulders—and then plunged straight into the vault.
Huge boulders with half-hewn surfaces stood as if growing from the ground. Above them were others of a similar kind, the walls continuing in an unbroken curve until they met at the top, thus forming the solid vaulted roof of the sepulchre. In the splits were wedged smaller stones, the whole making a small square chamber.
Had body-snatchers at some time desecrated this grave? Or perhaps some lawful visitor on his departure centuries before had neglected to close it properly behind him! In either case one of the corner stones was displaced; so much so that a fox had continued his burrow right into the very burial-chamber.
A gruesome place of death even for a cat to happen upon!
A weird, vicious, humming noise greeted her the moment she thrust in her nose ... a fluttering of something that was, and yet was not, surrounded her and filled her ears, nose, and mouth, making her cough and spit.
Had she been a human being she would have been horrified, and imagined it to be the ghost of the dead sounding her doom for disturbing its peace; but she was only a cat, and knew nothing of the beyond.
As she jumped down into the vault, and in so doing brushed the wall with her tail, the din about her head reached its climax: hundreds of mosquitoes and bats inhabiting the grave protested vigorously against her entrance.
She stood for a moment undecided, taking stock of her surroundings....
The floor was firm, and as hard and uneven as a threshing-floor. A hollow echo vibrated through the air at her every movement, the hissing of her breath or the grating of her claws.
Just before the sun went down, a thin ray of light filtered through a crevice in the stones opposite the tunnel. Thousands of tiny points of light, the watchful eyes of the denizens of the tomb, leaped into being.
Otherwise the shadows prevailed, and were only conquered little by little by her piercing glance. Later she distinguished fragments of bones and skulls on the ground, and saw supine toads fumbling their way along the walls.
In some inexplicable manner a heap of elm leaves had found their way into one of the corners; they crackled and shrieked “Halt!” when she trod on them, but promised, nevertheless, a warm and dry couch.
The conditions were acceptable—besides, there was no alternative! As soon, therefore, as she had remained there long enough to feel at ease, she made her decision.
Here in the old viking’s tomb she made her home. On the leaves and fragments of straw she dropped her kittens, fetching them one by one from their various hiding-places in furrows and behind stones, where she had been forced to harbour them in her headlong flight from the old willow stump.
LIFE IN THE BURIAL-MOUND
The fugitive little mother-cat had brought her kittens under cover just in time. That night a storm broke loose and thunder crashed incessantly, accompanying heavy showers of rain. Warm, heavy drops streamed down in bucketfuls; the earth drank until the crevices in its broken crust were filled to overflowing, while a slimy, bottomless fluid filled all holes in the roads.
But not a drop found its way down to this century-old sepulchre—the resting-place was too well built for that!
Towards morning the tempest died down. The June sun slowly swept the warm, bluish haze from the landscape, and poured its white shining beams over the fertile green cornfields. Strong, delicious odours, held in bondage by the mist, are suddenly released, and float through the air in small, scented clouds.
It was too wet for a cat to venture out; better wait a little and let the sun dry things a bit!
In the farthest corner, where the darkness is deepest, Grey Puss is sitting. She relaxes her muscular body completely on the leafy couch, and stretches her forepaws lazily in front of her. The entire kitten flock is lying in her lap.
Since daybreak she has had such a nice quiet time; the others have all been sleeping soundly, tumbled in a heap. But now peace is at an end; the dear children are all awake, and almost killing her in their exuberant joy.
Not even Tiny spares her, but seizes the opportunity of pursuing the exhausted milk-springs. Lying on his back, and using his hind legs as levers, he toboggans in short slides from one nipple to another. It couldn’t be true that there was not a drop left!
From the playful horde arise hissing and spitting, punctuated by occasional dull bumps as they miss their footing and tumble on the floor. All at once Grey Puss gets up from her corner, walks out into the middle, and throws herself down in the thin streak of light which fumbles its way through the roof. Look out—now she is going to play their favourite game; now they are in for a treat! They shall play “catch mouse” with the tip of her tail.
Comfortably stretched on her back with all four legs wide apart, she lies perfectly still, not moving a limb, not a hair. Presently the end-most tip of her tail begins very, very slowly to wriggle to and fro; then it falls with a firm little thump on the floor.
It is the signal for the game to begin!
Immediately the tiny, living colours surround the tail. And in turn, usually two at a time, they make their attempts.
The supple tail-end writhes and squirms at lightning speed over the floor, the kittens’ eyes following its twists and bends in fascinated silence. Suddenly it disappears from sight; there is a breathless pause ... then the furry tip slowly emerges from under the heap of leaves. They strike at it with their paws, rush at it, catch hold of it, and—if it unfortunately escapes—rush upon it again. They bite it, clutch it, shake it.... At last they have secured a firm grip. The tables are suddenly turned! Now it is the tail which grips and shakes and rocks them to and fro in the air; they are fighting with a real, live, reckless enemy of equal strength, and are permitted to experience the joy of victory.
No spitting or growling is heard; all takes place in dead silence—only the smacks of the tail and the bumps of the paws betray the presence of living beings. They are like shadows tumbling about....
The game goes on in half-hour spells—until exhaustion overtakes first one, then another, and sleep again sweeps them together into a lifeless heap.
Now Grey Puss gets up and makes for the entrance—it is her turn to play “catch mouse.”
THE FIRST MOUSE
Several weeks pass happily....
The corn round the burial-mound ripens, and all sorts of grasses compete to lengthen its luxuriant green covering. The stones on the top become more and more hidden from the field-path below.
The lark comes and trills at sunrise and midday; and in the evening the whinchat twitters its mournful song. The little, low grass mound has not yet betrayed its secret....
The kittens in its bowels are now about twice the size of moles; their bodies have become a trifle longer and more elastic, and on their short, plump hindquarters the worm-like appendages of childhood are beginning to thicken into soft, furry tails. Their eyes shine like stars, and on each of the small, bullet-shaped heads a little wrinkled snout forms a centre for a bunch of stiff, shiny whiskers. It is about time, the old cat thinks, that they begin to take solid food.
At first she brings them eggs and unfledged birds, which their baby jaws soon learn to masticate. Later on their diet becomes coarser and more varied.
Early one morning she appears with a small, greyish-brown creature in her jaws, its white stomach shining like a puddle of water reflecting the sun. Its short, little forepaws with the pink claws hang limp in surrender, and its long hind legs stick out stiffly like stilts. A thin, hairless tail dangling like a broken straw completes the picture.
The kittens at once respond to their mother’s food-signal, and, falling over one another in their eagerness, rush headlong to the entrance.
With their small behinds stiffly elevated, they rub themselves affectionately against the old cat’s legs and body; she positively disappears in a forest of tails. Purring loudly, her head erect, she remains standing before them, turning and twisting the interesting creature to give them a full view of the spoil.
At last, after what seems an endless wait, each receives his mouthful.
Big crouches on his haunches and plays delightedly with the mouse’s tail, which he holds in his paws. When, at a smack from him, it gives a jump, his eyes glow and he hops round his new toy on his hind legs. Suddenly he runs away to a corner and begins digging a hole—Grey Puss sees that he has his father’s appetite!
The first few times she herself kills the mouse with a bite, but later on the young ones are permitted to share in the fun. Soon also she allows them to play a little with the unfortunates, so that they may learn the first principles in the art of trapping. To encourage them still further to forage for themselves, she buries her victims round about the base of the burial-mound.
The struggle for food has left its mark upon the little mother-cat. She has become noticeably thinner, and her coat no longer has its glossy sheen. The crowd of rapidly growing children, who make constantly increasing demands on her skill, is telling on her strength. It is almost impossible for her to secure all the mice necessary for them—and therefore, in her dilemma, she sometimes leaves the straight path of virtue and does what second nature urges her.
THE THIEF
One day about noon she is skirmishing in the neighbourhood of the farm.
She lies hidden in the grass, her head in the air, keeping sharp look out for booty. In each of the pancake-coloured orbs lies a vivid coal-black streak which divides the pancake into two halves. Cunning and deceit stream from her eyes.
Behind the garden hedge bordering the loose, dry, potato-planted earth a farm hen clucks her thirteen chicks together. The hen has just finished an exhaustive scratching of the soil—and now is taking a simultaneous sun and sand bath, lying luxuriously with widespread wings, her plump, featherless belly fully exposed. The hen is asleep—her head, with its anæmic comb, sticks up stiffly in the air. Her eyes are fast shut.
The wind carries to Grey Puss fragments of dear, home-like sounds; but they do not, as in former times, soothe her nerves. On the contrary, they rouse and excite her with the promise of food. She creeps nearer and nearer in short bursts towards the sleeping hen. Each time she stops to listen—but hears only the chicks enjoying life: her blood races.
Is it tame, that one sitting there? She has forgotten; she no longer distinguishes between tame and wild! She distinguishes only between what is good, and what is not good, for her children to eat.
The soft, pregnant signs of June meet her eyes on every side. Between fresh green oatfields and succulent clover-carpets the rye whitens and blackens. There along the hedge by the old willows the line of cattle stretches; and down in the meadow, where calves and foals play in their pens, the long-nosed stork walks sunning himself.
The heavy-laden milk-cart drags itself through the stifling noon homeward to the farm. In front of it two red-cheeked, heavy-bosomed girls are seated; an old cow follows tottering behind.
Grey Puss’ opportunity has come—she makes a lightning spring forward....
With a resounding “cluck” the hen jumps up, puffs out her feathers and spreads wide her wings. Her anxious cry of alarm rings over the potato-field, whither she rushes feverishly to collect and protect her children. Grey Puss with a plump young cock in her jaws disappears with a mighty spring among the rye.
A quarter of an hour later she emerges from the hawthorn clump at the base of the burial-mound. The swallows are making their sweeping curves round about the top, veering and shrieking incessantly—there must be something up there to attract their attention!
The furry inhabitants of the mound, who have been lying in a group sunning themselves, see the old cat approach, dragging the great chicken after her; she holds it by the neck, its body and long, naked legs hanging limp and pitiful to either side.
Big, the glutton, at once seizes hold of a wing, and, with closed eyes, grinds and tears the soft-stemmed feathers, making a great deal of noise about it.
Big’s assault causes the chicken to swing towards him; at this, Black begins to feel nervous about his share of the spoil—with a jump he runs forward and hangs tightly to one of the legs.
With flattened ears and wide-stretched paws Black tugs with all his might. His neck is stretched forward and the front part of his body raised, but his stomach and hind legs drag along the ground. He resists strenuously and takes a firm hold—he will take care that Big doesn’t steal all the spoil; or if he does, then he must pull him along too!
Grey Puss has let go her hold of the neck and now stands with the chicken’s head in her mouth; she also will make certain of something—and she likes the head best of all.
Now the remaining kittens come forward. Grey buries her little black muzzle in the chicken’s body-feathers. Following her custom, she goes very cautiously to work, and sniffs for a long time before taking hold. But Red, who is more impetuous, digs away with her foreclaws, trying to make a hole as quickly as possible; and, having at last succeeded, she—eagerly assisted by White and Tiny—pulls out endless lengths of warm intestines.
DROWN THE BRUTE
Chicken after chicken kept vanishing from the farmyard ... mysteriously ... without trace.
The farmer’s precious racing-pigeons also disappeared, stolen, one by one, in broad daylight. Some of their feathers were found by the fence—it was there that Grey Puss lay in ambush, and fell upon the birds before they had time to rise in the air.
They kept watch for her early and late—and the farmer often did sentry duty half the day with loaded gun; he would settle her, sure enough....
But she was cunning and cautious—and the hours of vigil too long for the farmer! So they decided to set a trap.
She walked straight into it! That was not surprising, for she was completely without experience of traps.
There she was; at last they had the criminal!
“The grey she-cat! Yes, I thought as much!” shouted the farmer, swearing.... Yes, he remembered that gourmand well!
It was she who ate only the heads of rats. And once, two years ago, she had been found with a chicken in her jaws. She would have been shot there and then, had not the foreman sworn that the chicken was dead before she found it. Well, now at last they knew the truth—the beast must be drowned!
Grey Puss suspected no evil when she was taken to the scullery, which she knew so well, and released from the trap. Furthermore, thirsty and ravenous as she was, she accepted their hospitality in the form of a large bowl of milk.... They thought she should have something in reserve for her long journey.
She sat down, cat-like, with her tail curled round her behind, and in a moment of weakness allowed her former friend, the foreman, to stroke her back.
Just as she was finishing and was contentedly licking her mouth, stiff, horny fingers grabbed her and picked her up as if she had been a kitten. Other fingers opened a black abyss beneath her—and, with Box yelling and leaping round her, she was thrust quickly into a sack.
For the first time she began to suspect something wrong. She struggled violently and clutched with her claws—but down she went nevertheless.
She scratches madly at the sack.... Her twenty crescent-shaped claws stick out through the canvas in white clusters. However much they shake she won’t go to the bottom, but remains obstinately clinging half-way up the side. It dawns suddenly upon her that the humans have deceived her by their unusual kindness; now at last is confirmed what she has so often suspected, that humans, when they try, can be even more cunning than she.
All is pitch-black around her.... Her pupils contract, and her sight, which has always served her so well, now works a veritable miracle: she sees right through the canvas, sees clearly the gleam of water appear beneath her.
When they swing her to and fro, in just the same way as the wind has so often swung her in the treetop, it becomes more difficult to see; everything grows dark again.
Suddenly she is falling ... yes, she feels at once that she is falling! She clings even more frantically to the side of the sack.
But the sack is falling too! She withdraws her claws from the canvas and holds out her paws ready to land, just as she used to do in the old days when she was kicked through the trap-door in the loft. Suddenly she feels something hard and cold touch her.... She is not alone in the sack—she has a comrade!
The comrade is a brick....
The next moment she reaches the water! An ice-cold shower streams in on her, with a smell so horrible that she quite forgets to shiver. She is on the point of suffocation, and leaps up and down the sides of the sack like a fly in a bottle....
The sack is a new one. It has been sacrificed specially for her; they don’t want to see her again! But just as the canvas has hitherto defied her claws, so, to a certain degree, it defies the water; she still finds a little air to breathe, in her mad death-dance in the dark....
All the time she tears at the sack.... She is lucky, and makes an opening in the seam. She struggles through, comes to the surface, sucks in air, sees land, and paddles hurriedly to the bank.
The farm hand who was sent to drown Grey Puss obeyed the order much against his will. He had been a sailor in his younger days, and knew what a lingering torture death by drowning was.
Why were land-crabs always so keen on this way of ending life? Because mankind had a natural tendency towards cowardice and laziness, he supposed. To smash a cat’s skull or put a bullet through a dog’s brain demands an effort—besides, it was unpleasant to see the expression in the victim’s eyes! No, it was so much easier to drown the thing....
“I’ll be hanged if this isn’t the last time!” said the man shamefacedly, as he watched the sack disappear from sight; and immediately swung round on his heel and walked away.
So that no one saw the little head which pushed its way breathlessly through the green duck-weed; nor the thin, bedraggled body which a few moments later stood shaking itself dry among the weeds.
A GREAT RECEPTION
Grey Puss went straight home to her kittens, and that by the main road.
No sneaking along the ditches or crawling through the furrows, as so often before when dragging her spoil. No, to-day she came empty-handed, alas! besides being battered and breathless. She ran with all her might!
A great reception awaited her.
A whole long night and the half of a day she had been away—what a relief when she appears; thank goodness she has come back at last!
Big, the strong man of the litter, rushes ecstatically to meet her, and flings both paws round her neck, dragging her tired, wet head from side to side until he nearly kills her with joy. The other kittens run straight to her udders, each trying to drink the most milk in the shortest time.
Quite bewildered, but without further thought of her experience, Grey Puss sits down and gathers the little kittens in her arms, while Big, filled with holy zeal, begins licking her wet black and damp, bedraggled coat with his tongue.
It is true that as a rule a cat washes her kitten, but with Grey Puss things are reversed: Big makes his mother’s toilet daily—and is, moreover, so generous with his tongue that he washes all the kittens too.
And now on this occasion, when his kind mamma—besides arriving depressed and without her customary miauw-signal—has come home soaking wet, the son’s energy knows no bounds.
Unfortunately, although going over her twice, he finishes washing his mother before the children have completed their drinking operations; and so is compelled to find another outlet for his exuberance. He rushes round and round the room at full speed....
The fact of the whole family being in his path does not deter him in the least. He jumps recklessly into their midst, and “takes off” again with a long jump from his mother’s forehead.
Later, upon making the discovery that two of the little ones have become separated from the rest, he thinks at once of something new: he plays “catch mouse” with them....
In a flash he has captured Black under one paw and White under the other, and holds them pressed down ruthlessly to the ground. Black spits and bites recklessly at his captor, but the good-natured little White only cries miserably. A moment later Big gets a good box on the ears from the old cat’s paw.
He was so very robust—just like his father!
After that day Grey Puss never dared venture into the farmyard, not even by night; she considered herself banished once for all....
She became a total outcast, spitting and swearing at man’s approach. “Fiew!” she would hiss, crouching back, as if pulled from behind; and then turn and vanish in a flash.
She forgot her happy days of kittenhood and went back to nature and independence, her claws turned against every living being.
It was not an easy path she had chosen. The work of catching and killing at times entailed almost insuperable difficulties.
After all, what wild-beast attributes were needed to capture a little half-tame mouse or pigeon in a barn; to sneak in and lick up milk from the stall; to dig out bloater-heads from the manure-heap? No, now she had to begin all over again and practise the most elementary things: to creep noiselessly forward, make her spring, and disappear like lightning.
She adopted the method the retriever employs to carry small birds, and applied it to mice. As soon as the rodents were caught and killed, she arranged them in a row on the ground; and then packed them side by side in her mouth, so that only the heads and tails hung out.
One morning she took a hare home to the young ones, and, a few days later, a full-grown weasel—tangible proofs that she had learnt now to overpower and kill the most refractory opponents.
After a short time she learned even to bring down the swallow as it swept with dazzling speed over the earth.