Just then she became aware of a commotion in the trees outside the tent. The birds were screaming and complaining wildly; especially one father robin, who seemed to be having a fit of hysterics. “That must be the Round Robin for whom the camp is named,” thought Anne. “What a racket! You are so near the birds and things in this old camp that you can’t get away from their troubles.”
“What! What—what—what!” shrieked the old robin, still more anxiously, and Anne saw him flying back and forth about a certain tall cedar. Then the tree itself began to shake. The top was moving as if it were alive, thrashing back and forth strangely.
“What can it be?” thought Anne, laying down her pen and running outside. There was certainly something up in the tree; something alive. She caught the glitter of two yellow eyes peering down at her. “It is an animal!” thought Anne, and for a moment her heart stood still. She was alone in camp for all she knew. And Hugh had told that noon how he had seen a wildcat in the woods last summer. Wildcats were dangerous beasts, sometimes. What should she do? This creature was certainly furry, but it looked white. Weren’t wildcats always grey?
The creature was coming down! A great white cat-like thing, with a thick ruff around its neck, a tail like a feather plume, fur standing on end, and long, fierce whiskers. The robin kept up a ceaseless protest. Evidently he at least had reason to be afraid. Anne stood rooted to the spot with fear, while the animal descended. It gave a leap to the ground and came bounding straight towards her.
“Purr!” it cried. “Purr-miaou!” “Oh, what is it?” Anne whispered aloud to the air. But she stood her ground.
“Patsy! Patsy!” called a voice, and out of the bungalow ran Nancy. “You naughty cat! Are you bothering the birds again?”
“Is it only a cat?” asked Anne staring. “Why, it looks like a wild beast!”
“Patsy is an honest-to-goodness cat,” Nancy assured her proudly. “But our darling Patsy will chase the birds. We do the best we can. We keep him indoors at night. He has never been away from home one single night in all his little life, Anne, and we don’t let him out till after he has been fed in the morning. But he will prowl for birds. Naughty Patsy, to wake up our new guest, too!”
“I wasn’t asleep,” said Anne simply. Patsy capered across the path and flung himself head foremost at the girls’ feet, rolling over in the most engaging fashion, snowy paws in the air. “What a beauty!” cried Anne. “I love Persian cats. They are so rare. He must be very valuable.”
“He isn’t rare, and he isn’t a foreigner. He is a Maine ‘shag cat,’ born right here in the Harbor,” declared Nancy. “There are more ‘shags’ than ‘snug-haired cats,’ as the people call them around here. But we like our kitties well done, instead of rare, don’t we, Patsy? He likes you, Anne.”