Kittyboy's Christmas

by Amy Ella Blanchard

It was rather late; eleven o'clock or more, and getting colder every minute. The house was very quiet, no one astir anywhere; a light, however, was burning in one room, where a warm fire blazed in the open grate, the sight of which so delighted Kittyboy that he began to purr contentedly. The light, now turned up, showed more distinctly what manner of person it was whom Kittyboy had followed: an elderly man, with keen, sharp eyes; he was somewhat portly, was well dressed, and brisk in his movements. Kittyboy's little black form, snuggled in one corner, where he sat blinking at the fire, was not noticed by this other occupant of the room, who, lighting a cigar, sat down by a table, stretched out his legs comfortably, and unfolded the evening paper.

Presently, the sharp sound of a coal dropping on the polished hearth disturbed Kittyboy's nap, and he jumped up, with visions of whips cracking over his head, and gave a leap away from the fire. The sharp noise also attracted the attention of the reader, who looked over the top of his newspaper to see four little furry feet daintily stepping across the rug.

"What are you doing here! Get out, cat!" came an exclamation in so much milder language than that to which Kittyboy was accustomed, that he considered it in the light of an overture, and springing up on the arm of the chair, in which this new acquaintance was sitting, he proceeded to play with the newspaper, patting the two sides, with ears very much forward, and an alert look on the wise little face, as if in momentary expectation of seeing a mouse jump out from the folds of the sheet.

The very audacity of the performance tickled the man's fancy. "You impudent little beast," he said; "how did you get in here, anyhow? Aha! I know. I believe I saw you as I came up the steps. You must have slipped in behind me. But this will never do; you will have to get out again. No cats allowed in my house."

For answer, Kittyboy began to rub his head against the arm nearest him, purring softly.

The man regarded him less severely. "If I'm going to turn you out, I may as well give you something to eat. You are none too well fed, I see," he remarked; and, rising, he took his way to another room, where, after hunting around, he found in the larder a pitcher of cream, set away by the housekeeper for her master's morning coffee. All unconscious of bringing dismay to the worthy woman, Dr. Brewster emptied the contents of the pitcher in a saucer and set it down, watching Kittyboy eagerly lap up this unexpected treat.

"Now you must go," said the doctor; and Kittyboy followed confidently at his heels. But the draught of icy wind which greeted him as the front door was opened, caused the little fellow to scamper back to the library, where, before the open fire, he again sat down and began complacently to wash his face.

Back into the room came Dr. Brewster, laughing in spite of himself. "You are a sly little rascal," he said; "come, come," and he picked up the unresisting little creature, which cuddled down comfortably in his arms, as if it were beyond the bounds of possibility that a second attempt should be made to put him out, and the good doctor actually began to have compunctions. "I always vowed I'd never have a cat in the house," he said, under his breath; "am I to give in at this late day? Well! you audacious little wretch, I'll let you stay till morning. It's too cold a night to turn any creature out of doors," and Kittyboy's triumph was complete when he was put down on the hearth-rug and allowed to continue his ablutions, while the doctor resumed his paper.

But it was strange that the presence of a little black cat could turn a sober man's interest from foreign news and the quotations of the stock market, and that he should have found himself dwelling on the memory of two little eager faces which he had seen that day gazing into a window decked out with Christmas toys, and, furthermore, that twice he should have read over an item which went as follows: