“No,” he must have thought; “it’s very tempting, but I must not seize her by the back and give her a shake.”
Then the trough was filled with oats, the door fastened, and the girls looked on as three noses were twitched and screwed about, and a low munching sound arose.
Three rabbits and a dog! Enough pets for any girl, my reader; but Gran’ma had another—Buzz, a round, soft-furred kitten with about as much fun in it as could be squeezed into so small a body. But Buzz had a temper, possibly soured by jealousy of Grant, whom he utterly detested.
Buzz’s idea of life was to be always chasing something,—his tail, a shadow, the corner of the table-cover, or his mistress’s dress. He liked to climb, too, on to tables, up the legs, into the coal-scuttle, behind the sideboard, and above all, up the curtains, so as to turn the looped-up part into a hammock, and sleep there for hours. Anywhere forbidden to a respectable kitten was Buzz’s favorite spot, and especially inside the fender, where the blue tiles at the back reflected the warmth of the fire, and the brown tiles of the hearth were so bright that he could see other kittens in them, and play with them, dabbing at them with his velvet paw.
Buzz had been dragged out from that forbidden ground by his hind leg, and by the loose skin at the back of his neck, and he had been punished again and again, but still he would go, and strange to say, he took a fancy to rub himself up against the upright brass dogs from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail, and then repeat it on the other side.
But Gran’ma’s pet did not trespass without suffering for it. Both his whiskers were singed off close, and there was a brown, rough, ill-smelling bit at the end of his tail where, in turning round, he had swept it amongst the glowing cinders, giving him so much pain that he uttered a loud “Mee-yow!” and bounded out of the room, looking up at Gran’ma the while as if he believed that she had served him like that.
In Gran’ma’s very small old-fashioned way, one of her regular duties was to get papa’s blue cloth fur-lined slippers, and put them against the fender to warm every night, ready for him when he came back tired from London; and no sooner were those slippers set down to toast, than Buzz, who had been watching attentively, went softly from his cushion where he had been pretending to be asleep, but watching all the time with one eye, and carefully packed himself in a slipper, thrusting his nose well down, drawing his legs right under him, and snoozling up so compactly that he exactly fitted it, and seemed part of a fur cushion made in the shape of a shoe.
But Buzz was not allowed to enjoy himself in that fashion for long. No sooner did Gran’ma catch sight of what he had done than she got up, went to the fireplace, gravely lifted the slipper, and poured Buzz out on to the hearth-rug, replaced the slipper where it would warm, and went back, to find, five minutes later, that the kitten had fitted himself into the other slipper, with only his back visible, ready to be poured out again. Then, in a half-sulky, cattish way, Buzz would go and seat himself on his square cushion, and watch, while, to guard them from any more such intrusions, Gran’ma picked up the slippers and held them to her breast until such time as her father came home.
Those were joyous times at the old house, till one day there was a report spread in the village that little Gran’ma was ill. The doctor’s carriage was seen every day at the gate, and then twice a day, and there were sorrow and despair where all had been so happy. Dinny went alone with Grant to feed the rabbits; and there were no more joyous rushes round the garden, for the dog would lie down on the doorstep with his head between his paws, and watch there all day, and listen for the quiet little footstep that never came. Every day old John, the gardener, brought up a bunch of flowers for the little child lying fevered and weak, with nothing that would cool her burning head, and three anxious faces were constantly gazing for the change that they prayed might come.