Uncle Joe's Stories

by Baron Edward Hugessen Knatchbull-Hugessen Brabourne

"Indeed," answered the cat, somewhat coldly, for she hardly approved of being addressed by a mere bird, and that, too, a perfect stranger, in such a familiar manner. "Indeed, I am sure you are very kind."

And she laid her head calmly down again upon the windowsill. But the magpie was not to be daunted, and determined not to lose the opportunity which she had so carefully sought.

"Although you don't know me," continued she, "which is not surprising, considering that you move in high circles, whilst I am only, as one may say, a humble drudge among the inferior parts of creation, it does not follow, madam, that I am not well acquainted with you, and have long wished to obtain your friendship. The beauty of your fur, the elegant shape of your body, the graceful action with which you move, and, above all, the sweetness of your voice (which I have sometimes been fortunate enough to hear at nights), have all made an impression upon me which will not easily be removed. I only wish I might know you better."

As the bird spoke, she hopped from twig to twig of the apple-tree, until she came within easy speaking distance of Effie, and lowered her voice so as to make it less harsh, and more impressive in conversation. Now cats, as is well known to the attentive student of natural history, are by no means averse to flattery. It has sometimes been said that the same is true of women, but this is by no means fair as a general description of the latter, many of them cordially disliking it, and taking it as anything but a compliment when men bespangle them with empty flattery, instead of carrying on sensible conversation, and treating them like reasonable beings. But it is undoubtedly true of cats. Three things they can never resist: cream, scratching their heads, and flattery; and as the magpie had no cream, and forbore to attempt scratching the cat's head for reasons of her own, she fell back, as we have seen, upon flattery.

Effie listened, it must be confessed, with pleasure, and drank in the words of the magpie as greedily as if they had been inspired by the undoubted spirit of truth. As a matter of fact, her elegance of body, beauty of fur, and gracefulness of action might all have been fairly conceded to be matters of opinion, in which many would have agreed with the magpie. But as to the beauty of her voice, anybody who has ever lain awake at night and listened to a concert of cats upon the adjacent roofs will be inclined to stop his ears at the bare recollection of it, and to confess that the magpie must have well known that she was telling a—well, a tarradiddle.

Strange to say, however, the allusion to her voice touched and pleased Effie more than anything else in the magpie's speech, and this the cunning bird had fully expected. She knew cat nature well, which differs but little from human nature in this respect, that people very often fancy themselves to possess some talent or virtue, in which they are, as a matter of fact, deficient, and not unfrequently, whilst priding themselves upon the fancied possession, neglect to cultivate and develop some other quality which they really have, and which might be made much more useful to themselves and others.

So Effie was proud of her voice—where there was nothing to be proud of—and extremely pleased to hear it praised by the magpie, whom she instantly set down in her mind as an evidently respectable and well-informed bird, and one whose acquaintance it might be well to make. Without lifting her head, however, or disturbing the position of her body, which was so placed as to get as much sun as possible, she replied in a languid tone of voice:

"You are really very kind, Madam Magpie, and I am far from wishing to decline the acquaintance you offer."

The magpie broke in at once in a quick chatter, her words tumbling one over another as if they could not get fast enough out of her beak.

"Oh, how good, and kind, and nice, and polite, and generous, and affable, and altogether charming you are! I have often watched you sunning on the window-sill or strolling about the gardens, or looking out for mice, or amusing yourself in one way or another, and I have always looked, and longed, and hoped, and wished, and wondered if I might make so bold as to speak to such a grand, lady-like, beautiful, queenly creature; and when I've heard your voice, I've often said to myself, 'Here's music, and melody, and taste, and feeling, and harmony, and everything that is delightful in sound, and if the lady would only learn singing (though little learning it is she wants), and take it up as a profession, how happy the world and everybody in it would be made: and what so pleasant as to make people happy with the good gifts we have, and who has more than she?'"