This was Silvertip’s life during that first winter. Sometimes on sunshiny days he sat out on the kitchen porch, and once in a while he sunned himself on the broad rail of one of the front porches. Whatever he wanted he had, except, of course, some kinds of food, which he ought not to have anyway. Nobody was ever cross to him and many people were doing things to make him happy. He had yet to learn that this could not last forever.
When spring came he lived more out of doors, and followed the Hired Man around barn and woodshed. He went into the ice-house once, but found that too cold. In these places he saw his first Mice. He will never forget the very first one which he caught. It was just at supper time and he brought it into the kitchen. He could not understand why the Maid should scream and act so queerly. He thought perhaps she wanted it herself.
Whenever the Mouse wriggled or flirted its tail into his eyes he jumped backward. It scared him dreadfully, but he would not let go. Instead of that he would walk backward two or three times around the kitchen range. He wanted to lay the Mouse down and play with it, only he did not know just how to go about it. He tried to have the Maid help him, but every time he went to lay it at her feet she jumped into a chair. At last she called for the Lady. Then the Lady came out and laughed at both of them. How it ended nobody but Silvertip knows, for he walked around the kitchen with it in his mouth until late in the evening, and the next morning there was not a sign of it to be found.
It was this spring, too, that he became acquainted with the Catbird. He heard a queer Cat-like voice saying “Zeay! Zeay!” many times, and yet could never find the Cat to whom it belonged. “Come out here!” he would cry. “Come out here, and we will make believe fight!” When no Cat came he couldn’t understand it. He had already become acquainted with many Cats in the neighborhood, and whenever one came to call they made believe fight. It was their favorite game. They would sit around and glare at each other and growl a whole day at a time. So Silvertip could not understand a Cat who said “Zeay!” instead of “Meouw!” and would not fight.
One morning when Silvertip was sitting on the back porch, a slender gray bird, with black crown, tail, bill, and feet, perched on the woodbine over his head and said, “Zeay!” It sounded as though somebody in the little apple-tree had said it, but Silvertip was looking at the bird and saw him open and shut his bill.
“Pht!” said Silvertip, as he began to let his tail and the hair along his back bristle. “Pht! Don’t you dare to mock me!”
“Zeay!” answered the bird. “Zeay! Zeay!”
“I don’t say it just that way, anyhow,” said Silvertip; “so quit!”
“Zeay!” answered the bird.
“I am the Cat who belongs here,” said Silvertip. “You quit mocking me or go away!”