Before reading further, look at her picture. Is she not very much like some dainty young lady in ball-dress? See how deftly she has disposed her train, how fastidiously she glances over her shoulder! A cat of distinction—that is evident at the first glance! She came originally from Walton-on-Thames, in England, was a present to Mrs. Story, and, in memory of the donor, named Lady Tankerville. Having an artistic bias, she chose the studio in preference to boudoir life, and was oftenest to be found there.
After a while she was known to be the proud mother of kittens, but where she kept them remained a mystery until several weeks later, when they were found in—of all places!—the head of George Peabody. It was a delightfully retired situation, and probably there never were happier kittens. As an instance of post-mortem philanthropy, it is, I am convinced, unequalled.
BIMBO, ONE OF THE SCULPTOR
STORY’S PETS.
A fine pug called Bimbo must be added to the favorites that have gone before. A spoiled but intelligent darling, he sits up for his picture on a velvet chair, with an air of snug contentment quite irresistible. His mistress holds him in loving memory; and, since his death, contents herself with a bisque “puggery,” whose inmates, if liable to breakage, are nevertheless more easily replaced.
One other pet must close this chapter—a pet already old, but likely to live many more years without appearing perceptibly older. It is a tortoise, Babbo by name, which belonged to the sculptor Hiram Powers. I had the honor of frequent interviews with Babbo some summers past; and Mr. Longworth Powers did his best to photograph him. A crumb of moistened biscuit was placed on the broad stone step and Babbo beside it. No use at all; he either got into a bad position or shuffled out of focus. Juicy cabbage leaves were brought, but although usually susceptible to their charm, he now turned from them in scorn. He was gently coaxed, he was thumped down hard, he was entreated, he was scolded—all in vain. A good tortoise ordinarily, the bare idea of a photograph seemed to render him frantic; and after three plates were spoiled, we were compelled to let him go.
“Mr. Powers’ Babbo,” writes Babbo’s mistress, “always came to the inner studio door if hungry or thirsty, and scratched at it to attract attention. Then my husband would take him up, hold him in the water until he had quite satisfied his thirst, when the creature would waddle off, perfectly contented. If hungry, he would give him a bit of bread dipped in wine and water.”
The kind master has gone, but Babbo remains, and still has shelter, drink and sup in the pleasant Florentine garden.
VII.