Animals have had their full share indeed, of human misadventure at sea, and have added many a tragic element to the always tragic tale of wreck. A few years ago, for instance, the Black-eyed Susan was lost at Scarborough. The wreck was several hours in going to pieces, during which time they rescued the crew in the life cradle. One man was six hours in the rigging before he could be got off. And (a friend tells me this, who heard it from an eye-witness of the scene) the first thing he did upon reaching the shore was to draw from his bosom a little kitten which had been his especial pet. The man wept like a child when he found that his little friend had perished in spite of all his care. A woman from the same ship brought off a dog successfully.
Turning to “scientific” patrons of cats, we find that Sir Isaac Newton—if history tells no fibs—not only had Diamond, the little dog who upset a lighted candle among his manuscripts, but also a cat, and at least one kitten. So much is certain, for to give them means of exit and ingress, he cut two holes in his barn door—a big hole for the cat, a little hole for the kitten! One really hopes this story may be true—it is so delightfully unsophisticated for a philosopher.
Another man of science, Sir David Brewster, began life with a great dislike of cats. In later years there were so many mice in his house, that after her promise never to let Pussy appear in the study, he permitted his daughter to give the trap a feline assistant. Pussy, however, was no party to this contract, and, knowing what utter nonsense it was, took matters into her own claws.
Writes this daughter, Mrs. Gordon:
“I was sitting with my father one day and the study door was ajar. To my dismay, Pussy pushed it open, walked in, and with a most assured air put a paw on one shoulder, and a paw on the other, and then composedly kissed him. Utterly thunderstruck at the creature’s audacity, my father ended by being so delighted that he quite forgot to have an electric shock. He took Pussy into his closest affections, feeding and tending her as if she were a child.”
When after some years she died, both master and mistress grieved sincerely, and never had another pet.
And finally, grave Princeton College has had a pet, which was also a phenomenon, in the shape of a two-legged cat—biped from birth—but a most cheerful, healthy, engaging little creature, dark maltese in color, with a white star on her breast. Her fashion of walking was queer, but lively, as the sketch by Dr. F. C. Hill of Princeton will show.
Brought from a New York village to this college town, she adapted herself to her new home with the ready pliability of youth, became everybody’s pet in general, her master’s in particular, and was in all ways a thoroughly charming, though whimsical baby-cat. Her virtues were all her own, while her faults, like those of other kittens, were doubtless due to there being no kittychism. Such is the reason a modern writer assigns for feline errors, and it carries with it conviction. As the kitten is bent, the cat will certainly be inclined.
Pussy’s course in life was destined to be brief as brilliant. In the spring of ‘77, Dr. Hill was absent a fortnight. He came back to find his small friend dead. He had left her vivacious and merry—now she was only “a body.” “Poor Kitty,” he wrote, “was well and happy while I was with her. I really think she pined and died as much from loneliness as anything else.”
To say that she was missed, is idle; it could not be otherwise with so bright and loving a creature. Love wins love, the world over, and where love comes, love follows. Our poor little Pussy’s heart was all her master’s; it resulted that in his heart was a corner all her own.