And then in his turn he is posed, and falls back into his simple child ways. He twists himself up into my lap, and rubs his head against my shoulder, and says, for the hundredth time,—
“Tell me what you used to do, mother, dear.”
He kisses me; but I must own there is an “ancient and fish-like smell” about him, which comes from his fondness for catching minnows, and other small deer of the sea. Still it goes for a kiss.
A short tale follows.
Cola Meggs and Sailor Studd were two dogs, whose acquaintance I made in my childhood. One was mouse-colored, and the other was white, with large black patches; both were large. They hated cats, they hunted cats. In the underpinning of our house was a hole where the broken crockery was thrown. I used to crawl through this hole to get dishes for my family’s table; very odd-shaped dishes, kind of three-cornered things they were. The cats hid in this dark place when Cola and Sailor were on the war-path, and made themselves very unpleasant. So much so that I was often obliged to sit on the doorstep while the battle raged between cats and dogs. Then I knew what it meant by reigning cats and dogs. One day I sat on the cold, cold doorstep till I grew numb, but my brain was on fire. I composed a poem.
“So Cola Meggs and Sailor Studd
Had a fight and fell in mud.
Won’t I hang them onto pegs,
Even though they have 8 legs.”
(The cat was killed.)