“No doubt, no doubt,” exclaimed Fido, hastily interrupting, “but just hear that bell. It’s nine o’clock and—”
“Oh, well, I was digressing anyway,” said Tommy.
“As I was saying, there was a young lady cat living near us with whom I will confess I was somewhat smitten. I used to call on her evenings. I was too busy to call day-times, and besides, a tin roof is just awful on a fellow’s feet when the sun’s out. I often used to serenade her, accompanying my singing with the violin. She was very fond of stringed instruments, and especially the violin. She used to say there was no musical instrument that was so cat-like and natural in its tone and feeling. The dear girl—what exquisite musical taste she had! Ah! how I loved her! Why, I felt, when in her presence, as though I were full of vibrating E strings—au naturel, but none the less vibrating. And I mind me well that she was not unresponsive. Shall I ever forget that mellow September night when she first confessed she loved me? ‘Ah! Thomaso,’ she cried—(Thomaso, by the way, was a feminine conceit of hers; she had been abroad, you know)—‘Ah! Thomaso, how bleak and drear were the most pretentious roof without thee! Where is there such another form, or voice so sweet as thine? The girl who did not love thee would be lost to all appreciation of the feline form divine. I love thee, Thomaso, oh, how I love thee!’
“Of course, I blushed, my dear Fido—I knew only too well how undeserving I was.
“But, to quote an old chestnut, the course of true love was by no means smooth with me. It chanced that the attic room of the house next to the one in which my charmer lived, was occupied by a young man named Jenkins. Now that fellow Jenkins had the fool notion that he was musical. That wouldn’t have been so bad, though his singing was vile, but he wanted to monopolize the singing business altogether. You never saw such an envious brute! Just as soon as I began my lovely serenades, that despicable counter-jumper would begin throwing old boots and chunks of coal at me. But I kept my temper and said nothing, though I was mad enough to claw the face off him.
“Not content with his vicious assaults, the murderous brute finally attempted to assassinate me, and very nearly succeeded. I had composed a madrigal for my sweetheart, and had just finished singing it to her one evening when that calico-vending dude fired at me with a pistol and narrowly missed cutting me off in the flower of my youth. The ball lodged in my shoulder, and gave me no end of trouble. Did you ever hear of such a cold-blooded attempt to—”
“Pardon me, Tommy,” said Fido, “but what was the song like?”
“Let me see;” said Tommy, “perhaps I can remember it. Oh yes, it ran like this:
“‘When the silvery moon doth brightly beam, after the toil of day is done, how fair my darling dost thou seem, as thou climb’st the fence, or on the ridge-pole swiftly run. Thy form is sylph-like in its grace; thy voice seraphic sweet and low; how soft the whiskers on thy face, that in the moonbeams brightly glow.
“‘Miow, miow, miow, miow, ’iow, ’iow, ’iow!’”