I know an instance of a cat, which brought home a live canary in its mouth, which she presented to her mistress. The bird was put in a cage, and turned out a great pet; and pussy and the bird were always great friends; the cat one day punishing severely a stray puss that had been guilty of the unpardonable crime of looking at the canary.
CHAPTER VIII.
[See [Note H], Addenda.]
THE PLOUGHMAN’S “MYSIE.”
Ten miles along dusty roads in a hilly country, and on a hot summer’s day, was rather fatiguing, and I was glad to find the ploughman’s cottage, or rather hut, at last. It was placed in a picturesque little nook, at the foot of the Ochil mountains, and consisted simply of a “butt and a ben,” with a potatoe patch and kail-yard in front. The mistress was at home; her goodman, she said, was busy sowing turnips. But she kindly asked me in, and showed me into the best room, with its mahogany chest of drawers, old-fashioned eight-day clock, and bed with snowy counterpane in the corner. While I rested, the good woman produced her kebbuck of last year’s cheese, a basin of creamy milk, and some delicious oat-cakes,—a banquet for a hungry king,—and bade me eat, apologising that she had no whisky in the house.
“And so,” she said, “you’ve come a’ this lang road too see our Mysie. Well,” pointing towards the bed, “yonder she is, sir.”
I was certainly a little disappointed. Mysie was a tortoise-shell and white, pretty well marked, but small and with an expression, as I thought, of bad temper about her little face, which just then seemed the reverse of pleasant; but this wore off when I patted and caressed her.
“Is there anything remarkable about her?” I asked.