Black Tom, mentioned in a former chapter, never went back to Dan’s hen-house again.
A Tom-cat, called Bruce, lived some years ago, at a farm-house near Dundee. This cat—honest in every other way—could never resist the temptation to steal the cream. All efforts to cure him of this habit were resorted to in vain. But one day, Bruce, much to his own satisfaction found himself shut up in the milk-house. When all was quiet, Bruce came from his corner and had a look round. What a grand and imposing array of basins of milk and tubs-full of cream! One of the latter stood on a table beneath the window, the edge of the tub being on a level with the sill. It was the largest tub in the room; and blessing his luck, up jumped Bruce and began to lick. It was so delicious, and Bruce closed his eyes to get the full flavour of it. Just then, however, some noise outside startled him,—he knew he was sinning, and was consequently nervous,—and in turning round, he missed his feet, and fell heels over head into the tub. Although half-choked, so soon as he came up, Bruce struck out boldly for the shore, but the sides of the vessel were too slippery even for a cat to hold on to; besides, the weight of the cream clogged his movements. He would fain not have screamed, but death stared him in the face, and the idea of dying in a tub of milk, as he had seen mice die, was awful; so he opened his mouth and gave vent to a smothered yell. That yell, loud-resounding through the house, brought “ben” the good-wife, and Bruce’s life was saved at the expense of about three pints of cream; but never more did that cat go near the milk-house. He was a reformed cat from that day; a burning and a shining light to all the cats in the country-side.
I know a cat—a Tom, as usual—who always sits on his master’s counter, surrounded by provisions of all sorts, but he was never known to steal. This cat has a penchant for pickled herrings; and although he might easily help himself by day or night, he always prefers asking his master for one. This he accomplishes in the usual cat fashion, by running towards the barrel and mewing up in his master’s face; and of course this appeal is never made in vain.
Cats are remarkably fond of fish. The other day, a bonnie fishwife was standing on the pavement with her creel on her back. Suddenly she was heard to scream aloud. “For the love o’ the Lord, sir,” she cried to a bystander, “tell me what’s that on my back.” The party addressed looked about, just in time to see a pussy disappearing round a corner, with a large fish in its mouth. That was what the newspapers would call an impudent theft, and it was certainly a clever one.
If not properly trained and cared for, pussy comes—like the Ladrone islanders—to look upon stealing as a virtue; and no wonder, for she must think it hard to starve in the midst of plenty, and in her master’s house. Besides, there is always two ways of viewing a matter. Out on the coast of Africa, I have often gone on shore—for the fun of the thing—with a party of other officers, to assist in replenishing our larder by the addition of a few fat fowls, a sucking grunter, or a kid of the goats. I rather think we stole them; but we called these little trips, “cutting-out expeditions;” still we swore “’pon honour,” and wore our swords none the less clankingly on a Sunday morning; nor would it have been safe for any one to have hinted that we were dishonest.
Just so with poor pussy. She is often tempted by hunger to make a little reprisal. It is vulgar to accuse her of stealing the steak, nailing a fish, or boning a cold chicken, “cutting-out,” is the proper term. It is a feline virtue, from the path of which she must be seduced in early kitten-hood, and by good treatment. But poor pussy is often made the scape-goat for the sins of others.
“Mary, bring up those cold pigeons.”
“O ma’am! how ever shall I tell you? That thief of a cat—”
“The cat must be drowned,” says her mistress.
“Oh, no, ma’am! Poor thing! no, ma’am.”