But half a minute later Charlie would be once more rushing madly up the back stairs, and pussy after him, clawing him all the way.
Pussy’s favourite seat was the footstool, and in a winter’s evening, when tea was on the table, a bright fire in the grate, the kettle singing on the hob, and Tom half asleep, but singing all the same, on the hassock, our parlour looked so cheerful. But sometimes Tom would say to Charlie:
“I’m going away to the woods to-day, Charlie, for a long, long hunt after the rats and weasels, so you can curl up on my footstool all day.”
“O, thank you!” Charlie would say.
Then away Tom would trot, and Charlie would be up on top of the hassock, and asleep in five minutes, for on the whole Charlie was a shivering little fellow when the weather was cold—just like your Tiny.
Well, pussy would not go farther away than the paddock gate; she would sit there for perhaps ten minutes, making little funny faces at the sparrows, and at cock-robin. Then back she would come.
“He’ll be asleep by this time,” Tom would say to himself, as he came stealing to the parlour.
Next moment there would be another race up the back stairs, and Charlie would be howling most dismally.
This was very naughty of pussy, and it was not at all pleasant for Charlie; no wonder he preferred sitting in the chair.
I’ll never forgot the day Charlie caught and killed his first rat. It was a very big one, and he was as proud as any deer-stalker. He must needs bring it into the parlour and lay it on the rug before us all. Tom smacked him, and took the rat away to a corner, and gloated and growled over it, and told Charlie that all the rats and mice about the place belonged to him.