There were no kittens at present, but Huldah described past families with much detail. She had kept a written account of the color and name of each kitten and its fate. Most of the kittens had been given away or disposed of in their early infancy. Some, grown to cat-hood, disported themselves about the stables with a serene indifference to the house privileges of their mamma, and with a keen taste for rats—certainly not inherited from her. Dora was far too aristocratic to care for any food less appetizing than fresh milk and bits of cooked meat, cut into dainty morsels.
Juno had four new puppies, dear little fuzzy balls of fur; and there were two new calves—with such thin wabbly legs and big, scared eyes—in the barnyard. Six patiently setting hens promised dozens of fluffy chicks before long, and a brood of ducklings swam in the stable pond.
Jane had taken in all these marvels and her little brain was busy choosing names for the new puppies while grandmother washed her face and tidied her hair for supper.
She gave Christopher the news as they munched ginger cakes together. Jane had not thought to ask for the cakes but when they came she ate almost as many as Christopher.
“The pups are awfully cunning,” she said patronizingly. “And I know just where Juno keeps them. I’ll take you to see them in the morning.”
“Huh, I can find them myself. I’m going now. And I choose to name two of ’em.”
“They’re all named; every single one. And you can’t go to see them now, ’cause supper’s ready.”
“Who named them, I’d like to know? If you did it don’t count, ’cause it’s not fair to go and name all four, without asking me.”
“If you choose to go off with a strange boy, how can I ask you? Those pups are three weeks old and they just had to be named. They’re real nice names,” she added hastily, as Christopher made for the door. “They——”
“Kit, Kit,” called his grandmother, “go up-stairs and wash your hands. Supper is ready.”