“It is my considered opinion,” interrupted the kitten, “that she was no artist. The best art rejects appreciation.”
“So the dog said,” observed the moon, “when he was chasing the cat up the tree with yells of derision. But the cat was not comforted.
“Finally one day as she wandered disconsolate through a field she met a very tragic cow lowing, as it seemed to the cat, with a mild haunting beauty. When she came up with the cow the cat observed that her eyes were streaming with tears. ‘How is it,’ said the cat, ‘that you who are notoriously as unmusical as a milk-can can low with a beauty that brings tears to your own eyes.’ ‘It is not my music that brings tears to my eyes, but my lost calf. And let me tell you, cat, that till you also play on the strings of your own heart you will never make music.’”
“This is very affecting,” said the beech-tree; “and very untrue,” added the kitten.
“The cat resolved this dark saying till one day she heard in the dining-room the delicate symphony of a spoon upon a china plate. Presently the sound ceased and the cat jumped upon the table to investigate. ‘How is it,’ said she to the empty dish, ‘that you make such exquisite music though you are nothing but baked clay?’ ‘It is the loss of the beautiful jelly that adorned me that sings,’ said the dish, ‘and let me tell you, cat, that till you also play upon the strings of your own heart you will never make music.’
“‘This is very strange,’ thought the cat, but she continued nevertheless to sing as before without sympathetic response. Till at last an angry old gentleman obtained a gun and shot the cat dead.”
“This story is in very bad taste,” said the kitten.
“I think she richly deserved it,” said the beech.
“Wait a minute,” said the moon, “the story is not finished. An old poor maker of fiddle-strings found the cat on his way home. And about a month later a young fiddler of the country called upon him to buy some strings. ‘These are the best I have ever made,’ said the old man. That night,” went on the moon, “the fiddler played under a window of a high house in the Place de la Taconnerie an old German tune, ‘Einst o wunder.’ And now no one threw boots and missiles, but out of a high lattice fell a white rose.”
“That is a very beautiful story,” said the beech, “and now I am almost sorry for the cat.” “You need not be,” said the moon; “even if her life was short her art”—“was in the right place,” rudely interjected the impertinent kitten. “But what I want to know is, who shot the fiddler?” “I am afraid,” replied the moon, “that I must be going about my business.”