“It’s in a book, and you can read it if you know how,” mewed the Cat. “But I’ll tell you part of it. Once I was in a store as you were, and there was a fire. Oh, I was so black and dirty and smoky! And I was stolen by a colored boy!”
“Oh, never!” barked the Dog.
“Yes, I was!” insisted the China Cat. “Then there was a flood and a terrible time, but at last I was given a good home and I lived happily until this misfortune came. Now isn’t that a sad story?”
“Yes, it is,” agreed the Dog. “But when it comes to sad stories, I have one of my own.”
“Do tell me,” begged the China Cat, curling her whiskers. “I love sad stories.”
“Well,” began the Dog, “I have a ticklish feeling inside me, and——”
“I don’t call that sad,” interrupted the Cat, with a smile.
“You would if you had it,” barked the Dog. “Tell me—were you ever cut open and sewed together again?”
“No, never!” exclaimed the China Cat.
“Well, would you call that sad?”