“None so precious to you and this mother-cat,” her papa said, smiling to see her so pleased.
“And I can have one! All the folks say so. Now help me find out, papa, which is the bestest kitty.”
“I wish a mouse would come along; then I’d tell you which I think is the best,” said Charley.
“But I don’t care ’bout my kitty’s catching mice; I only want her to play with me. She shall have milk to drink, and part of my dinner every day.”
“Kittens would look prettier to me if I didn’t know they would grow to be cats,” Johnny said.
“Bah! yes!” said Charley. “Up on that shed, by your bedroom window—see, Julia—see that big striped cat! Johnny and I just loved him when he was a kitten. But he kills our birds, and that we can’t forgive.”
Up spoke kind-hearted Johnny: “I b’lieve he’s the wickedest, badest cat that meows. So many nests he has spoiled! Then the mother-birds cry and call so, we have to stop our ears. When I get a gun, I b’lieve I’ll shoot you, Mr. Tom.”
Johnny handled a willow-rod as if it were a gun, and pointed it up at the big gray cat. But it did not fear him, it was up so high. Perhaps it knew nothing about guns.