“And she was black all over, oh! as black as she could be—blacker’n anything I see round here,” said Polly, glancing at the rusty little shoes stuck out before her. “Well, and she was tired too, besides being black; because, you see, she had sung and hummed and buzzed every single day for all that long time just in that one spot. Oh! she was so tired, she just wanted to roll down on the floor, and off and away to see the world. And one morning the old woman put on her big black cap over her white one, and took down her thick stick with a knob on the end of it.
[“‘Mind the house now,’ she said to the cat], who sat by the fire. And off she went to the wood to get her branches and sticks.
[“Mind the house, now,” she said to the cat.]
“Suddenly there was a big noise just like this,”—and Polly gave a hiss as near like a bubbling-hot tea-kettle as she could manage,—“and then a voice said ‘Hem.’
“‘Oh! that’s you, Mrs. Tea-Kettle,’ said the cat, without turning her head.
“‘Who else would it be but me?’ said the old Tea-Kettle sharply; ‘when there’s not a soul comes in here day after day. Come, you cross thing, why don’t you talk?’ for the cat looked as if she were going to sleep that very minute.
“‘I haven’t anything to talk about,’ said the cat sleepily.