It was, and still is, a lovely night, for I am only thinking over the events of a few hours ago. The sky was a dark blue, the stars were shining, the air was sweet and redolent with wild flower blossoms, the grass was dewy beneath our feet.
Aunt Tabby went like a shot down to the meadow, over the foot-bridge, and across the ploughed land to the big pine wood.
She knew her way to the cranberry swamp, and when we got there, she quickly chose the best place for us to sit.
“That old stump in the middle will be your sister's place,” she said to me.
We were on a little moss-covered hillock, close to it. Really, we did have about the best place there.
Soon other cats arrived, mostly out of breath and excited. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, and showed every emotion much more plainly than city cats do.
Serena, Rosy, Blizzard and Joker were the last to arrive. They came slowly and tried to make a dignified entrance. Passing in a grand way between the groups and rows of cats almost covering the little bog, Blizzard led the way to the big stump.
There was only room for two cats to sit comfortably on it, so he scowled at Rosy and Joker, and made them go elsewhere. They promptly came and crowded on the hillock beside us, and for the rest of the time we were nearly squeezed to death. However, I did not think about my own discomfort, in my intense interest to know how Serena would act and what she would say.
I really wished that my parents could see her. She sat demurely on the dark stump, while Blizzard made the opening speech. She had groomed herself well, and she looked a very handsome and aristocratic figure of a cat, compared with the plebeian-looking Blizzard.
He introduced her in a flourishing way, “Cats and kittens, we have this evening a great and unexpected pleasure. Fresh from the haunts of culture, reeking with the emanations of art, bubbling over with the essence of criticism, a fair and gentle Boston cat has come to enlighten our dark minds.”