They are both much older than I am. Serena is a very clever little cat. She has beautiful manners, and purrs a good deal to herself about culture. She and Jimmy are both half Angora, and half common cat. So I am, too, for that matter, but they are much better looking than I am. My father is black and white, and we are black and white; but his black and white and Serena and Jimmy Dory's black and white are laid on prettily.
I am a fright. Every one says so—cats and human beings—so it must be true. I think myself, when I look in the glass that I am very ugly, but I don't care a bit. Why should I worry? I can't see myself, unless I look in a mirror. Let the other cats and people worry about me, and say that my white face looks as if some one had thrown an ink bottle and splashed me right across it. They are the ones that suffer, for they can see me. I don't see myself.
My body is prettier than my face. I often laugh to myself when I am creeping softly along, and some one says, “Oh! what a lovely black kitten.” Then I turn round and the some one always shrieks, “You little fright!” or “You ugly little thing!”
My mother says it is naughty in me to laugh, but I tell her that girl squeals and cat squeals don't hurt me. The only things I am afraid of are sticks and stones.
Then she smiles sadly, and says, “When you grow up to be a cat, Black-Face, you will be sorry that your face does not please every one.”
I must say I don't believe her. I don't believe that my mother knows half as much as I do. She is getting old and fussy, but I wouldn't say this to any one but myself for the world. The kitten next door laughed at my mother the other day, and I scratched him. I'd do it again, too. I sha'n't let any one but myself criticise my mother while I have claws in my velvet paws.
Well, I don't believe I'll think any more about myself to-night. I am getting sleepy, and my head is sinking down on my pink cushion.
I wish I hadn't broken that pretty glass vase to-day. Mrs. Darley felt very sorry. What was I doing on the mantelpiece? The dear only knows. It looked tempting up there. It is such fun to twist between things and not break them, and it is only once in a great while that I do have a smash.
I hope Billy will find his lead-pencils. I dropped them behind the sofa—and what did I do with that dead mouse I was playing with? Did I leave it on Margaret's bed? I believe I did. Well, she is a fat little girl. It won't hurt her to scream a while. Mrs. Darley will run to her. Good night, everybody—I am—so—sleepy.