“Very like it. Suppose each house on Beacon Hill had a piece of land attached to it as large as the Common, and even much larger.”
“Why, you couldn't see the cats in the next yard,” I replied in surprise.
Mona opened her great mouth and laughed heartily. “Couldn't see them, nor hear them, nor the dogs either. But you'll have to go to the country, little cat, to see what it is like.”
“What do you think about it, Dolly?” I asked, as she crept toward us.
Dolly is the meekest, gentlest, most timid, oddest dog I ever saw. She is afraid of everything and everybody, and she never was whipped in her life.
“Some ugly person must have spent all their time in beating her grandmother or grandfather,” Mona said to me one day, “for she is the most scared thing that walks the streets of Boston. Why, when Mr. or Mrs. Denville want her to go to walk, they have to spend about five minutes coaxing her to come out of her kennel.”
To-day, when I asked her what she thought about going to the country, she looked perfectly terrified, and crept up to Mona for protection.
“She is afraid of bears, and wolves, and foxes,” said Mona kindly. “The dog next door heard that we were going to Maine, and he has been stuffing her. He told her he knew a spaniel who went up there and came home inside a wildcat that his master had shot.”
“How cruel!” I said indignantly. “There aren't any wild animals in Maine, are there, Mona?”
“None to hurt—there now, Dolly, prick up your ears. See how brave this little cat is!”