"The pen is mightier than the sword."
Taking this quotation for my text, I have written my own story, hoping it will benefit the poor cats who are made the victims of great cruelty. No other animal has to suffer like the household pet, the cat.
I am a Boston boy, born eighteen years ago, in one of the nice old-fashioned houses for which our quiet street was noted.
I was born in a clothes-basket, and do not feel ashamed of my birthplace, though fire and the swill man long ago removed all trace of it.
I cannot remember much about my home. Like all young things, my food and having a good frolic were all I thought of.
I loved my mother, for she was very kind to me while I depended on her for sustenance; but when I grew large enough to lap milk, she began to wean me and teach me that hard lesson—self-dependence.
My mother was very handsome—black as coal, with a long tail and white feet. She was very proud of the latter, keeping them as white as snow; and on account of their beauty she was called "White Foot." She was very graceful and slender—her fur soft and glossy as a raven's wing.
She had brilliant, restless eyes, fierce in expression and watchful, never seeming to trust even her friends. But every one was attracted to her.
We had not much room to boast of. The back yard was very small, but over the way a large unoccupied field gave us a grand opportunity to run and enjoy ourselves.
It was a great neighborhood for cats. Though I thought them rough and aggressive, I enjoyed myself, for I could outrun the biggest of them, and never allowed myself to be defeated.