These cats have no homes, no nice beds, and often they have empty stomachs; and if they console themselves with a social meeting, and end in a musicale, who can blame them? They certainly do not have empty bottles to dispose of after their meetings, as these young people do; and there is no uncertain note in their voices when they let it swell out on the midnight air. If it reaches a high C, it is not a "high seas over," as the young men's voices often indicate.
Another proof of the superiority of the animal over the human race. A cat may often be sitting on a beer barrel, but there never was a cat known to have the contents of one inside.
There are many shams in the world that cats would scorn to practise. Now I am, perhaps, about to shock some people by airing my opinion on "family worship." I can hear you say, "How irreverent!" Not at all. Just please read the many so-called bright speeches of children in the newspapers, where they hob-nob with their Maker just as if he were a boon companion.
I have heard my mistress quote, "Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain." I never have, and it makes me shudder to hear children so flippant with the sacred name. And I will never believe that cats or dogs could be taught (even if they had the gift of speech) to be profane, as the poor parrot is. They have an evil eye, and may not be to blame.
One year we boarded in a real country farmhouse,—at least, the master was a farmer; but the family were trying to find some more genteel name for the business and the place that had so long supported them.
It was a nice, old, rambling house, with quaint little nooks and angles where I could hide. The kitchen was very large and low, and the outbuildings so ample that I often lost myself.
The hay-loft was very bewildering, and after I had once climbed up I felt like the travellers my mistress loved to read of—very proud of my exploits.
They had a great yellow cat called Tabby. Now I did hate yellow, and of all weak names I think "Tabby" the weakest. But oh my! "What's in a name?" Sure enough, she was just the reverse of her name. Although she was not "my style," I could not, in that lonesome place, afford to pass her over.
After a time she became quite friendly with me, though at first she had resented my style, as she called it. She evidently thought I was a cat "Astor or Vanderbilt," with my collar and padlock,—that "bete noir" to all cats that I met. They confounded it with the ropes of pearls and strings of diamonds that society women pawn their souls for; but when I explained to her that it was an inexpensive badge, with the name engraved on it so that my friends could recover me when I got lost,—that it represented their affection instead of their dollars,—she, like a sensible cat, realized at once its use, and admired it, saying it was very becoming to the aristocratic bend of my neck. After this I did think she was a cat with good judgment and exquisite taste.
When she saw how delighted I was with her kittens, she allowed me to play with them all I cared to. They were all colors, and the loveliest little creatures I ever saw—four of them. They looked upon me in the light of a bachelor uncle, and were after me all the time. They grudged me the night separation, for my mistress would not allow me out of her room at night.