One day when the man came out he turned the wagon quickly, and it crushed over poor Freida, breaking her back and killing her instantly. The man was very much troubled about it, and he said, after that, the horse would try not to go up the hill.
She was buried near the place where she was killed, and they all mourned for her, and still remember her with affection.
They have a cat now called Frity, a dignified creature, but no cat will ever take Freida's place.
My mistress said that when she was visiting there she felt as if Freida's spirit was around, and at night she could hear her voice mingling with the voices of the pines.
How much sorrow we could save our friends if we could speak! People think cats cannot understand and read character, but they can; and they know the true from the false very quickly.
We had rooms, at one time, where everything was satisfactory, and the landlady said she was very fond of cats; for my mistress would tell the people of whom she engaged rooms about me.
This woman was very nice to me before my mistress, but I could not like her at all. And my instinct was right, for when I went through her kitchen, to go out for my daily airing, she looked "daggers" at me, and said, "Scat!"
I was so provoked I walked just as slow as I could and held up my head; but she came at me with her dishcloth, and as I did not care to be hit by that dirty thing, smelling of fish, I swallowed my pride and ran away. She slammed the back door after me, and called me a "pampered brute."
I dared not show my head again for a long time. I was cold and hungry, but I had faith. I knew I should be looked for; and, sure enough, both of them came to hunt for me, the woman of the house with them, all smiles. She said: "Poor Pussy! Did it want to come in?"
I just glared at her. I wanted to say, "It did not want you to let it in." I thought the treatment bad enough; but to be called it broke the back of my belief in her.