“Methought I heard a voice cry, ‘Sleep no more.’”
—Shakespeare.
Last night, soon after retiring, I was made aware of the exceedingly annoying fact that a pair of cats had selected the yard under my window for their trysting-place, and were behaving in a most demonstrative manner.
I have no objection to cats having their courtships as well as men; but I see no reason in their having such a hoodooing time over it, making night hideous with rascally yowls. There is, perhaps, nothing more aggravating in life than to have a little saucy spit-fire of a puss keep a whole community awake for hours together, because an admirer of hers happens to take a moonlight stroll on a neighboring fence.
The night wore on. Their inharmonious chants increased in volume and spirit. Considering the matter, I came to the conclusion that I would rather pay the fine imposed for shooting in the city limits than lose so many hours from needed rest.
I hastened to procure my shot-gun, determined to make a scattering amongst them, if nothing more. As I reached the casement, a bright flash from the window of an adjoining house, and a simultaneous patter of shot in the yard, informed me that some co-sufferer had taken the initiative in the good work of demolition; for though wrought to the highest pitch of ferocity, his nerves were steady and his aim was sure.
He evidently hit them where their nine lives were centered, and they dropped as they stood when the fatal tube was leveled. In short—
They died as erring cats should die—
Without a kick, without a cry;
The faintest rustle in the chips,