“John, you are not in earnest. Mrs. —— would never forgive any injury done to Tom, who is a great favourite.”
“Let her keep him at home, then. Think of the brute coming a mile through the woods to steal from us all he can find, and then sleeping off the effects of his depredations in the potato-pot.”
I could not help laughing, but I begged John by no means to annoy Emilia by hurting her cat.
The next day, while sitting in the parlour at work, I heard a dreadful squall, and rushed to the rescue. John was standing, with a flushed cheek, grasping a large stick in his hand, and Tom was lying dead at his feet.
“Oh, the poor cat!”
“Yes, I have killed him; but I am sorry for it now. What will Mrs. —— say?”
“She must not know it. I have told you the story of the pig that Jacob killed. You had better bury it with the pig.”
John was really sorry for having yielded, in a fit of passion, to do so cruel a thing; yet a few days after he got into a fresh scrape with Mrs. ——'s animals.
The hens were laying, up at the barn. John was very fond of fresh eggs, but some strange dog came daily and sucked the eggs. John had vowed to kill the first dog he found in the act. Mr. —— had a very fine bull-dog, which he valued very highly; but with Emilia, Chowder was an especial favourite. Bitterly had she bemoaned the fate of Tom, and many were the inquiries she made of us as to his sudden disappearance.
One afternoon John ran into the room. “My dear Mrs. Moodie, what is Mrs. ——'s dog like?”