A storm raged over the fields; all creatures fled for shelter—and Grey Puss had to hie her to the willow bole.
She shivered as she sat there with eyes half-closed and tail curled round her paws.... She was day-dreaming: it is early spring, and she lies in the shelter of the kitchen garden, sunning herself and rolling to and fro on the warm ground. Suddenly her old prize-fighter is sitting before her! She goes crazy with delight, and rolls with still greater abandon from side to side on her back.
He sits before her ready to spring....
A new, violent shower drummed on the old willow bole’s withered bark and tore her from her dreams. Wet spray from the raindrops splashed in her eyes....
She had never been a mother to kittens ... she had never had a grudge against the “cunning ones!” She thus deadens her conscience, for she is drawn irresistibly to the place where she was born and bred—to the shelter of the stall, the barn, or at a pinch, the roof.
That evening a red, flaming shaft of sunlight pierces the ragged horizon. Long, black wisps of cloud hang across the heavens and draw a veil over the frost-moon’s cold, curved sickle.
At midnight she makes her return to the farm, following the familiar path over the pigsty roof, through the trap-door, and up into the loft over the cow-stall. She feels the warm air enfold her; the sweet, delicious odour of hay and fresh, dry straw meets her nostrils. The soothing chewing of the cows sounds beneath her....
There comes a rustling in the straw—and the multicoloured he-cat steps forward and greets her with every sign of delight. He springs towards her and strokes his cheek lovingly along her side right from her neck to her tail.... She is welcome to the farm; she is home!
As she gazes at him, it seems suddenly as if the whole kitten flock is standing before her.