But on the top of the hill Tiny sits on a stray sheaf and makes a grab with his paws at every maybug that hums its way past. He is waiting patiently for Black and Big to make a haul—when he hopes to get something more satisfying to eat.
The moon, which immediately after rising had dived into some black clouds, now thrusts its yellow-green face from its sombre garments and stares fixedly at White-kitten, who has just finished a cheese-rind left behind from the harvesters’ lunch.
White then discovers a tuft of grass, on which an old woman has recently been sitting—and begins rolling over and rubbing her back on the place.
Red is nowhere to be seen—probably out on one of her usual thieving raids in the village.
The full moon again veils herself; and then, peeping out for a moment, silhouettes the form of an old cat on the turf-house roof. The cat scrambles down the thatch and leaps to the ground—then sneaks off in the direction away from the kittens.
The kittens are now seldom seen together: each spends the day according to his bent, flitting along ditch and hedge, or nosing around farm and outhouse. They all find their own food, using the means best suited to their different natures and capabilities.
THE DEATH OF BOX
Grey Puss becomes lazier and lazier, and no longer takes the slightest interest in her offsprings’ food difficulties. Whereas formerly she used often to go hungry herself in order to feed her kittens, she now almost invariably devours her catch herself. Yes, it has even happened that, upon surprising one of the children with an extra tempting mouse, she has taken rather than given! She behaves all at once as if she were not their mother at all.
Through the regiment of withered thistle-tops lining the path by the marsh she patters peacefully along to the broad high road, where her grey coat soon disappears in the twilight.