"Not a bad idea, for a youngster," said Twinkletoes pleasantly.
The two edged a little nearer the warm bricks and waited, purring a bumble-y duet to pass the time. "Just look at that moon!" sighed Twinkletoes, still musically inclined. "Got whiskers or something, hasn't it?" asked Whitey staring curiously at the illuminated clock-face. Where he sat the moon was hidden by the chimney and invisible to him.
"And it's sitting down on the tower!"
Stretching his neck excitedly that he might better see what made it act so, he caught sight of the real moon and instantly subsided into the meekest pussy that ever roamed a roof. "I—I don't understand December moons very well," he apologized.
"So I see," Twinkletoes replied. "But how about your early birds? Hello! Your moon's whiskers say that it's after five o'clock, and that's not early for birds. Now that I think of it, I don't believe they get up till later—at least in December." Whitey was tired—this was the "last straw." "Early birds!" he snorted, "early fiddlesticks! after five o'clock—just shows how much a cat may believe!" And he started home. Mr. Twinkletoes followed lazily, observing calmly, "I think the early milkman will be good enough for me!"
Great Panjandrum.
The cats had just been punished for trying to catch the canary and were cross because of it.