After I had finished reading "The Nursery" to my little Willy to-night, he said, "Please, mamma, now tell me the story about the cat you had when you were a little girl; then I will go to bed."
When I had told him the story, as I have told it a great many times before, he said, "Mamma, why don't you send that story to 'The Nursery,' so that some other little boy can hear it too?"
"Why, Willie!" said I: "do you think it is enough of a story to put in print?"
"Of course I do!" said he. "I like it; and I ought to know what little boys like. Now, promise me to send it; and then I will go to bed." So I promised.
And now that my little boy has said his prayers, and is nicely tucked in bed, I will write out the story, hoping it will amuse some other little Willy as much as it does mine.
Here it is, just as I tell it to him:—
When I was quite young, I had a cat to which I gave the name of Becky. I know nothing of her very early history, for she was a sober pussy when she was given to me; but she soon became a great pet in the family, and seemed very fond of us all, particularly of my father.
She always showed great delight when he came home after a long absence. She would put her paws on his shoulders, and rub his face, and purr in a most contented manner. She would never eat a mouse until she had first carried it to him; and after he had stroked her, and called her a good pussy, she would go away quite happy.
After a time she had two beautiful kittens. When they were large enough to follow her about, I used to give them warm milk from the pail that was brought in from milking; but one morning, when the pail was set on the floor, the kittens were too hungry to wait for the milk to be dipped out for them, and, putting their paws on the side of the pail, began to lap from the top