“Father, I have done some mischief, but I didn’t mean to,” said Whistler, with some hesitation.
“What now?—some more of your heedlessness?” inquired his father.
Whistler related his unhappy attempt at a joke, and its sad sequel.
“Well,” said his father, when he had finished his confession, “that was very bright in you, I must confess. Didn’t you know that cats have lungs, and can’t live without air? What has become of all the physiology you have learned at school and at home? Couldn’t you put enough of it in practice to save that poor kitten’s life?”
Whistler was silent. He was almost as much astonished as his father at his own thoughtlessness, for his parents had taken unusual pains to impress upon his mind some of the great laws of health, foremost among which was the necessity of an abundant supply of pure air. He could explain the uses of the lungs; he could name the gases of which air is composed; he knew that a pair of human lungs need a hogshead of fresh air every hour, to sustain health; and yet it did not occur to him that a kitten would suffer, and perhaps die, if shut up in a box but little larger than itself, and nearly air-tight.
“Well, it can’t be helped now; but be more careful hereafter,” added Mr. Davenport.
“Had I better tell Sissy the kitten is dead, or would you say nothing about it to her?” inquired Whistler.
“Yes, go at once and tell her about it, and don’t keep her in suspense any longer,” replied his father.
Whistler promptly obeyed, breaking the news as gently as possible to his little sister; but, in spite of his precautions, she gave vent to a flood of tears, and refused to be comforted. Poor kitty had one sincere mourner.