by Edith Nesbit
“Oh!” said the black kitten and the yellow, trying to look as if they understood. But the white one did not say anything, because it had gone to sleep again.
“Well,” the mother went on, “after a while they took me to live in the farm-house. And I should have liked it well enough, only they had a low habit of locking up the dairy and the pantry. Well, it would be tiresome to go into the whole story; however, I soon finished my life at the farm-house and went to live in the stable. It was very pleasant there. Horses are excellent company. That was my third life. My fourth was at the miller’s. He came one day to buy some corn; he saw me, and admired me — as, indeed, every one has always done. He and the farmer were disputing about the price of the corn, and at last the miller said —
“‘Look’ here; you shall have your price if you’ll throw me that cat into the bargain.’”
The kittens all shuddered. “What is a bargain? Is it like a pond? And were you thrown in?”
“I was thrown in, I believe. But a bargain is not like a pond; though I heard the two men talk of ‘wetting’ the bargain. But I suppose they did not do it, for I arrived at the mill quite dry. That was a very pleasant life — full of mice!”
“Who was full of mice?” asked the white kitten, waking up for a moment.
“I was,” said the mother sharply; “and I should have stayed in the mill for ever, but the miller had another cat sent him by his sister.
“However, he gave me away to a man who worked a barge up and down the river. I suppose he thought he should like to see me again sometimes as the barge passed by.
“Life in a barge is very exciting. There are such lots of rats, some of them as big as you kittens. I got quite clever at catching them, though sometimes they made a very good fight for it. I used to have plenty of milk, and I slept with the bargee in his warm little bunk, and of nights I sat and toasted myself in front of his fire in the small, cosy cabin. He was very fond of me, and used to talk to me a great deal. It is so lonely on a barge that you are glad of a little conversation. He was very kind to me, and I was very grieved when he married a lady who didn’t like cats, and who chased me out of the barge with a barge-pole.”
“What is a barge-pole?” the yellow kitten asked lazily.
“The only leg a barge has. I ran away into the woods, and there I lived on birds and rabbits.”
“What are rabbits?”
“Something like cats with long ears; very wholesome and nutritious. And I should have liked my sixth life very much, but for the keeper. No, don’t interrupt to ask what a keeper is. He is a man who, when he meets a cat or a rabbit, points a gun at it, and says ‘Bang!’ so loud that you die of fright.”
“How horrible!” said all the kittens.
“I was looking out for my seventh life, and also for the gamekeeper, and was sitting by the river with both eyes and both ears open, when a little girl came by — a nice little girl in a checked pinafore.
“She stopped when she saw me, and called—’Pussy! pussy!’ So I went very slowly to her, and rubbed myself against her legs. Then she picked me up and carried me home in the checked pinafore. My seventh life was spent in a clean little cottage with this little girl and her mother. She was very fond of me, and I was as fond of her as a cat can be of a human being. Of course, we are never so unreasonably fond of them as they are of us.”
“Why not?” asked the yellow kitten, who was young and affectionate.
“Because they’re only human beings, and we are Cats,” returned the mother, turning her large, calm green eyes on Goldie, who said, “Oh!” and no more.
“Well, what happened then?” asked the black kitten, catching its mother’s eye.
“Sitting up, and beginning to wash the kitten’s face very hard indeed.”
“Well, one day the little girl put me into a basket, and carried me out. I was always a fine figure of a cat, and I must have been a good weight to carry. Several times she opened the basket to kiss and stroke me. The last time she did it we were in a room where a sick girl lay on a bed.
“‘I did not know what to bring you for your birthday,’ said my little girl, ‘so I’ve brought you my dear pussy.’
“The sick girl’s eyes sparkled with delight. She took me in her arms and stroked me. And though I do not like sick people, I felt flattered and pleased. But I only stayed a very little time with her.”
“Why?” asked all the kittens at once.
“Because —— but no; that story’s too sad for you children; I will tell it you when you’re older.”
“But that only makes eight lives,” said Sweep, who had been counting on his claws, “and you said you had nine. Which was the ninth?”
“Why, this, you silly child,” said the brindled pussy, sitting up, and beginning to wash the kitten’s face very hard indeed. “And as it’s my last life, I must be very careful of it. That’s why I’m so particular about what I eat and drink, and why I make a point of sleeping so many hours a-day. But it’s your first life, Snowball, and I can’t have you wasting it all in sleep. Go and catch a mouse at once.”
“Yes, mamma,” said Snowball, and went to sleep again immediately.
“Ah!” said Mrs. Brindle, “I’ll wash you next. That’ll make you wake up, my dear.”
“Snowball’s always sleepy,” said the yellow kitten, stretching itself. “But, mamma dear, she doesn’t care for history, and yours was a very long tale.”
“You can’t have too much of a good thing,” said the mother, looking down at her long brindled tail. “If it’s a good tail, the longer it is the better.”
Doggy Tales
Tinker
MY name is Stumps, and my mistress is rather a nice little girl; but she has her faults, like most people. I myself, as it happens, am wonderfully free from faults. Among my mistress’s faults is what I may call a lack of dignity, joined to a desire to make other people undignified too.
You will hardly believe that, before I had belonged to her a month, she had made me learn to dance and to jump. I am a very respectable dachshund, of cobby build, and jumping is the very last exercise I should have taken to of my own accord. But when Miss Daisy said, “Now jump, Stumps; there’s a darling!” and held out her little arms, I could not well refuse. For, after all, the child is my mistress.
I never could understand why the cat was not taught to dance. It seemed to me very hard that, when I was having those long, miserable lessons, the cat should be allowed to sit down doing nothing but smile at my misfortunes. Trap always said we ought to feel honoured by being taught, and the reason why Pussy wasn’t asked to learn was because she was so dreadfully stupid, and had no brains for anything but the pleasures of the chase and the cares of a family; but I didn’t think that could be the reason, because the doll was taught to dance, though she never learned, and I am sure she was stupid enough.
Another thing which Miss Daisy taught me to do was to beg; and the action fills me with shame and pain every time I perform it, and as the years go on I hate it more and more.
For a stout, middle-aged dog, the action is absurd and degrading. Yet, such is the force of habit, that I go through the performance now quite naturally whenever I want anything. Trap does it too, and says what does it matter? but then he has no judgment, and, besides, he’s thin.
But one of the most thoughtless things my little mistress ever did was one day last summer when she was out without me. I chose to stay at home because it was very hot, and I knew that the roads would be dusty; and she was only going down to the village shop, where no one ever thinks of offering a dog anything to drink. If she had been going to the farm, I should, have gone with her, because the lady there shows proper attention to visitors, and always sets down a nice dish of milk for us dogs. Besides, I was a little unwell just then; the family had had duck for dinner, and I always feel a little faint after duck. All our family do. So I stayed at home. Well, Miss Daisy had gone out with only Trap and her hoop. I wish I had been there, for Trap is far too
easy-going, and a hoop never gives any advice worth listening to. Trap told me all about it as well as he could. Trap can’t tell a story very well, poor fellow!
It seems that, as Miss Daisy went across the village green, she saw a crowd of children running after a dog with — I hardly like to mention such a thing — a tin saucepan tied to his tail! The dog bolted into the empty dog-kennel by the blacksmith’s shop, and stayed there, growling.
“Go away, bad children,” said Miss Daisy; “how dare you treat a poor dear doggie so?”
The children wouldn’t go away at first. “Very well,” said Miss Daisy; “I shall tell Trap what I think of you all.”
Then she whispered to Trap, and he began to growl so fiercely that the children dared not come nearer. Any one can growl. Presently the children got tired of listening to him, and went away. Then Miss Daisy coaxed the unpleasant, tin-tailed creature out of the kennel, and untied the string, and took off the pan. Then, if you’ll believe a dog of my character (and of course you must), she carried that low dog home in her arms, and washed him, and set him down to eat out of the same plate as Trap and myself! Trap was friends with him directly — some people have no spirit — but I hope I know my duty to myself too well for that. I snarled at the base intruder till he was quite ashamed of himself. I knew from the first that he’d be taught jumping and begging, and things like that. I hate those things myself, but that’s no reason why every low dog should be taught them. Miss Daisy called him Tinker, because he once carried a tin pan about with him, and she tried very hard to make me friendly to him; but I can choose my own friends, I hope.
Every one made a great fuss about one thing he did, but actually it was nothing but biting; and if biting isn’t natural to a dog, I should like to know what is; and why people should be praised and petted, and have new collars, and everybody else’s share of the bones, only for doing what is quite natural to them, I have never been able to comprehend. Besides, barking is as good as biting, any day, and I’m sure I barked enough, though it wasn’t my business.
Miss Daisy had gone away to stay with her cousins in London, and she had taken Trap with her. Why she should have taken him instead of me is a matter on which I can offer no opinion. If my opinion had been asked, I should have said that I thought it more suitable for her to have a heavy middle-aged dog of good manners than a harum-scarum young stripling like Trap. Trap told me afterwards that he thought the reason he was taken was because Miss Daisy would have had more to pay for the dog-ticket of such a heavy dog as I am; but I can’t believe that dogs are charged for by the weight, like butter. As I was saying, Miss Daisy took Trap with her, and also her father and mother; and Tinker and I were left to take care of the servants. We had a very agreeable time, though I confess that I missed Miss Daisy more than I would have believed possible. But there was more to eat in the kitchen than usual, and the servants often left things on the table when they went out to take in the milk or to chat with the gardeners; and if people leave things on tables, they have only themselves to thank for whatever happens.
There was a young man who wore a fur cap, and who used to call with fish; and I was more surprised than I care to own when I met him walking out with cook one Sunday afternoon, for I thought she had a soul above fish; yet when the servants began to ask this young man to tea in the kitchen, I thought, of course, it must be all right, but Tinker would do nothing but growl the whole time the young man was there; so that at last cook had to lock us up in the butler’s pantry till the young man was gone. I had not growled, but I was locked in too. The world is full of injustice and ingratitude.
Now one night, when the servants went to bed, Tinker and I lay down in our baskets under the hall table as usual; but Tinker was dreadfully restless, which must have been only an accident, because he said himself he didn’t know what was the matter with him; and he would not go to sleep, but kept walking up and down as if he were going to hide a bone and couldn’t find a good place for it.
“Do lie down, for goodness’ sake, Tinker,” I said, “and go to sleep. Any one can see you have not been brought up in a house where regular hours are kept.”
“I can’t go to sleep; I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” he said gloomily.
Well, I tried to go to sleep myself, and I think I must almost have dropped off, when I heard a scrape-scraping from the butler’s pantry. I wasn’t going to bark. It wasn’t my business. I have often heard Miss Daisy’s relations say that I was no house-dog. Still, I think Tinker ought to have barked then, but he didn’t: only just pricked his ears and his tail; and he waited, and the scraping went on.
Then Tinker said to me—”Don’t you make a noise, for your life; I am going to see what it is;” and he trotted softly into the butler’s pantry. It was rather dark, but you know we dogs can see as well as cats in the dark, although they do make such a fuss about it, and declare that they are the only creatures who can.
“The man’s arm dragged through the window-pane, and Tinker hanging on to his fingers.”
There was a man outside the window, and I tapped Tinker with my tail to show him that he ought to bark, but he never moved. The man had been scraping and scraping till he had got out one of the window-panes. It was a very little window-pane, only just big enough for his hand to go through; and the man took out the window-pane and put his hand through, making a long arm to get at the fastening of the window; and just as he was going to undo the hasp, Tinker made a spring on to the window-ledge, and he caught the man’s hand in his mouth, and the man gave a push, and Tinker fell off the window-ledge, but he took the man’s hand with him; and there was the man’s arm dragged through the window-pane, and Tinker hanging on to his fingers.
The man broke some more panes and tried to get his other hand through, and if he had he would have done for Tinker, but he could not manage it; and now I thought “This is the time to bark,” and I barked. I barked my best, I barked nobly, though I am not a house-dog, and I don’t think it’s my business.
In less than a minute down came the gardener and the under-gardener: and Tinker was still holding on, and they took the man, and he was marched off to prison, and it turned out to be the man in the fur cap. But though they made fuss enough about Tinker’s share in the business, you may be sure it didn’t make me think much more of him.
I should never have had anything to say to him but for one thing. Early one morning we three dogs — it’s all over long ago, and I hope I can be generous and let bygones be bygones; he is one of us now — went out for a run in the paddock by the wood, and while Trap and I were trotting up and down chatting about the weather, that Tinker dog bolted into the wood, and in less than a minute came out with a rabbit.
I saw at once that he could never get it eaten before Miss Daisy came out, and I knew that, if he were found with it, his sufferings would be awful. So I helped him to eat it. I know my duty to a fellow-creature, I trust. It was a very young rabbit, and tender. Not too much fur. Fur gets in your throat, and spoils your teeth, besides. We had just finished it when my mistress came out. Trap would not eat a bit, even to help Tinker out of his scrape, but I have a kind heart.
Well, after that I thought I might as well consent to be friends with Tinker, in spite of his low breeding. You see, I had helped him out of a dreadful scrape, and one always feels kindly to people one has helped. He has caught several more rabbits since then, and I have always stood by him on those occasions, and I always mean to. I am not one to turn my back on a friend, I believe.
So now he has a collar like ours, and I hardly feel degraded at all when I sit opposite to him at the doll’s tea-parties.
Rats!
“HE has no nose,” said my master; “he is a handsome dog, but he has no nose.”
This annoyed me very much, for I have a nose — a very long, sharp, black nose. I wear tan boots and gloves, and my coat is a beautiful shiny black.
I am a Manchester terrier, and I fulfil the old instructions for such dogs. I am
> Neckèd like a drakè,
Headed like a snakè,
Tailed like a ratte,
And footed like a catte.
And then they said I had no nose.
But Kerry explained to me that my master did not mean to find fault with the shape of my nose, but that what he wanted to be understood was that I had no nose for smelling rats. Kerry has, and he is ridiculously vain of this accomplishment.
“And you have no nose, you know, old boy,” said Kerry; “why, you would let the rats run all over you and never know it.”
I turned up my nose — my beautiful, pointed, handsome nose — and walked away without a word.
A few weeks afterwards my master brought home with him some white rats. Kerry was out at the time, but my master showed me the rats through the bars of their cage. He also showed me a boot and a stick. Although I have no nose, I was clever enough to put two and two together. Did I mention that there were two rats?
We were not allowed to go in the study, either of us, and my master put the rats there in their cage on the table.
That night, when everybody had gone to bed, I said to Kerry, “I may have no nose, old man, but I smell rats.”
Kerry sniffed contemptuously.
“You!” said he, curling himself round in his basket; “I don’t believe you could smell an elephant if there were one in the dresser drawer.”
I kept my temper. “I am not feeling very well, Kerry,” I said gently, “or I would go and see myself. But I am sure there are rats; I smell them plainly; they seem to be in the study.”
“Go to sleep,” he said; “you’re dreaming, old man.”
“Why don’t you go and see?” I said. “If I didn’t feel so very faint, I would go myself.”
Kerry got out of his basket reluctantly. “I suppose I ought to go, if you are quite certain,” he said; and he went.
In less than a minute he returned to the kitchen, trembling all over with excitement.