Pelle leapt into action. Scared out of his wits, he darted this way and that. There was no way out! The doors were closed every which way he turned.
So Pelle set to with the all-time loudest yowl he could muster. If you’ve ever heard a cat really yowl properly, then maybe you can imagine how Pelle was yowling now.
Birgitta’s Papa woke up. And then Birgitta’s Mama woke up.
‘What an awful sound that cat is making,’ said Papa. ‘What can possibly be the matter with him?’
‘You had best go and see,’ said Mama. ‘Maybe there are robbers in the kitchen.’
Papa crept out in his clogs, and you can imagine his alarm when he opened the kitchen door and was hit by the smoke and flames. Pelle wasted no time skittering out, and Birgitta’s Papa raced for the telephone and called the fire brigade.
What a commotion! The fire engines arrived, sirens sounding, whistles blowing; the whole building was woken up, blinds flew up, windows opened, faces peered out. Well, the fire turned out not to be too serious. The flames had not spread beyond the kitchen, and they were soon put out by the trusty firemen.
*
But the next day, such a fuss was made over Pelle that he felt really quite embarrassed. Everybody stroked him and patted him and called him a ‘good little puss’. And in the afternoon, the whole family gathered in the living room. Pelle thought everybody looked very formal. ‘I wonder what’s going on?’ he thought, as he sat with Birgitta.
Then Birgitta’s Papa sat down at the piano and played a very boisterous march. ‘That’s not a particularly pleasant noise,’ thought Pelle. But then Birgitta went to stand in the middle of the room, clutching Pelle. Her father stood up in front of her and, speaking in a very formal voice, said:
‘My dear Pelle! Because of your quick-thinking intervention this very night, you prevented a most serious fire, and accordingly, I hereby present you with this medal.’
And with that, he attached a golden medal to Pelle’s silk collar. On the medal read the words, FOR DISTINGUISHED SERVICES. Birgitta had bought it in a toy store for twenty-five cents. Birgitta’s brother, Olle, blew a fanfare on the trumpet he had received for Christmas, and then Papa shook Pelle’s paw.
Pelle thought the whole thing was a little peculiar, but of course he felt very proud of himself and was quite delighted. Still, the best came later when he was given a bowl of wonderful, rich cream. He lapped it up with his rosy pink tongue, so it sprayed in every direction.
4
Have you seen the cat who brags about his money?
But that medal ended up causing a whole heap of trouble.
It all started when Pelle No-Tail went out one morning and came across Måns, the local tomcat who lived in one of the neighbouring houses.
Måns stood and eyed Pelle off.
‘What sort of a coin is that you’ve got dangling from your collar?’ said Måns.
‘It’s not a coin,’ said Pelle. ‘It’s a medal. And I received it because I put out a fire.’
Måns laughed, sneering.
‘You!’ he said. ‘You put out a fire? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard! But I’m here to tell you, you’d better take that coin off, because it looks stupid.’
‘I was given the medal by Birgitta’s Papa,’ said Pelle, ‘and I’m planning on wearing it just as long as I like.’
‘Jaså, is that so?’ said Måns, slowly and deliberately. ‘Jaså, you’re not going to take off the coin. Well, we’ll see how that turns out.’
And so Måns went on his way with a nasty snarl. And when he had gone a little further, he turned around and hissed, and said once more:
‘WE’LL SEE HOW THAT TURNS OUT.’
Pelle just stood there and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye with his paw. He couldn’t understand why Måns thought his medal looked silly.
Måns was not a nice cat. He liked nothing better than to stir up trouble where he could. So now he went to track down two other cats by the names of Bill and Bull, who lived in an old shed in a backyard, and to them he said:
‘There’s a snooty little cat hanging around the streets with a coin around his neck. It looks stupid, and we’ve got to put a stop to it. What are we going to do?’
Bill drew his forehead into a deep frown and Bull scratched himself thoughtfully behind his ear with his paw.
‘This here is serious,’ said Bill.
‘Yep, this here is a serious matter,’ said Bull. You see, Bull would always repeat what Bill said, except that he would change the words a little.
‘Something has to be done,’ said Måns.
‘But what?’ said Bill.
‘Yes, what’s to be done?’ said Bull.
‘I know!’ shouted Måns suddenly. ‘We’ll write a letter to the editor! We must make sure every cat hears about it! We must make an example of him!’
(This was a very fancy expression that Måns had come across only the previous day at the annual general meeting of the C.F.F.H. Alliance. Just so you know, C.F.F.H. stands for Cats For Fresh Herring.)
Now, you’ll know what a letter to the editor is. It’s a short letter that grown-ups usually write to the newspaper, where they complain that banana peels are lying around on the streets and that the trams are too full and other such things, and then those letters are printed in the newspapers and the grown-ups think it’s a bit of a lark, because it makes them feel like they’re real authors. Cats have their own newspaper now, which is called The Daily Whisker, and it’s so small we humans can’t see it, not even with a magnifying glass. Anyway, cats can write their own letters to the editor of The Daily Whisker, just like humans write in to their newspapers.
And so Måns wrote a letter to the editor and when all the cats in town opened their newspapers the next morning, this is what they read:
OFFENSIVE CAT
Dear Sir!
There is a cat about town who is going around with a coin hanging from his neck looking stuck up. Such a thing should not be allowed. What’s more, this cat does not even have a tail. I ask you: what is more desirable? To have money or to have a tail? Truly, he who has no tail has nothing to boast about. I strongly urge all cats to gather at Slottsbacken at seven o’clock tomorrow morning when the cat takes his morning stroll, to protest against his irritatingly boastful manner.
Signed: Friend of the public peace.
Pelle was so little he hadn’t yet subscribed to The Daily Whisker, and anyway, he hadn’t yet learnt to read, so he didn’t suspect a thing when he headed out for his usual walk the next morning. He had had his saucer of milk and felt content and full, and he was wearing his medal.
As was his habit, Pelle made his way to Slottsbacken. He liked it there, and there were lots of trees to climb for a quick escape should any silly dog suddenly appear.
Pelle sauntered along, sniffing here and there at a rock or at a twig or at a scrap of paper. There wasn’t another cat to be seen, nor a single dog nor human being. Everything was beautiful and peaceful.
But suddenly he heard a nasty yowl, and out from behind a tree poked the head of a cat, and then another poked out, and another, and another. And before Pelle could have counted to three, had he been able to count, he was surrounded by twenty, thirty cats – black cats and white cats, grey and brown and tabby cats – all looking angry, and from every direction came a low snarling.
Pelle crouched down and felt even smaller than he really was.
But now all the cats joined paws and danced in a circle around Pelle, singing:
Have you seen the cat
Who brags about his money?
What a beating he deserves,
He looks so stupid it’s quite funny!
He’s horribly stuck up,
It’s enough to make you sick,
So we’re going to snatch his coin
And then give it the flick.
And then they rushed at poor Pelle and tore off his silk collar with the medal. Pelle didn’t stand a chance at defending himself against such a h
orde of big cats.
‘Oh! What a careless pussycat you are to have lost your medal,’ said Birgitta to him when he came home. ‘Well, you know what, puss, you’ll just have to go without it from now on.’
‘Miaow,’ said Pelle, and thought to himself that all in all, it was quite nice not to have that medal dingle-dangling around his neck.
5
Adventure on Easter Saturday
All of a sudden it was Easter.
Birgitta was setting the table for dinner on Easter Saturday, and Pelle was helping. That’s to say, he was sitting on a chair, looking very interested. He craned his neck and saw how Birgitta was setting out little yellow chickens here and there on the table. They really looked very pretty, those chickens: it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to play catch with them one day. Pelle tilted his head to one side and looked, pleadingly, at Birgitta. Couldn’t she give him just one little chicken to play with?
No, it didn’t look as if she wanted to do that. But just then, she happened to drop a chicken and quick as a flash, Pelle too was on the floor, knocking it across to the other side of the room with his paw. And Pelle was after it. He was almost as fast as the chicken, and now he took it between his front paws, juggling it, biting and tearing at it until it looked quite badly ruffled. Then he left it in peace for a little while and took a few steps backwards. He arched his back and kneaded the floor with his paws eagerly, and then he took a mighty leap, aiming straight for the poor yellow chicken, who looked so miserable lying there on the floor.
‘Really, Pelle!’ cried Birgitta, ‘You’re being so mean to the poor chicken!’
‘Pffft, it’s hardly as if it’s alive!’ thought Pelle, but he was very well brought up, so he left the yellow scrap of a thing and went to wrap himself around Birgitta’s leg to show her he really was a nice cat. Birgitta patted him, and Pelle nudged her with his little head, as cats do, when they want to be affectionate.
Later it was time for lunch. And when the eggs were put on the table, Birgitta said:
‘There really should be some rhymes on the eggs. Now everybody’s going to have to come up with a rhyme instead. Papa, you start.’
‘Ojojoj,’ sighed her father. ‘Isn’t it enough that we have our rhymes with our pudding on Christmas Eve?’
‘No, no!’ said Birgitta, ‘You have to make up rhymes on Easter Saturday too. Hurry up, Papa!’
Papa looked all serious and gloomy.
‘If you want salt on your egg …,’ he said slowly. And then there was a long silence.
‘You’ll have to beg!’ Mama finished the rhyme off.
‘Thank you,’ said Papa. ‘That’s me done!’
‘No! That’s cheating!’ cried Birgitta. ‘Papa’s supposed to come up with the whole rhyme himself!’
‘Ojojoj,’ groaned Papa. ‘That was difficult, that one. But wait – now I have a good rhyme.’
Egg will not be smeared
On my venerable beard.
‘But Papa doesn’t have a beard,’ said Olle. ‘Papa doesn’t even have a moustache. So, really, that’s cheating too.’
‘Well, anyway, Papa can be excused from doing any more rhymes,’ said Birgitta, ‘because we don’t want to tire him out. Now it’s Mama’s turn.’
Mama’s rhyme came out quickly and easily:
Eggs are healthy, eggs are good,
Like bread ’n’ butter and other food.
‘Well, “good” doesn’t really rhyme with “food”,’ said Birgitta. ‘But it will have to do. Now it’s Olle’s turn.’
Olle waxed lyrical:
It’s time for eggs, folks, this is the place.
But don’t end up with yolk on your face.
‘Well, you won’t if you wipe it off with your napkin,’ said Birgitta. And then she came up with her own rhyme:
Eating eggs will keep you fed
In a castle or a shed.
Pelle was the only one who wasn’t asked. But he came up with a rhyme of his own as he sat in his basket and this is how it went:
Eggs I’m happy to live without
But cream I love, there is no doubt!
*
That afternoon there was a terrible commotion. Pelle had disappeared! He was nowhere to be found. Birgitta looked for him in wardrobes and cupboards, on top of shelves and under furniture.
‘He must be somewhere in the apartment,’ said Papa. ‘We saw him at lunch, and since then, nobody has opened the door out to the hall.’
‘But just think! What if he has fallen out of a window!’ sobbed Birgitta.
‘Yes, well, if that were the case, he would first have had to open the window himself,’ said Papa. ‘No, don’t be alarmed, my darling. Pelle will crawl back out from somewhere soon, you’ll see. And now it’s time for you and Olle to have your Easter present from Papa.’
And with that, Papa went to fetch a huge bag he had in his room.
In the bag were two of those enormous multicoloured papier-mâché eggs. Papa lifted them out and laid them on the table.
‘There are all sorts of delicious goodies in there, you’ll see,’ said Papa. ‘One is for Birgitta and the other is for Olle.’
But hardly had Papa finished speaking when one of the eggs started to wobble about. Then, in the most curious manner, it started to roll across the table all of its own accord. And from within the egg could be heard a steady yowling.
‘What … in … the … world!’ exclaimed Papa, who hurried to pull the two halves of the egg apart. Out jumped Pelle No-Tail. A small, frightened, tousled Pelle No-Tail!
Birgitta snatched him into her arms and kissed him so forcefully on his nose that she made Pelle sneeze.
How had Pelle ended up in the egg?
Jo, well, it was very simple. Olle had been up to mischief and had played a practical joke. He had been snooping around in the bags in Papa’s bedroom, and had pulled out all the chocolate and sweets from that papier-mâché egg and had stuffed Pelle No-Tail back into it instead. It wasn’t a very nice thing to do. But Olle had at least shown a degree of good sense by poking some air holes into the egg, so poor Pelle could breathe.
And for that Olle escaped a drubbing. But he missed out on the chocolate and lollies.
And Pelle? Well, he received an extra saucer of rich cream.
6
Off to the country!
‘On Saturday we’re driving out to the country. The whole family,’ said Papa as they sat at the dining table one day in June.
‘Hurray!’ cried Birgitta and clapped her hands.
‘Awesome!’ said Olle, brandishing a potato. (He had just come across the rather splendid word ‘awesome’.)
Pelle No-Tail lay in his basket and pricked up his ears. A drive out to the country – that sounded like fun. ‘I wonder if I’ll be allowed to go too,’ thought Pelle. ‘I really hope they count me as part of “the family”. What if they leave me all alone here in town? It won’t be much fun moping around here on my own all summer with the mothballs and rolled-up carpets.’ Pelle swallowed and licked his nose as he always did when he was feeling anxious or crestfallen. But then he thought, ‘It couldn’t hurt to show a little extra affection.’ So he jumped out of his basket and went to wrap himself around his master’s leg.
The master of the house picked Pelle up and said to him, ‘It will be fun for you to come out to the country, Pelle.’
‘Marvellous,’ thought Pelle. ‘I can go with them!’
‘But just remember, Pelle,’ said Birgitta, ‘you’re not allowed to graze too much, because when cats eat grass, it rains, and we want beautiful weather every day. Promise me, Pelle, that you won’t eat too much grass when you’re out in the meadows.’
‘What a lot of nonsense she’s talking,’ thought Pelle. ‘As if I would eat grass! I’m not a cow, am I? No, no, I’ll just hold out for the milk – and perhaps one or two rats, of course. I’m not going to be the one responsible for any rain, no, indeed!’
All of that ran through Pelle’s head, but all
he said was ‘MIAOW’, because he didn’t usually say any more when he was talking to humans.
*
Now there was an enormous amount of packing. Papa packed his pipe and some books, Mama packed clothes and cooking pots, Birgitta packed Lisa, her dolly, and Lisa’s bed, and Olle packed caps for his cap gun and sneezing powder and a book about American Indians called Stealthy Panther’s Secret. (Mama also packed his German grammar book.)
‘Poor me! What am I going to put my things in?’ thought Pelle, looking melancholy. He had a red and yellow ball that he was terribly fond of, and he had an old scrap of leather that he used to play ‘rats’ with from time to time. Those were the things he really would like to take with him, but he didn’t have even the smallest little bag to put them in. It was all very troubling.
But then it was exactly as if Birgitta had heard Pelle’s thoughts. Because along she came with an old rucksack, and said, ‘You can have this to pack your things into, Pelle. And perhaps it would be best if I help you.’ And so into the bag she packed the ball and the scrap of leather and several other bits and pieces. Pelle was so happy he purred a little. And you can just imagine how proud he was to have his own backpack. There can’t have been a single other cat who had one, that’s for certain!
7
Pelle No-Tail takes the train
And then it was Saturday and the family was heading off.
Pelle didn’t think the railway station was much fun. There was such a hullabaloo with people coming and going, and enormous, frightful-looking trains pulling in. But worst of all was a sign Pelle happened to see. It was hanging in the window of a train compartment, and on it was written: FOR TRAVELLERS WITH DOGS. ‘That’s particularly stupid,’ thought Pelle, ‘Why would dogs even be taking the train? And having a separate compartment just for them is really making an unnecessary fuss. There’s no sign that says: FOR TRAVELLERS WITH CATS.’
The Adventures of Pelle No-Tail Page 2