by L A Vocelle
In her upward eye of fire!
With a tiger-leap half-way
Now she meets the coming prey,
Lets it go as fast, and then
Has it in her power again:
Now she works with three or four,
Like an Indian conjurer;
Quick as he in feats of art,
Far beyond in joy of heart.
Were her antics played in the eye
Of a thousand standers-by,
Clapping hands with shout and stare,
What would little Tabby care
For the plaudits of the crowd?
Over happy to be proud,
Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure!
'Tis a pretty baby-treat;
Nor, I deem, for me unmeet;
Here, for neither Babe nor me,
Other play-mate can I see.
Of the countless living things,
That with stir of feet and wings
(In the sun or under shade,
Upon bough or grassy blade)
And with busy revellings,
Chirp and song, and murmurings,
Made this orchard's narrow space,
And this vale so blithe a place;
Multitudes are swept away
Never more to breathe the day:
Some are sleeping; some in bands
Travelled into distant lands;
Others slunk to moor and wood,
Far from human neighbourhood;
And, among the Kinds that keep
With us closer fellowship,
With us openly abide,
All have laid their mirth aside.
Where is he that giddy Sprite,
Blue-cap, with his colours bright,
Who was blest as bird could be,
Feeding in the apple-tree;
Made such wanton spoil and rout,
Turning blossoms inside out;
Hung--head pointing towards the ground--
Fluttered, perched, into a round
Bound himself, and then unbound;
Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin!
Prettiest Tumbler ever seen!
Light of heart and light of limb;
What is now become of Him?
Lambs, that through the mountains went
Frisking, bleating merriment,
When the year was in its prime,
They are sobered by this time.
If you look to vale or hill,
If you listen, all is still,
Save a little neighbouring rill,
That from out the rocky ground
Strikes a solitary sound.
Vainly glitter hill and plain,
And the air is calm in vain;
Vainly Morning spreads the lure
Of a sky serene and pure;
Creature none can she decoy
Into open sign of joy:
Is it that they have a fear
Of the dreary season near?
Or that other pleasures be
Sweeter even than gaiety?
Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell
In the impenetrable cell
Of the silent heart which Nature
Furnishes to every creature;
Whatsoe'er we feel and know
Too sedate for outward show,
Such a light of gladness breaks,
Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks,--
Spreads with such a living grace
O'er my little Dora's face;
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms
Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms,
That almost I could repine
That your transports are not mine,
That I do not wholly fare
Even as ye do, thoughtless pair!
And I will have my careless season
Spite of melancholy reason,
Will walk through life in such a way
That, when time brings on decay,
Now and then I may possess
Hours of perfect gladsomeness.
--Pleased by any random toy;
By a kitten's busy joy,
Or an infant's laughing eye
Sharing in the ecstasy;
I would fare like that or this,
Find my wisdom in my bliss;
Keep the sprightly soul awake,
And have faculties to take,
Even from things by sorrow wrought,
Matter for a jocund thought,
Spite of care, and spite of grief,
To gambol with Life's falling Leaf (Wordsworth, n.d., p. 255).
Not unlike William Wordsworth, the Scottish poet Joanna Baillie (1762-1851) was also a lover of nature and animal life. Baillie, a cat lover, was never married and lived with her sister for much of her adult life. Her poem The Kitten follows the life of a cat from its kitten-hood to old age, and it shares some similarities to Wordsworth’s The Kitten and Falling Leaves.
THE KITTEN
WANTON droll, whose harmless play
Beguiles the rustic's closing day,
When, drawn the evening fire about,
Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout,
And child upon his three-foot stool,
Waiting till his supper cool,
And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose,
As bright the blazing faggot glows,
Who, bending to the friendly light,
Plies her task with busy slight;
Come, shew thy tricks and sportive graces,
Thus circled round with merry faces.
Backward coiled and crouching low,
With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe,
The housewife’s spindle whirling round,
Or thread or straw that on the ground
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye;
Then stealing onward, fiercely spring
Upon the tempting faithless thing.
Now, wheeling round with bootless skill,
Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,
As still beyond thy curving side
Its jetty tip is seen to glide;
Till from thy centre starting far,
Thou sidelong veer'st with rump in air
Erected stiff, and gait awry,
Like madam in her tantrums high;
Though ne'er a madam of them all,
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall,
More varied trick and whim displays
To catch the admiring stranger's gaze.
Doth power in measured verses dwell,
All thy vagaries wild to tell?
Ah no!--the start, the jet, the bound,
The giddy scamper round and round,
With leap and toss and high curvet,
And many a whirling somerset,
(Permitted by the modern muse
Expression technical to use)
These mock the deftest rhymester's skill,
But poor in art though rich in will.
The featest tumbler, stage bedight,
To thee is but a clumsy wight,
Who every limb and sinew strains
To do what costs thee little pains;
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd
Requite him oft with plaudits loud.
But, stopped the while thy wanton play,
Applauses too thy pains repay:
For then, beneath some urchin’s hand
With modest pride thou takest thy stand,
While many a stroke of kindness glides
Along thy back and tabby sides.
Dilated swells thy glossy fur,
And loudly croons thy busy pur,
As, timing well the equal sound,
Thy clutching feet bepat the ground,
And all their harmless claws disclose
Like prickles of an early rose,
While softly from thy whiskered cheek
Thy half-closed eyes peer, mild and meek.
But not alone by cottage fire
Do rustics rude thy feats admire.
The learned sage, whose thoughts explore
The widest range of human lore,
Or with unfettered fancy fly
Through airy heights of poesy,
Pausing smiles with altered air
To see thee climb his elbow-chair,
Or, struggling on the mat below,
Hold warfare with his slippered toe.
The widowed dame or lonely maid,
Who, in the still but cheerless shade
Of home unsocial, spends her age
And rarely turns a lettered page,
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall
The rounded cork or paper ball,
Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch,
The ends of ravelled skein to catch,
But lets thee have thy wayward will,
Perplexing oft her better skill.
Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent,
In lonely tower or prison pent,
Reviews the coil of former days,
And loathes the world and all its ways,
What time the lamp's unsteady gleam
Hath roused him from his moody dream,
Feels, as thou gambol'st round his seat,
His heart of pride less fiercely beat,
And smiles, a link in thee to find,
That joins it still to living kind.
Whence hast thou then, thou witless puss!
The magic power to charm us thus?
Is it that in thy glaring eye
And rapid movements, we descry--
Whilst we at ease, secure from ill,
The chimney corner snugly fill--
A lion darting on his prey,
A tiger at his ruthless play?
Or is it that in thee we trace
With all thy varied wanton grace,
An emblem, viewed with kindred eye,
Of tricky, restless infancy?
Ah! many a lightly sportive child,
Who hath like thee our wits beguiled,
To dull and sober manhood grown,
With strange recoil our hearts disown.
And so, poor kit! must thou endure,
When thou becomest a cat demure,
Full many a cuff and angry word,
Chased roughly from the tempting board.
But yet, for that thou hast, I ween,
So oft our favoured play-mate been,
Soft be the change which thou shalt prove!
When time hath spoiled thee of our love,
Still be thou deemed by housewife fat
A comely, careful, mousing cat,
Whose dish is, for the public good,
Replenished oft with savoury food.
Nor, when thy span of life is past,
Be thou to pond or dung-hill cast,
But, gently borne on goodman's spade,
Beneath the decent sod be laid;
And children shew with glistening eyes
The place where poor old Pussy lies
(Baille, 1840, p. 194).
The cranky cynic Mark Twain (1835-1910), kept the company of up to 19 cats at a time with such names as Sour Mash, Appollinaris, Zoraster, Blatherkite, and Beelzebub, preferring their company to that of humankind. There are quite a few quotations attributed to Twain regarding cats, as well as a few photos of him with his feline companions. One photo appearing in a magazine shows him playing billiards accompanied by a kitten who sits on the table and tries to stop the balls as they approach the corner pocket (figure 8.24).Twain writes in a letter, “If I can find a photograph of my ‘Tammany’ and her kittens, I will enclose it in this. One of them likes to be crammed into a corner-pocket of the billiard table---which he fits as snugly as does a finger in a glove and then he watches the game (and obstructs it) by the hour, and spoils many a shot by putting out his paw and changing the direction of a passing ball.”
A well-known incident proving Twain’s true love of cats occurred when Bambino (figure 8.25), who had been a gift from his daughter Clara, disappeared. Twain put a “Lost Cat” ad in the New York American offering a $5 reward for his return with this description:
Mark Twain Has Lost a Black Cat.
From the New York American. Have you seen a distinguished looking cat that looks as if it might be lost? If you have take it to Mark Twain, for it may be his.
Figure 8.24. Mark Twain with Kitten Playing Pool, Courtesy of the Mark Twain Project, The Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley
The following advertisement was received at the American office Saturday night:
A CAT’S LOST - FIVE DOLLARS REWARD for his restoration to Mark Twain, No. 21 Fifth Avenue. Large and intensely black; thick, velvety fur; has a faint fringe of white hair across his chest; not easy to find in ordinary light.
- reprint in Kansas City Star, April 5, 1905
Katy Leary, who worked for Twain, recounts the incident in her book, A Lifetime with Mark Twain.
“One night he got kind of gay, when he heard some cats calling from the back fence, so he found a window open and he stole out. We looked high and low but couldn’t find him. Mr. Clemens felt so bad that he advertised in all the papers for him. He offered a reward for anybody that would bring the cat back. My goodness! The people that came bringing cats to that house! A perfect stream! They all wanted to see Mr. Clemens, of course.
Two or three nights after, Katherine heard a cat meowing across the street in General Sickles’ back yard, and there was Bambino — large as life! So she brought him right home. Mr. Clemens was delighted and then he advertised that his cat was found! But the people kept coming just the same with all kinds of cats for him — anything to get a glimpse of Mr. Clemens!” (Lawton, 2003/1925)
His daughter Clara writes of Bambino in My Father, Mark Twain:
“In the early autumn Father rented a house on Fifth Avenue, corner of Ninth Street, number 21, where he, Jean, the faithful Katie, and the secretary settled down for the winter. I was taken to a sanatorium for a year. During the first months of my cure I was completely cut off from friends and family, with no one to speak to but the doctor and nurse. I must modify this statement, however, for I had smuggled a black kitten into my bedroom, although it was against the rules of the sanatorium to have any animals in the place. I called the cat Bambino and it was permitted to remain with me until the unfortunate day when it entered one of the patient’s rooms who hated cats. Bambino came near giving the good lady a cataleptic fit, so I was invited to dispose of my pet after that. I made a present of it to Father, knowing he would love it, and he did. A little later I was allowed to receive a limited number of letters, and Father wrote that Bambino was homesick for me and refused all meat and milk, but contradicted his statement a couple of days later saying: “It has been discovered that the reason your cat declines milk and meat and lets on to live by miraculous intervention is, that he catches mice privately” (Clemens, 1931).
Twain summed up the cat’s personality in his short story, The Refuge of the Derelicts (1905), “That’s the way with a cat, you know -- any cat; they don’t give a damn for discipline. And they can’t help it, they’re made so. But it ain’t really insubordination, when you come to look at it right and fair – it’s a word that don’t apply to a cat. A cat ain’t ever anybody’s slave or serf or servant, and can’t be -- it ain’t in him to be. And so, he don’t have to obey anybody. He is the only creature in heaven or earth or anywhere that don't have to obey somebody or other, including the angels. It sets him above the whole ruck, it puts him in a class by himself. He is independent. You understand the size of it? He is the only independent person there is. In heaven or anywhere else. There’s always somebody a king has to obey -- a trollop, or a priest, or a ring, or a nation, or a deity or what not -- but it ain’t so with a cat. A cat ain’t servant nor slave to anybody at all. He’s got all the independence there is, in Heaven or anywhere else, there ain’t any left over fo
r anybody else. He’s your friend, if you like, but that’s the limit -- equal terms, too, be you king or be you cobbler; you can’t play any I’m-better-than-you on a cat -- no, sir! Yes, he’s your friend, if you like, but you got to treat him like a gentleman, there ain’t any other terms. The minute you don’t, he pulls freight” (Twain, 1980, p. 282).
Figure 8.25. Twain’s Cat Bambino, Courtesy of the Mark Twain Project, The Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley
The tormented American poet and writer Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849), had a beloved pet cat named Catterina. Catterina often perched on his shoulders while he wrote as if overseeing his work and would remain there, observed a visitor, “—purring as if in complacent approval of the work proceeding under [her] supervision”. Catterina also kept Poe’s wife Virginia, who was dying of tuberculosis, company by lying next to her in bed. Poe acknowledged that Catterina was “—one of the most remarkable black cats in the world---and this is saying much; for it will be remembered that black cats are all of them witches” (Poe, 1978, p. 479).
However, it was perhaps on his cat Peter that Poe based his character Pluto in The Black Cat (1843). An excerpt from Poe’s novel has the narrator stating, “Pluto—this was the cat’s name- was my favorite pet and playmate. I alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went about the house. It was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from following me through the streets.” Originally a genteel man, the narrator becomes an alcoholic and starts to abuse his once beloved black cat, Pluto. The clever cat then begins to avoid him, and when the narrator tries to grab him, the cat naturally scratches him, and in retaliation the narrator gouges out one of his eyes. The narrator, in a fit of guilt at the realization of how cruelly corrupted he had become, eventually hangs the once loved cat. Not long after this horrendous crime, another almost identical black cat appears. At first, the narrator is pleased to have a new cat, but he soon becomes fearful when it persists on showing him its feline affection. He guiltily thinks that it is persecuting him for his previous crime, understanding the natural behavior of the cat as a threat. In the narrator’s eyes the cat is Pluto’s reincarnation and is seeking revenge. Ironically, it is his fear of this cat that causes him to commit the crime that will destroy him. As he goes downstairs, the cat weaves between his legs and drives the narrator to attempt to hit the defenseless animal with an axe. As his wife grabs his arm to stop him, he swings at her as well and accidentally kills her. He hides her body behind the cellar wall and would have gotten away with the murder if the cat, who had been accidentally walled up with her, had not alerted the police by its crying. The cat is an avenger that leads the narrator to murder his wife. The cat here is seen as a supernatural being, an evil agent of satan. However, it is the narrator’s evil passions, not the cat’s that bring him to his unfortunate end (Rogers, 2006, pp. 65-66).