Novel Notes [43]
of alarm. 'Great Scott, hark at that! Why, everybody will be down before I get in. Well, I can't help it. I must chance it.'
"He glances round at himself, and hesitates. 'I wouldn't mind if I didn't look so dirty and untidy,' he muses; 'people are so prone to think evil in this world.'
"'Ah, well,' he adds, giving himself a shake, 'there's nothing else for it, I must put my trust in Providence, it's pulled me through before: here goes.'
"He assumes an aspect of chastened sorrow, and trots along with a demure and saddened step. It is evident he wishes to convey the idea that he has been out all night on work connected with the Vigilance Association, and is now returning home sick at heart because of the sights that he has seen.
"He squirms in, unnoticed, through a window, and has just time to give himself a hurried lick down before he hears the cook's step on the stairs. When she enters the kitchen he is curled up on the hearthrug, fast asleep. The opening of the shutters awakes him. He rises and comes forward, yawning and stretching himself.
"'Dear me, is it morning, then?' he says drowsily. 'Heigh-ho! I've had such a lovely sleep, cook; and such a beautiful dream about poor mother.'
"Cats! do you call them? Why, they are Christians in everything except the number of legs."
"They certainly are," I responded, "wonderfully cunning little animals, and it is not by their moral and religious instincts alone that they are so closely linked to man; the marvellous ability they display in taking care of 'number one' is worthy of the human race itself. Some friends of mine had a cat, a big black Tom: they have got half of him still. They had reared him from a kitten, and, in their homely, undemonstrative way, they liked him. There was nothing, however, approaching passion on either side.
"One day a Chinchilla came to live in the neighbourhood, under the charge of an elderly spinster, and the two cats met at a garden wall party.
"'What sort of diggings have you got?' asked the Chinchilla.
"'Oh, pretty fair.'
"'Nice people?'
"'Yes, nice enough--as people go.'
"'Pretty willing? Look after you well, and all that sort of thing?'
"'Yes--oh yes. I've no fault to find with them.'
"'What's the victuals like?'
"'Oh, the usual thing, you know, bones and scraps, and a bit of dog- biscuit now and then for a change.'
"'Bones and dog-biscuits! Do you mean to say you eat bones?'
"'Yes, when I can get 'em. Why, what's wrong about them?'
"'Shade of Egyptian Isis, bones and dog-biscuits! Don't you ever get any spring chickens, or a sardine, or a lamb cutlet?'
"'Chickens! Sardines! What are you talking about? What are sardines?'
"'What are sardines! Oh, my dear child (the Chinchilla was a lady cat, and always called gentlemen friends a little older than herself 'dear child'), these people of yours are treating you just shamefully. Come, sit down and tell me all about it. What do they give you to sleep on?'
"'The floor.'
"'I thought so; and skim milk and water to drink, I suppose?'
"'It IS a bit thin.'
"'I can quite imagine it. You must leave these people, my dear, at once.'
"'But where am I to go to?'
"'Anywhere.'
"'But who'll take me in?'
"'Anybody, if you go the right way to work. How many times do you think I've changed my people? Seven!--and bettered myself on each occasion. Why, do you know where I was born? In a pig-sty. There were three of us, mother and I and my little brother. Mother would leave us every evening, returning generally just as it was getting light. One morning she did not come back. We waited and waited, but the day passed on and she did not return, and we grew hungrier and hungrier, and at last we lay down, side by side, and cried ourselves to sleep.
"'In the evening, peeping through a hole in the door, we saw her coming across the field. She was crawling very slowly, with her body close down against the ground. We called to her, and she answered with a low "crroo"; but she did not hasten her pace.
"He glances round at himself, and hesitates. 'I wouldn't mind if I didn't look so dirty and untidy,' he muses; 'people are so prone to think evil in this world.'
"'Ah, well,' he adds, giving himself a shake, 'there's nothing else for it, I must put my trust in Providence, it's pulled me through before: here goes.'
"He assumes an aspect of chastened sorrow, and trots along with a demure and saddened step. It is evident he wishes to convey the idea that he has been out all night on work connected with the Vigilance Association, and is now returning home sick at heart because of the sights that he has seen.
"He squirms in, unnoticed, through a window, and has just time to give himself a hurried lick down before he hears the cook's step on the stairs. When she enters the kitchen he is curled up on the hearthrug, fast asleep. The opening of the shutters awakes him. He rises and comes forward, yawning and stretching himself.
"'Dear me, is it morning, then?' he says drowsily. 'Heigh-ho! I've had such a lovely sleep, cook; and such a beautiful dream about poor mother.'
"Cats! do you call them? Why, they are Christians in everything except the number of legs."
"They certainly are," I responded, "wonderfully cunning little animals, and it is not by their moral and religious instincts alone that they are so closely linked to man; the marvellous ability they display in taking care of 'number one' is worthy of the human race itself. Some friends of mine had a cat, a big black Tom: they have got half of him still. They had reared him from a kitten, and, in their homely, undemonstrative way, they liked him. There was nothing, however, approaching passion on either side.
"One day a Chinchilla came to live in the neighbourhood, under the charge of an elderly spinster, and the two cats met at a garden wall party.
"'What sort of diggings have you got?' asked the Chinchilla.
"'Oh, pretty fair.'
"'Nice people?'
"'Yes, nice enough--as people go.'
"'Pretty willing? Look after you well, and all that sort of thing?'
"'Yes--oh yes. I've no fault to find with them.'
"'What's the victuals like?'
"'Oh, the usual thing, you know, bones and scraps, and a bit of dog- biscuit now and then for a change.'
"'Bones and dog-biscuits! Do you mean to say you eat bones?'
"'Yes, when I can get 'em. Why, what's wrong about them?'
"'Shade of Egyptian Isis, bones and dog-biscuits! Don't you ever get any spring chickens, or a sardine, or a lamb cutlet?'
"'Chickens! Sardines! What are you talking about? What are sardines?'
"'What are sardines! Oh, my dear child (the Chinchilla was a lady cat, and always called gentlemen friends a little older than herself 'dear child'), these people of yours are treating you just shamefully. Come, sit down and tell me all about it. What do they give you to sleep on?'
"'The floor.'
"'I thought so; and skim milk and water to drink, I suppose?'
"'It IS a bit thin.'
"'I can quite imagine it. You must leave these people, my dear, at once.'
"'But where am I to go to?'
"'Anywhere.'
"'But who'll take me in?'
"'Anybody, if you go the right way to work. How many times do you think I've changed my people? Seven!--and bettered myself on each occasion. Why, do you know where I was born? In a pig-sty. There were three of us, mother and I and my little brother. Mother would leave us every evening, returning generally just as it was getting light. One morning she did not come back. We waited and waited, but the day passed on and she did not return, and we grew hungrier and hungrier, and at last we lay down, side by side, and cried ourselves to sleep.
"'In the evening, peeping through a hole in the door, we saw her coming across the field. She was crawling very slowly, with her body close down against the ground. We called to her, and she answered with a low "crroo"; but she did not hasten her pace.