I shall never forget the day I first saw him! That, indeed, was a day to be marked in my note-book with a red cross. I kept red ink and maltese ink in my cabin, to be used when things did or did not happen, as the case might be. By this simple method I was enabled to keep track of the notes suitable for the magazines which pay the best, reserving the others for the periodicals which reimburse their army of contributors at the starvation rate of a cent a word, no distinction being made between long and short words. It is depressing, when you think of it, that a long scientific name brings no more than a plain Anglo-Saxon word in one syllable, and that only a cent apiece is paid for new words coined for the occasion and which have never before been printed in any book.

But I digress. It was early in the Spring when my physician said to me: “My dear Mr. Johnson-Sitdown, you are getting dashed dotty.” This was a pleasing allusion to my employment, for, as the discerning reader has long since guessed, I was a telegraph operator in a great city, where the click of the instrument was superadded to the roar of the elevated trains, the rumble of the surface cars, and the nerve-destroying concussions made by the breaking of the cable during rush hours morning and evening.

“What you need,” said this gifted scientist to me, “is absolute rest and quiet. If you do not pack up and take to the woods within three days from the receipt of this notice, I will not answer for the consequences. Your brain is slowly but surely giving way. Your batteries are becoming exhausted and must be renewed if measurable currents are to be expected. I recommend new cells, rather than recharging from a dynamo. Get busy now, and let me see you no more until September first.”

Face to face with my death warrant, as it were, I unhesitatingly obeyed. Fortunately, my grandmother had left me a small log cabin in a clearing, this being her ancestral domicile and the only piece of real estate she possessed at the time of her long-delayed demise some months back. Without waiting to inspect it, I hurried to my new home, accompanied only by a few books on Natural History—which, as I afterward discovered, were by ignorant and untrustworthy writers, seeking to prey upon the credulity of the uninstructed public,—and Tom-Tom, my Cat.

I had not intended to take Tom-Tom, but his fine animal instinct warned him of my impending departure, and he sat upon my bookcase and wailed piteously all through my packing. My foolish heart has always been strangely tender toward the lower animals, and I hastened to reassure Tom-Tom. After a little, I made him understand that wherever I went he should go also, and he frisked about my apartment like a wild thing at play, waving his tail madly in the exuberance of his joy.

Among the ignorant, the waving of a tail by any member of the Cat family is taken to mean anger. According to my own observations, it may also indicate joy. Darwin has distinguished several canine emotions which are distinctively expressed in the bark. Correlatively, I have tabulated eight emotions expressed by the caudalis appendagis felinis, according to the method of waving it—down, up, right, left, twice to the right, once to the left, then up, and so on. These discoveries I reserve for a future article, as I began to tell about Little Upsidaisi.

When I reached my home in the wilderness, it was nearly nightfall. I had only time to unpack my books, place them upon a rough shelf I hastily constructed, draw out the rude table which happened to be in a corner of my cabin, and place upon it my observation ledger, my pocket note-book, and my red and maltese inks.

Tom-Tom watched my proceedings with great interest, and after I had built my camp-fire, just outside the cabin door, we ate our frugal meal of bologna, wienerwursts, pretzels, and canned salmon, relying upon the cracker-box for bread, which Tom-Tom did not seem to care for. I was too tired to make either bread or coffee, but promised myself both for breakfast the following morning.

Before retiring, I made a pilgrimage to the beach and secured nearly a peck of fine sand. I scattered this all about my cabin, that in the morning I might see what visitors had left their cards, so to speak, upon this tell-tale medium of communication.

My first night in the clearing was uneventful. The unusual quiet kept me awake, and I thought that if someone would only pound a tin pan under my window, I could soon lose consciousness. The Cat purred methodically in the hollow of my arm, but even with the noise of my Tom-Tom in my ears, it was four o’clock, according to my jewelled repeater, before I finally got to sleep.

When I awoke, it was broad day, and after dressing hurriedly, I ran out to look at the sand, which the Cat had not disturbed, being sound asleep still. Poor Tom-Tom! Perhaps he, too, found a cabin in the wilderness an unusual resting place.

Much to my delight, though hardly to my surprise, the sand was covered with a fine tracery, almost like lace-work. The prints of tiny toes were to be discovered here and there, and now and then a broad sweep, evidently made by a tail.

I would have thought it the work of fairies, dancing in the moonlight, had I not dedicated my life to Science. As it was, I surmised almost instantly that it was the Field Mouse—the common species, known as rodentia feminis scarus, and reference to my books proved me right.

By measuring the prints, according to the metric system, with delicate instruments I had brought for the purpose, I soon discovered that these tracks were all made by the same individual. The Bertillon method has its uses, but unfortunately I was not sufficiently up in my calling, as yet, to reconstruct the entire animal from a track. I have since done it, but I could not then.

Tom-Tom came out into the sunlight, waving his glorious, plumed tail, yawning, and loudly demanding food. I called him to me, using the old, familiar Cat-call which I have always employed with the species, and the faithful pet made a great bound toward me. Suddenly he stopped, as if caught on a foul half-way to the grand stand, and began to sniff angrily. His back arched, his tail enlarged, and began to wave in a circle. Great agitation possessed Tom-Tom, and he, too, was scrutinising the sand.

Wondering at his fine instinct, I hastened to his side, and, thereupon, my pet unmistakably hissed. It required a magnifying-glass and some reconstruction of line before I could make out what had so disturbed him, but at last I discovered that a rude picture of a Cat had been drawn in the sand, evidently by a tail tipped with malice, immediately in front of my cabin door!

Truth compels me to state that the hideous caricature was not unlike Tom-Tom in its essential lines. No wonder he was angry! Before I could get a photograph of the spot, however, Tom-Tom had clawed it out of existence. Nothing remained but to soothe his ruffled feelings, which I did with a fresh Fish newly caught from the lake.

During the day, I meditated upon my nocturnal visitor. Evidently he had drawn the Cat in the sand as a warning to others of his kind, as some specimens of the genus homo mark gate-posts. That night I made the sand smooth before retiring, and in the morning I looked anxiously for further messages, but there was nothing there. A charm had evidently been set against my cabin door.

I began to consider getting rid of Tom-Tom, feeling sure that the Mice would know it if I did so, but after long study, I concluded that it was better to keep my faithful companion than to wait in loneliness for problematical visitors.

The health-giving weeks passed by, and I gained in strength each day. When I went there, I was so weak that I could not have spanked a baby, but I soon felt equal to discharging a cook.

Frequently I went far away from the cabin, in the search for food and firewood, leaving Tom-Tom at home to keep house. The intelligent animal missed me greatly, but seldom offered to go along, his padded feet not being suited to the long overland journeys. I made him some chamois-skin boots out of some of the Natural History Shams I found in print, and, for a few times, he gallantly accompanied me, but it soon became evident that he preferred to stay at home and bear his loneliness, rather than to face dangers that he knew not of.

When I returned from my hunting trips with a string of Fish, a load of wood, a basket of Quail on toast, or some other woodland delicacy, Tom-Tom, who was watching from the roof of the cabin, would sight me from afar off, and after putting on his boots to protect his tender feet, would come to meet me by leaps and bounds, purring like a locomotive under full steam. Words cannot describe my joy at this hospitable greeting, and I made up my mind that I would love and cherish Tom-Tom, even though I never saw a Mouse again.

However, as we became accustomed to our new home, Tom-Tom regained some part of his former courage, and at times would wander quite a distance from the cabin. His method was really very original and deserves recording, as I have not since found it in any book on Natural History. At the time, I marked it among my own observations, appropriately enough, with a maltese cross.

With the long, prolonged howl which meant farewell, Tom-Tom plunged into the depths of the forest, stopping at the first tree to sharpen his claws. Suspecting that he was in search of game for our Sunday dinner, I followed him cautiously at a respectful interval. Strangely enough, I found that the trees leading to the left, for a long way into the wood, were scarred with Tom-Tom’s claws. It was some time before the significance of this burst upon me. He was blazing his trail through the woods that he might not get lost coming home.

As time went on, these absences became more frequent, and once he even stayed out all night. In the morning the delicate tracery was again seen in the sand around my cabin door, only this time there was no picture of a Cat.

While I was engaged with my household tasks, I felt myself observed. Turning, I saw upon my door-sill a little white-throated Field Mouse, sitting upright, and waving a friendly paw at me in salutation. It was Little Upsidaisi! I always called him that, thinking the Indian name much more musical than our own.

As soon as he saw me looking at him, he hurried away, but the memory of the hunted look in his bright eyes haunted me for many a day.

I saw very little of Tom-Tom now. For days together he would remain away from home, and I was lonely indeed. Late one afternoon, as I returned from my hunting trip, I saw a picture of a Cat newly drawn in the sand, and after it, very distinctly, was placed a large interrogation point.

Fully understanding the work of that wonderful tail, I took the point of my umbrella and printed in large letters, “NO,” underlining it to make it more emphatic. After that, Upsidaisi came every day, selecting such times as the Cat was out. He seemed to feel that he had a friend and protector in me.

Before many weeks had passed, Upsidaisi had become more bold. He practically lived in the cabin, and took refuge in my sleeve or trouser leg upon approach of the Cat. Tom-Tom, engrossed with affairs of his own, seemed unconscious of his rival’s presence, and this was well, for Upsidaisi was faithful and Tom-Tom was not.

How well I remember the day when Tom-Tom came in suddenly, and saw Upsidaisi sitting on the edge of my plate, helping himself daintily to fried bacon with a straw from the broom neatly slit at one end! There was a low growl from the Cat and a snort of terror from Upsidaisi as he ran down my neck for safety. I wore larger collars in those days, that the panics of my little friend might not cause a stricture in my oesophagus.

After that, it was war to the knife, as I too well understood, and I could only tremble and wait for the end. Both of my pets were aflame with jealousy, and there could be but one result. The end of a wild animal is always a tragedy.

One day, when Little Upsidaisi was asleep in my hat, I followed Tom-Tom’s trail into the woods, paying close attention to the marks upon the trees. Far away, so far away that I no longer wondered how the Cat had worn out eight separate and distinct boots in as many weeks, I came upon a nest at the foot of a pine tree, in the hollow formed by the outspreading roots, and lined with the fragrant pine needles.

A large, matronly, black and white Cat sat proudly on the nest, brooding over her young. She trembled at my approach, but did not seek safety in flight. With a few kind words I lifted her, and discovered six squalling little ones under her. One black, yellow, and white egg was not yet hatched, but I could see that very soon a little tortoise-shell kitten would claim her maternal care.

So this was the explanation of Tom-Tom’s defection! Where he had found his mate, I did not know. Close by was a square of red blanket, which had been mysteriously cut out of my bed covering, and my best tin cup, freshly filled with cream, was within the mother’s easy reach. One of Tom-Tom’s worn-out shoes, at a little distance from the nest, completed the evidence.

I took pains, after this, to scatter desirable food and clothing for mother and children along Tom-Tom’s ghostly trail. The next day these were always missing, and Tom-Tom seemed grateful in his dumb way, though he presumed too far upon my sympathies and took to petty larceny.

For instance, I had a little black box, with a hinged cover, upon my table. I kept in it pens, postage stamps, and other small implements of the writer’s craft. One day I found my pens neatly piled upon my table and the stamps blowing about the cabin. Upon searching for the box, I found it, carefully placed at the foot of a tree, and freshly filled with catnip. Upon the cover were scratched these words: “Magdalene Tom-Tom, from her devoted Cat-band.” I inferred from this that the tortoise-shell egg had hatched and that the seven youngsters were all lively. I meditated reclaiming my property, but after thinking it over, concluded to let the incident pass without comment. It might be in celebration of some sentimental anniversary, and Tom-Tom’s peace of mind might be at stake; but I took the precaution to lock up everything else which I wished to keep.

Upon the shelf in the cabin was a cigar box where Little Upsidaisi slept. I had made a very soft nest for him with some returned manuscripts, and endeavoured to keep food and drink in one corner of it. Thus, at any hour of the day or night, he might be safe from the Cat and well provided for.

After a little, as the trying duties of paternity relaxed, Tom-Tom, thin and pale as he was, took to spending a part of his evenings at home, and I trembled lest his acute senses should lead him to the cigar box. It was tightly closed, except for the little opening gnawed just below the cover, which made sort of a slot for Little Upsidaisi’s tail and kept it from being pinched when he got into the box.

Still, things went on smoothly, and Tom-Tom claimed his old place in my affections, ignorant of the fact that his rival slept in the cigar box above. There was a period of three days, once, when Tom-Tom did not leave the cabin, and I did not go out either, as I thought it safer to remain. There was no telling what might happen in my absence.

At the end of the third day, I sat at my little table, recording various valuable observations in my ledger, when suddenly a terrible thought struck me. I had forgotten to feed Little Upsidaisi!

I dared not make any attempt at it while Tom-Tom was watching me, and though I tried more than once, I could not decoy him out of the cabin. I wondered what had become of my little pet, and feared to find him stretched out stark and stiff upon the returned manuscripts. My heart reproached me bitterly.

Strangely enough, I was recording in my journal at that instant the fact that the Field Mice seemed to have no method of communication with the outside world, except the picture language made with the sharpened tip of the tail. While I was considering what to do, and whether or not to use force and temporarily eject Tom-Tom, a faint, far-away tapping assailed my ears, which my anxious mind soon traced to the cigar box upon the shelf.

At the succession of taps, my hair stood up in astonishment and I rose to my feet with such violence that Tom-Tom was frightened. Little Upsidaisi was attempting to communicate with me by means of the Morse code!

I am well aware that this will not be believed by the reader, but I can only set down my own observations and trust to later explorations to substantiate my claims.

Tap-tap-tap, the ghostly message came, and, trembling with excitement though I was, I managed to make out the words:

“What do you take me for? Do you want to starve me to death? Can’t you get rid of that blanked Cat?” Courtesy to my readers compels me to use the word “blanked” in place of the profane adjective Little Upsidaisi applied to Tom-Tom.

A desperate expedient possessed me. After tapping out a few words for Upsidaisi’s comfort, I made a low Kitten cry, such as used to perplex my teacher in my younger days. With every sense instantly alert, Tom-Tom erected his tail and started off down the trail like a blue streak.

I supplied the exhausted Mouse with food and drink, and bade him be patient until the following day, using the form of speech which he so readily understood.

Tom-Tom soon returned with the air of a fire engine which has just chased up a false alarm. He watched me very closely, and the following day, as I tapped out a message of hope to Upsidaisi, I noted a gleam of intelligence in Tom-Tom’s green eyes. I began to wonder, but I had no time to frame a definite thought, for, with a prolonged meow, Tom-Tom scratched on the floor vigorously, and my accustomed ears soon made out, through the bewildering succession of dots and dashes, another message in the Morse code.

“Where is that blamed Mouse?” it said. “My Kittens are about to be weaned and require solid food.”

There was a terrible cry of pain from the shelf, and before I could protest or interfere in any way, Little Upsidaisi was out of the cabin, running like mad, with Tom-Tom in full pursuit.

Instinctively, I followed them—through the dense undergrowth, over open fields, through barbed wire fences, along unblazed forest trails, and so on, with Upsidaisi always several lengths in the lead.

Even if I would, I could not interfere, and I had long since learned that it is the truest kindness to let the animals fight it out among themselves, since the fittest must survive and the weakest be crushed to the wall.

Now and then I heard a sob from the grass, where the Mouse was running in deathly fear, and deep, harsh breathings from Tom-Tom, who was now gaining his second wind and plunging ever closer to his hapless victim. A little ahead was the railroad track, which much surprised me. I had been so interested that I had kept no account of the distance and it came to me with something of a shock that we had run over ten miles.

On went the mad struggle for life. There was a whistle near by, and I knew the express was coming. Upsidaisi was nowhere in sight, and Tom-Tom was nosing through the long grass eagerly. Then there was a little glimmer of white and silver in the sun, and Upsidaisi flew across the track just as the express rounded the curve. Tom-Tom followed, heedless of his danger, and the cow-catcher, striking his tense body, threw him so far up into the air that the corpse has not yet been recovered.

I stood aghast at the fiendish cleverness of it. Little Upsidaisi had decoyed his enemy to the track, at the very moment the express was to pass!

Scarcely conscious of what I did, I picked up the exhausted Mouse and walked home in a brown study. My soul was torn with grief at the loss of my pet, but the new facts in Natural History that I had learned were worth some sacrifice.

As I sat at my table, writing in my journal, I heard a low, mournful sound from the shelf and then the words, tapped out in the Morse code: “Forgive me; I had to do it.”

I foolishly paid no attention, but went on writing down the noble ideas that surged hotly through my brain. Later on—I shall never know how much later—I heard the dull sound of a falling body, and the pungent odour of cyanide of potassium filled the room. The bottle of it which I kept on the shelf to attract butterflies had been opened and drained to the dregs.

Close by it, with the glaze of death over his bright eyes, lay Upsidaisi. Heart-broken by my coldness, the little Mouse had committed suicide.

Little feet, little feet, shall I see your delicate tracery no more around the door of my cabin in the wilderness? The end of a wild animal is always a tragedy.