THE TWO “MUFFIES.”—A TALE.

While I was yet a little school-boy, there came about my father’s house and premises a plague of rats. They came in their thousands, as if summoned by the trumpet-tones of a rodentine Bradlaugh or Odger. They took the farm-yard and outhouses by storm, laid siege to the dwelling-house, and, from the thoroughly business-like manner they conducted their operations, and went into winter quarters, it was quite evident they meditated a stay of some duration. Sappers and miners, or royal engineers, were employed to drive tunnels and galleries under every floor, with passages leading to the grain-lofts above. Foraging parties were appointed to every stack of corn and rick of hay. The henhouse was laid under contribution to furnish eggs and feathers, and black-mail was levied from the very cows. The eaves of the well-thatched barns and byres were apportioned to their wives, their aged, and infirm, while the poor sparrows were dislodged from their comfortable, well-lined nests to make room for little naked baby rats; and so effectually was every department worked, and so well did every branch of the service do its duty, that Cardwell himself, nay, even Bismarck, Moltke & Co., could not have suggested anything in the way of improvement.

At all these doings my honest father looked very blue, and employed his time principally in expending various sums of money in vermin-killers, and in reading works on toxicology. The result of his study was, that many tempting morsels and savoury tit-bits were placed in convenient corners, for the benefit of the invaders. It seemed indeed for their benefit: they didn’t care a straw for tartar-emetic, appeared to get fat on arsenic, while strychnia only strengthened their nervous systems, and morphia made them fierce.

Now Gibbie was the house cat, a very large and beautiful red tabby. In his prime he had been a perfect Nimrod of the feline race. Scorning such feeble game as the domestic mouse, his joy was to ramble free and unfettered among the woods and forests, by the loneliest spots at the river’s brink, and among the mountains and rocks; often prolonging his hunting excursions for days together, but never returning without a leveret or fine young rabbit. These fruits of the chase he did not always bring home, but often presented to his various human friends in the adjoining village; for Gibbie was known far and near, and even his lordship’s surly old gamekeeper, though he raised his gun at the sight of the cat, forbore to fire when he saw who the bold trespasser was. Many a rare and beautiful bird did Gibbie carry home alive, among others, I remember, a beautiful specimen of the corn-crake; nor can I forget pussie’s manifest disgust, when the bird was allowed to fly away. Just two days after, he brought home a crow, but this time the head was wanting. By the banks of the Denburn he one day fought and slew a large pole-cat; this he carefully skinned, and dragged home. Gibbie was as well-known in the country-side as the witch-wife, or the pack-merchant, and more respected than either; and people often came to our house to beg for “ae nicht o’ Gibbie,” as “the rottens (rats) at their town (farm) were gettin’ raither thrang and cheeky.”

The loan was always granted.

“Gibbie, go,” was all my mother would say, and off trotted puss by the party’s side, with his tail gaily on the perpendicular; for he knew, as well as cat could, that rare sport and a rich treat of the sweetest cream, would be the reward of his compliance.

But Gilbert did not confine himself to hunting only; he was an expert fisher. For hours he would watch at one spot on the banks of a river, with his eyes riveted on the water, until some unhappy trout came out to bask in the sun’s rays. This was Gibbie’s opportunity. For a moment only his lips and tail quivered with extreme anxiety, then down, swift as Solan goose, he had dived with aim unerring, and seized his finny prey, with which he came quietly to bank, and trotted off homewards, to enjoy the delicious morsel in some quiet corner all to himself. Rabbits, hares, and game of all kinds, Gibbie parted with freely; but a trout was a treat, and he never shared it with man or mortal.

But Gibbie was now old. Nineteen summers had come and gone since he had sky-larked with his mother’s tail, and his limbs had waxed stiff, and his once bright eyes were dimmed. He seldom went to the woods now, and when he did he returned sorrowfully and minus. He preferred to dose by the parlour fire, or nurse his rheumatism before the kitchen grate; and while nodding over the embers, many a scene, I warrant, of his earlier years came to his recollection, and many a stirring adventure by flood and field stole vividly back to memory, and thus he’d fight his battles o’er again, and kill his rabbits thrice.

“Gibbie,” said my father one day, thoughtfully removing his pipe from his mouth; “Gibbie, you’ve got some game in you yet, old boy.”“Oh, aye,” said Gibbie, for he was the pink of politeness, and never failed to reply when civilly addressed.

“Well,” continued my father, “you shall have a good supper, and a night among the rats in the grain-loft.”

“Wurram!” replied the cat, which doubtless meant that he was perfectly willing, and that it would be a bad job for the rats. So the programme was duly carried out, and Master Gilbert was shut up among the foe.

Early in the morning, my father, who had not closed an eye all the night, opened the door, and, lame and bleeding, out limped his old favourite, shaking his poor head—raw with wounds—in the most pitiful manner possible. The brave beast had fought like a tiger all the night long, nearly two score of rats lay dead around, while the blood lay in pools on the decks, with as much hair and fluff, as if a dozen Kilkenny cats had been contending for victory—and got it. That night’s ratting proved fatal to old Gibbie. The dreadful wounds he had received never healed, and after much deliberation it was determined that an end should be put to the poor animal’s sufferings.

So honest Hughoc, the stable-boy, was sent with Gibbie in a bag to drown him.

“Is he gone?” said my mother anxiously, when he returned. And we bairns were all in tears.

“Gone, ma’am?” replied Hughoc; “aye, if he had been a horse, and, beggin’ your pardon, a deevil forbye, the river would hae ta’en him doon,—sic a spate (flood) I never saw in my born days.”

Notwithstanding all this, Gibbie was at that moment finishing the contents of his saucer, and drying his wet sides before the sitting-room fire, and when we entered, he was singing a song to himself, like the ancient philosopher he was. But the poor cat lived but one short week longer. He died, as bardie Burns has it, “a fair strae death” in his own nook, and was slowly and sadly laid to rest, beneath an aged rowan tree at the end of the garden. And the berries on that tree grew redder ever after, at least we thought so; but we never dared to taste or touch them, they were sacred to the memory of poor dead and gone Gibbie.

In the meantime the plague of rats continued unabated, and their ravages seemed rather to increase than diminish. But their reign was nearly at an end. One day my father received the joyful intelligence that a splendid young lady-kitten, was in need of a comfortable home—salary no object.

Away with a basket trudged my little brother and self, and after a long walk came to young pussy’s residence, and had the satisfaction of finding both kitten and mistress at home. The former, indeed a beauty, and faultlessly marked, was engaged alternately in drinking butter-milk, and washing her face before a small looking-glass.

“Aye, my bonnie bairn,”—I was the bonnie bairn, not my brother,—“she’s a perfect wee angel, and ye maun be good till her; ye maunna pu’ her by the tail, and ye maun gie her lots o’ milk, and never let her want for a lookin’-glass.”

We promised to grudge her nothing that could in any way conduce to her happiness and comfort, and were allowed to carry her off. Before we reached home, we had taken her from the basket, and with all the solemnity the occasion demanded, baptized her in a running stream, and called her name Muffie. Once fairly established in her new quarters, the kit lost no time in commencing hostilities against the rats, and blood, not butter-milk, became her war-cry. One day as she sat admiring herself in the glass, a large rat unexpectedly appeared in the kitchen; and although but little larger than himself, Kittie at once gave chase, not only to his hole, but into his hole. For the next three minutes the squeaking was quite harrowing to listen to; but presently pussy re-appeared stern foremost, and dragging with her the rat—dead. This she deposited before the fire, growling whenever any one went near it, as much as to say, “Lay but a finger on it, and you yourself may expect to pay the same penalty for your rashness.” The little thing, indeed, seemed swelling with pride and importance, and must have felt considerably bigger than an ordinary sized ox, and as fierce as a Bengal tiger. In one moment she had bounded from kit to cat-hood. Buttermilk and a looking-glass! Bah! Blood alone could satisfy her ambition now.

Little Muffie was left that night in sole charge of the kitchen, and next morning, no less than five large rats, lay side by side on the hearth, as if waiting a post mortem, and wee pussie, with her white breast dabbled in gore, exhausted and asleep, lay beside them. In less than a week, she had bagged upwards of forty, and no doubt wounded twice that number. And now fear and consternation began to spread in the enemies’ camp. Such doings had never been heard of among them, even traditionally. The oldest inhabitant shook his grey muzzle, and gave it up; but added,—

“Friends, brethren, rodents! it is time to shift. No one knows whose turn may come next. True, it is a pity to leave such jolly quarters, when everything was going on so pleasantly. We have seen our fattest wives and our biggest braves borne off; our helpless babes have not been safe from the clutches of that dreaded monster, with the ferocity of a fiend in the skin of a mouse, and lest worst befall us, go we must.”

And go they did.

Old Tom Riddle, the parish clerk, who might have been seen any night, staggering homewards in the short hours, was well-nigh scared out of the little wits that remained to him, by meeting, as he said,—

“Thoosands upon thoosands o’ rottens, haudin’ up the road in the direction o’ the farm o’ Brockenclough.”

“Confoond it,” he added, when some one ventured to cast a doubt on his statement; “wasn’t it bright moonlicht, and didn’t I see them wi’ my ain een, carryin’ their wee anes in their mooths, and leadin’ their blin’ wi’ a strae?”

Whether old Tom exaggerated or not is hard to say; but sure enough, next morning there was not a rat to be seen or heard about my father’s premises; and it is likewise correct that about the same time, the honest farmer of Brockenclough, began to complain loudly of the destruction by these gentry of his straw and oats. “He liked,” he said, “to see a few o’ the beasties rinnin’ aboot a farm-toon. That was a sign o’ plenty; but when they could be counted by the score, it fairly beat cock-fechtin.”

For the next twelve months of her existence, Muffie led a very quiet and peaceful life. She was now in her prime—and a more beautifully marked tabby it would have been difficult to imagine—but, as yet, no male of her species had gained her youthful affections. But her time soon came, for strolling one day in the woods, trying to pick up a nice fat linnet for her dinner, Muffie met her fate, and her fate followed her home even to the garden gate, then darted off again to his native woodland. His history was briefly this. He was not born of respectable parentage, and I question, too, whether his parents, were at all more honest than they ought to have been. His mother was a half-wild animal, brought by a half-cracked colonel from the West Indies, and she bore him in the woods, and there she suckled and reared him, and it was no doubt owing to the wild gipsy life he led, and the amount of freedom and fresh air he enjoyed, that he grew so fine an animal. At any rate, I never have seen his match. An immense red tabby he was, with short ears on a massive head, splendid eyes, and a tail that no wild cat need have been ashamed of. Muffie and her lover used to hold their meetings in the ruins of an old house near a wood, and my brothers and I made a rash vow, to attempt the capture of the beautiful stranger in this same building. Accordingly, one fine moonlight night, missing Lady Muff, and guessing she was on the spoon, we sallied out and made our way to the ruin. My brothers were told off to guard the door and windows, and on me alone devolved the somewhat unpleasant duty, of bagging the cat. With this intention I entered as cautiously as a mouse, and sure enough there sat the happy pair, contentedly, on the cold hearthstone. So engrossed were they in looking at each other, that they never perceived me until quite close upon them. With the agility of a young monkey, I threw myself on the Tom-cat and seized him by the back. That is exactly what I did. His proceedings were somewhat different, and considerably more to the point, for after making his four teeth meet in the fleshy part of my middle finger, he slid from my grasp like a conger-eel, and went hand over hand up the chimney, followed by the justly indignant Lady Muff,—and I was left lamenting. For the next six weeks, I had the satisfaction of going to school with my arm in a sling. I say satisfaction, because my misfortune was the cause of a great alteration, in the manner of the schoolmaster towards me. Previously it was usual with me to be thrashed “ter die, and well shaken,” which was not at all nice on a winter’s day; but now all this was changed, and I was not beaten at all. The pedagogue spoke to me subduedly, and with a certain amount of conciliatory awe in his manner, and I observed that he always kept a chair or form between my person and his, lest I should at any time take hydrophobia without giving sufficient warning, and bite the poor man. Seeing how well the sling worked, I did not hesitate to wear it, for fully a month after my hand was quite healed, with the exception of the cicatrices, which the grave only will obliterate.

Although beaten in our first efforts, we did not give up the idea of capturing this vagabond Tom-tabby, yet it was only through the instrumentality of Muffie, we eventually succeeded. We kept her at home, put a saucer-full of creamy milk in a shady nook of the garden for her lover, and whenever he appeared, which he always did at the hour of gloaming, his betrothed was permitted to meet him, and although he invariably beseeched her to fly with him, she was prevented from acceding to his very reasonable request, by being tethered to a gooseberry bush by a long string. Love and time tamed this feline Ingomar. He left his abode in the forest, exchanged the wild-wood’s shade for the stable’s roof, bartered his freedom for the ties of matrimony, or catrimony,—in short, he married Muffie, adopted civilisation, and became barn-cat par excellence. But no amount of persuasion could ever entice him into the dwelling-house, nor did he ever suffer a human finger to pollute his fur.

I am sorry to say that Ingomar did not at all times behave well to his wife; in fact, at times he was a brute. It was his pleasure that she should sit for hours together in the garden, simply that he might look at her; if she as much as hinted at retiring, he treated her exactly as the Lancashire clod-hoppers do their wives,—he knocked her down and jumped upon her. Muffie had five bonnie kittens, and she put them to bed on the parlour sofa. Ingomar detested refinement as much as Rob Roy did.

“The sons of McGregor, weavers! Bring those kittens forth, and place them here on straw; I will see to their rearing.”

That is what Ingomar said, and Muffie mutely complied; and those kittens grew up as wild as himself. From sparrows they got to chickens, from chickens to grouse and game generally, and then got into trouble with the keeper, and had the worst of the argument, which on his part was double-barrelled. In the early days of his betrothal, Ingomar threw daisies at his beloved, and gambolled with her in mimic strife, but latterly his song was hushed at eventide, and spits and clouts and flying fluff were too often the order of the day.

Poor Ingomar! He was cut down in his prime—slain by a wretched collie-dog. Slowly and sadly we bore him in, his beautiful fur all dabbled in blood, and his once bright eyes fast glazing in death, and tenderly laid him at the widowed Muffie’s feet. Now listen to the remarkable behaviour of that lady. The widowed Muffie did not weep, neither, in consequence of not weeping, did she die; she did an attitude though, then growled and spat, and spitting growled again, and finally gave vent to her feelings by springing through the parlour window and escaping to the woods. And here with shame and sorrow for female inconstancy, but in the interests of truth be it written, not only did Muffie not remain long a widow, but that brief widowhood even, was stained by many acts of levity to the memory of the murdered Ingomar. His skin beautifully preserved (by—[12]), that skin she did not hesitate to use as a mat, nay, she even gambolled with the tail of it; and although she often paid a visit to her husband’s grave, it was not to weep she went there, no! but literally to dance on the top of it. Such is life! Such are relicts!!

The rest of this pussy’s life was entirely uneventful. One circumstance only deserves relating. She was exceedingly fond of me, in fact quite adored me. Oh! that is nothing, other females have done the same; but Muffie did, what I daresay other females wouldn’t,—she at any time would eat a little bit of the end of a candle, or a bit of greased peat from my hand, while refusing beef-steak or cream from any one else. When I was sent to a distant school, and could only visit my home once a week or fortnight, the house bereft of me had no longer any charms for poor Muffie, and she took to the woods. Perhaps she enjoyed rambling amid scenes hallowed by the recollection of her early love. She seldom returned home until the day of my accustomed arrival, when she was always there to welcome me. Now that she should have known the usual day for my appearance was nothing remarkable, but it was strange that, if anything interfered with my coming, puss was also absent, nor did my arrival on any other day prevent her from being at home at least an hour before me. One day—alas! that one day that must come to all created things—my Muffie was not there to meet me, and she never came again. After a long search I found her beneath a tree, stark and stiff. Her gentle eyes were closed for aye! I would never feel again her soft caress, nor hear her low loving purr—dear Muffie was dead.

But dry your eyes, gentle lady, and listen to the story of

MUFFIE THE SECOND.

I call my present cat Muffie, partly in remembrance of my old favourite, and partly because I think it such a cosy little name for a pet puss. Bless her little heart, she is sitting on my shoulder while I write, and no slight burden either, her fighting weight being something over twelve pounds. A splendid tabby, she is evenly and prettily marked; her lovely face vandyked with white, and her nose tipped with crimson, like a mountain daisy. She is six years of age, and the mother of over one hundred kittens. Three-fourths of these have found respectable homes,—most of them were bespoken before birth,—and if they have only been half as prolific as their mother, Muffie must be progenitor of thousands.

WHITE.
First Prize—Owned by R. H. Young, Esq.

BLACK.
First Prize—Owned by Mr. J. Harper.

A very ambitious kitten you were, too, my pretty Muff. I first picked you up at an hotel, when no bigger than a ball of worsted. Your brothers and sisters, and even your big ugly mother turned and fled, but you stood and spat—didn’t you, puss? and that fetched me. Your favourite seat, too, was the top of the parlour door; and during the first twelve months of your existence, sure didn’t you tear to pieces three sets of window curtains? didn’t you smash all the flowerpots? weren’t you constantly clutching down the table-cloth and breaking the china and glass, running along the key-board of the piano, and jumping down the stool? What chance did a silk umbrella stand with you? What hope of existence had my patent-leather boots? Was it fair to catch flies on my “Sunset on Arran” before the paint was dry? Was it right to upset my ink-bottle on the table-cloth, or to break the head off my praying Samuel, which head you coolly made a mouse of, and finally hid in my shoe? Or was it at all proper to make such earnest, though happily unsuccessful, endeavours to hook your master’s eyes out as soon as he opened them in the morning? But marriage sobered you, Muffie; and I never can forget the extreme joy you manifested on the birth of your first kittens. Your first idea, I’m told, was to make “mousies” of them; then you thought of eating them. But how anxiously you waited my arrival on that auspicious morning. You came twice to my bedroom to hurry me down, and I dared not stop to shave. Then each kitten in succession was held up between your forepaws to receive its just meed of admiration. But I hardly think, Miss Muff, your song of joy would have been quite so loud and jubilant, had you known I was selecting two to drown. And each succeeding period since then, you have tried to have your kittens in my bed, and twice you have been only too successful. There, now, go down, my shoulder aches; besides, I have to address the British public.

Muffie, like her master, has been a wanderer,—and she prefers it. To her, home and master are synonymous terms. Were I to make my bed in the midst of a highland moor, she would not desert me. If I were to place my sea-chest on the top of dark Loch-na-gar,—and that would be no easy matter,—and leave it there for a month, I should find Muffie on the top of it when I returned.

It might very naturally be supposed, that a cat would form but a poor travelling companion, and be rather troublesome. It is all custom, I suppose. Miss Muff, at the smallest computation, must have travelled nearly 20,000 miles with me; and she can always take care of herself much better than a dog can. From constant experience, she has become quite cosmopolitan in her habits. On the evening before “flitting day” she is more than usually active, ambling round and snuffing at each box as it is being packed, and rubbing her shoulder against it, singing all the while in a most exhilarating manner. As night closes, she, as a rule, with few exceptions, disappears for a time, going most likely to bid good-bye to her friends, whom she seldom sees again in this world, but never fails to be back early in the morning, when, after a hurried breakfast, she curls herself up in her little travelling “creel,” and goes quietly off to sleep. In a railway-carriage or steam-boat, she is allowed to roam about at her own sweet will; but by night her place is by her master’s side, and a more faithful watch he could not have. On arriving at an hotel, after dinner pussy is permitted to go out to see the place. The first night of her sojourn in a strange town, is always spent by Muffie in the open air; and, wonderful to relate, she always enters in the morning by the front door, although put out at the back. How she can find her way round with accuracy, sometimes a distance of half a mile of strange streets, or how she can tell the hotel door from any other, I cannot say; but she does. Once I gave her basket in charge of a railway porter at a London station, to take upstairs while I got my own ticket and the dog’s. The poor fellow soon returned with bleeding face and hands, to say that the cat had escaped and disappeared in the crowd. There was no time to wait to look for her, my luggage was on board, and the train about to start, so I hurried off to take my seat. Very much to my surprise, I was hailed from a first-class carriage by my pet herself, who appeared rejoiced to see me, and indeed was much more calm and self-possessed, under the circumstances, than her master.

Once, in a strange town—Liverpool,—Muffie disappeared in the most mysterious manner, and was absent for three whole weeks. From some words that I had heard the landlady’s son drop, I suspected foul play; so I went straight to the offices of the City Scavengering Department to prefer a very modest request, viz., to have all the ashpits cleaned out within a certain radius of my lodgings.

“All this work for a cat!” said the chief inspector. “Why, such a thing has no precedent;” and he smiled at my cheek, I suppose.

“But,” said I, “you can make this case the precedent; and it is so valuable a cat, you know.”

Aid came from an unexpected quarter. One of the officers was a Scotchman, and took my part like everything. Valuable property, he argued, had been stolen and destroyed; and if we should wait until the usual time for cleaning the ashpits, all hope of putting the blame on the right party, would be lost for ever.

“What chance,” said his good-natured chief, “have I against two of you?” So the order was given, and the ash-pits emptied. This took two or three mornings’ work, and many dead cats were found; in fact, every day I held a post-mortem examination on one or two poor brutes, and of course the men wanted a glass of grog; so that the business cost me “a power” of rum. But no dead Muffie appeared. In the meantime I had to go to London without my puss; and a few days after, Lady Muff likewise arrived by train. She had returned to my rooms at Liverpool, exactly three weeks from the day she disappeared, and had kittens one hour after.

Muffie I do not think ever killed a mouse, although very fond of catching them. All she cares for is the sport. She invariably brings her little victim into my room, and placing it on the hearth-rug, looks up in my face, and mews, as much as to say,—

“Just observe, master, the fun I shall have with this little cuss; and see what a clever mouser your Muff is.”

While she is saying this, the mouse has escaped, but is speedily recaptured and returned to the rug. After throwing it up in the air two or three times, and catching it before it falls, the wee “cowering timorous beastie” is left to its own freedom, Muffie walking away in a careless, meditative sort of mood, and the mousie makes good his escape. Not finding a hole, it hides below something, from under which something it is soon raked out again; and so the cruel game goes on, till the trembling little creature, with its shiny eyes, grows sick with hope deferred, and faints away. Seeing this, pussy, after turning it over once or twice with mittened paw, jumps on my shoulder with a fond “purr-rn,” and begins to sing. The play is over, and by-and-by the mouse revives, and is graciously permitted to retire, which it sets about doing with becoming modesty, and an air at once subdued and deprecatory. Muffie is still on my shoulder, benignly singing. Their eyes meet, and a little dialogue ensues. Mousie says, with hers,

“Oh! please, your ladyship, may I go, ma’am? I feel so all-overish; your claws are so sharp, and your teeth so dreadful; and I’m but a little, little mouse.”To which pussy replies,—

“Yes; you may go. I shan’t eat you to-day; only don’t do it again.”

But why, you ask, should I permit such cruel sport? Because, intelligent and gentle reader, any interference of mine would change the play from a comedy in the parlour to a tragedy in the cellar.

I have neither fishing nor hunting exploits to tell of about Muffie. She is celebrated only as a great traveller, for her faithful devotion to her master, and for her care over even his property.

Last summer I spent a month in a beautiful sequestered village in Yorkshire. My companions were, as usual, my Newfoundland, Muffie, a pet starling, and another dog. Muffie is very much attached to this birdie, allowing it to hop about her, like a crow on a water buffalo. This starling, I think, is the most amusing little chap in all creation. He is a good linguist and an accomplished musician, and is never silent—if he is, he is either asleep or doing mischief. As he says whatever comes into his head, and interlards his discourse with fragments of tunes and Bravos! the effect is at times startling. The way he jumbles his nouns together, and trots out every adjective he knows, to qualify every noun, is something worth listening to. In the summer evenings, we used to go out for long rambles in the country lanes. The dog—Theodore Nero—felt himself in duty bound on these occasions, not only to look after his master, but even to take the cat under his protection. The starling stalked flies from my shoulder. Sometimes he would stay longer snail-hunting, behind a hedge, than I deemed prudent; a glance from me was all Muffie wanted, to be after him. I would wait and listen; and presently I would hear Dick excitedly exclaiming, “Eh? eh? What is it?”—a favourite expression of his: “What is it? You rascal! you rascal!” and back he would fly to his perch, apparently quite thunderstruck at the impudence of the cat.

Muffie bids me say she is quite happy and all alive. And I would add, she is very much all alive, most interestingly so, in fact. But that did not prevent her, last night, from preparing for me, what was doubtless meant for a very pretty surprise and a high compliment. The cats in the neighbourhood, hearing that I was writing a book in their favour, with Lady Muff as chief musician, resolved to serenade me; and they did. Being Christmas eve, I took them for the waits at first. I am sorry now that I so far forgot myself, as to throw cold water over the assembly; but I sincerely trust that they did not know, that the gentleman in white, who appeared on the balcony, and so unceremoniously checked their harmony, was the illustrious author of “Cats.”