[See Note P, Addenda.]

COCK-JOCK AND THE CAT.

Cock-Jock, as he was called, was the most famous of a famous breed of cocks, our family had possessed for many years. Descended from the black-cock of the mountain, with plumage like jet, save one bright spot of crimson and gold on each wing, short stout legs, and strongest of spurs, he had never met his match in field or pit. Many a brave but unfortunate bird he had stood upon, and crowed over, as he trampled out its last breath. I am speaking of twenty years ago, when cock-fighting in private was still a favourite pastime, with many otherwise sensible and honourable men, in the far north of Scotland. Cock-Jock possessed in the highest degree, all those princely and chivalrous qualities, for which animals of his species and breed are so justly celebrated. He was a perfect gentleman after his own fashion. He never would touch a morsel of food himself, until every member of his large harem had filled her crop; and thus his own share was at times small enough. If two hens quarrelled, and had recourse to their nebs, he used to peck them both, time about, until they desisted; he then gave them a sound rating, pointing out to them in forcible language, the extreme impropriety of such conduct among ladies of a well-regulated harem. Cock-Jock went to roost every night with his old mother—how beautiful is filial piety!—on one side of him, and a large white hen, his pet wife, on the other. Then he always crowed at the proper time and place; never, under any circumstance, would he mistake moonlight for morning, as some foolish brutes do. Dogs he especially disliked. He used to steal a march upon them, pretend to be busy eating, till he turned their flank, then, before the poor dog could say “wow,” he had two inches of spur in each hip; and that tickled him. He was very affectionate, and tame enough to eat from your hand; but if you dared to go near or molest a hen, he would assuredly lame you for a month. Once upon a time, when a little bantam cock was sick, Jock never went to roost for weeks, but took the bantam to a nest and nursed it under his wings, as a hen would a chicken, and tenderly fed it daily till it grew well again. I knew a great deal of what that cock said, for the language of the lower animals is by no means difficult to understand. His remarks had reference principally to his food, its quantity and quality, his wives—their virtues and vices, and to his battles. He always backed himself to win. He used to ask every human stranger he met, in a manner not at all calculated to give offence, if he mightn’t have “just one shy at your shins.” He one day offered me a snail. He came a long distance out of his way too to give it to me. He offered me the delicious tit-bit with much ceremonious tick-tucking, and in quite a patronizing manner, as if, like old King Thingummy, I had advertised for a new pleasure, and he was about to introduce me to it. I’m sure I hurt his feelings by refusing it. But I couldn’t help it. I think I could eat a snail now, if hard pushed, although I am told they taste “a little green.” But after one has lived on Navy weevils for many years, one isn’t so particular; but I was very young then.

I remember a gentleman’s satin hat being blown off near to his cockship. I wouldn’t have been that hat on any consideration. Heavens! how he battered it, and tugged at it, and tore it; finally he jumped on it, and crew over it and at the owner.

“Twenty shillings,” cried that unfortunate, “thrown to the winds! Curse the cock!”

Jock looked at him, as much as to say, “Perhaps, sir, you would like to come a little nearer, and repeat that expression.” But the gentleman didn’t. He preferred going home bare-headed.

I one day met a poor woman carrying a large stuffed cock. Like the cheeky brat they called me, I induced her to come and show the thing to Jock. She did so. Jock very soon laid bare the bird-stuffer’s art. Cotton-wool and wires and all went to leeward. Jock had never met with so curious a foe in his life before, and he treated him accordingly. My father came. Jock crew. The woman wept, and I ran and hid.

One fine summer’s day my sister left a pillow in the garden. We were all in the parlour. Presently it came on to snow apparently, and the room got darkened. We soon discovered that it was not snow-flakes, but feathers. My father said, “In the name of all creation!” My mother put on her glasses, and remarked, “Every good thing attend us!” Then we all took umbrellas, and went out. When, half choked, we reached the garden, we discovered a clue to the mystery. Cock-Jock had spied the pillow, and could not resist having one kick at it. One kick led to another; and when the eider-down began to come out, Jock lost his temper, and went at it with a will. He had some extra animal energy to expend that morning, and he did it—so successfully, too, that for a whole week never a bit of work was done about the place. The horses had a holiday, and we had cold mutton every day, the servants being all engaged culling the feathers from the grass and trees, and picking the fluff from the flowers.

Now to Cock-Jock was granted the honour of walking about wherever he pleased—a privilege which was denied to the members of his harem, and it was on the garden walk the battle took place which I am about to describe. Gibbey, my father’s famous red Tom-tabby, had a saucer of milk on the foot-path, with which, although he did not drink it himself, he did not choose that any one else should meddle. The cat and the cock had always been on friendly terms till now; and being thirsty, and presuming on this friendship, Cock-Jock walked half-apologetically up to the saucer, and dipping his beak in to fill it, raised his head to swallow it. It was just as his eyes were thus turned heavenward, that Master Gibbey sprang up—he was always too ready with his hands—and without taking his gloves off, struck honest Jock a sound slap on the ear. The cock shook his head; but knowing he was in the wrong, he did not get angry yet, but attempted to reason with the cat. For Cock-Jock had this peculiarity: he never lost temper at the first blow from any creature he thought he was a match for. A strange bantam—and we all know how plucky and self-important they are—once alighted on Jock’s dung-hill, and immediately struck at him.

“Avast heaving, my little friend,” said the big cock, or words to that effect; “you must be aware that I could knock you into the minutest smithereens in the twinkling of a foretop-sail.”

“Oho!” thought the bantam, “you’re afraid, are you; take one for your nob, then,” and he struck him again.

“Hang it all, you know,” roared Jock, now fairly enraged. He gave the bantam one blow; and where that bird was sent to has never been ascertained to this day, never a feather of him being found. And so Jock attempted to reason with the cat.

“Cock a ro-ra-kuk? What does this mean, Master Gilbert? I own to having been in the wrong; but a blow, sir—a blow!”

He hadn’t long to wait for another either—this time without the gloves; and then, as the Yankees say, his “dander riz.” The cock hopped nimbly over the saucer, and the battle began in earnest. Cock-Jock “showered his blows like wintry rain.”

But pussy adroitly avoided them all, and returned them with such practised precision and skill, that the poor cock’s pretty head was soon a mass of blood and gore. Jock, getting confused, held his head ground-wards, as if fighting with another cock instead of a cat, thus giving Gibbey all the advantage. The fight had now lasted fully five minutes, and as yet pussy rejoiced in a whole skin. I was beginning to think it was all up with the cock, when, crunch! the advantage came at last,—one stroke with that murderous spur, and Gibbey was stretched among the flowers, to all appearance dead. Cock-Jock bent cautiously down, examined him first with one eye then with another, and then, apparently satisfied, he jumped on his side and crew loud and long. But Gibbey did not die. He was out of the sick-list in four days; but he ever after gave the cock a wide berth, and plenty of sea-room. Poor Cock-Jock! he died at last on the field of battle. His life was literally trodden out of him by a band of hostile turkeys. Superior weight did it.