Miranda Eliot Swan

I HAVE no doubt people will wonder that a Cat should write a story. Of course, fighting is more in their line.

However pleased I might have been to help my fellow-sufferers, and use my natural weapons in their defence, a remark I heard made by a very learned man decided me to use my brains instead of my claws.

He quoted:—

Taking this quotation for my text, I have written my own story, hoping it will benefit the poor cats who are made the victims of great cruelty. No other animal has to suffer like the household pet, the cat.

I am a Boston boy, born eighteen years ago, in one of the nice old-fashioned houses for which our quiet street was noted.

I was born in a clothes-basket, and do not feel ashamed of my birthplace, though fire and the swill man long ago removed all trace of it.

I cannot remember much about my home. Like all young things, my food and having a good frolic were all I thought of.

I loved my mother, for she was very kind to me while I depended on her for sustenance; but when I grew large enough to lap milk, she began to wean me and teach me that hard lesson—self-dependence.

My mother was very handsome—black as coal, with a long tail and white feet. She was very proud of the latter, keeping them as white as snow; and on account of their beauty she was called "White Foot." She was very graceful and slender—her fur soft and glossy as a raven's wing.

She had brilliant, restless eyes, fierce in expression and watchful, never seeming to trust even her friends. But every one was attracted to her.

We had not much room to boast of. The back yard was very small, but over the way a large unoccupied field gave us a grand opportunity to run and enjoy ourselves.

It was a great neighborhood for cats. Though I thought them rough and aggressive, I enjoyed myself, for I could outrun the biggest of them, and never allowed myself to be defeated.

One day my mother called me to her, and said: "I wish you to listen to what I am about to say to you. The cats who live here are rough alley cats, and have never learned good manners. You have a better chance than they have, and I hope you will grow up gentle and sweet-tempered. Never bite or scratch, and learn to control your angry passions. Then you will be a favorite and a very happy cat—happier than your mother, who never had a chance till now. And now it is too late. I shall not be with you long, and you must try to do the best you can for yourself when I am gone."

This conversation with my mother made me very sad, though I was young and full of frolic, and did not fully realize her true meaning. I never forgot her advice, for I knew she was a very wise cat, and her wisdom had been gained through suffering. My life with her was short, for she left us before I was six months old.

Perhaps here I had better tell her story as she related it to me. She had always been very strict with me, and taught me to be very neat, and keep my fur and my claws clean. My claws were a great delight to me, they were so sharp, and I used to bite them with great satisfaction. It was delightful to feel how sharp my teeth were.

Though I did not use a "toothpick," my nails were very useful instead, and I bit them and enjoyed the fun. But one day I bit them so loud that my mother, after reproving me many times, boxed my ears. She was very nervous, and the snapping provoked her very much.

Of course, I was obliged to obey her; but I bit them all the same, only on the sly.