Miranda Eliot Swan

ONE ambition of my life has never been gratified. I have always had a desire to attend church. I have never been able to understand why restless children, who have no understanding of sermons, who are wretched when obliged to keep still, and are only kept quiet by a promise of something nice or a threat of punishment, should be taken to church and the family cat left at home.

What if we do sleep all through the service—we have a precedent for it. How often we hear people say, "Mr. So-and-So might as well have remained at home, for he slept all through the sermon," or, "Mrs. So-and-So had to pinch herself to keep awake. She dare not sleep, fearing to crush her new bonnet."

If we can believe all we hear, ministers all have voices "like old cows" or "dying calves." They never speak plain, and deaf people remain at home rather than look like fools when they cannot hear one word. Cats hear all these speeches, and wonder why they cannot go and judge for themselves. I know in our church, with the boy choir singing so lovely, one could not sleep.

When I was young I brooded over this question. I did want to be a Christian cat, and, like most ignorant people, I thought I could not be good unless I went to church. Of course I know better now. I can be just as good at home. Like all young things, I wanted to try my wings and see a little of the world.

Karl and Will were choir boys, and I was very proud of their voices. I did not understand why I could not march in the processional, right behind Karl and Will, even if my voice was not trained to sing.

I thought it all over, and out of a multitude of thoughts came forth an act. Not one of the "Acts of the Apostles." Had it been, I might have been successful.

One Sunday I made up my mind to try my luck. I had a hearty breakfast, washed myself all over, and cleaned my nails, for I had heard that "cleanliness is next to godliness." I did not mean that in my cat vocabulary there should be one such word as "fail."

I hid myself when Karl and Will were ready for church, and after they had left the house I crept out after them. I followed them on the opposite side of the street, without being discovered, when, just as I was feeling sure of the situation, a dog must needs bark and make for me.

Karl and Will turned around, and then my church-going was ended. Before I could run away Will caught me up in his arms and carried me home.

I was very angry over it, and refused to be comforted. I wished I had been a heathen; then they would have taken the trouble to convert me. I tried to find a rat to kill, and crept all around the cellar. But no; rats must not be killed on Sunday. I was very unhappy. Six days of the week I could do very well, but oh my, the seventh!

That day was a poser to me. All the family had gone to church. What could a poor cat do? I could not sleep, and, to cap the climax, a plate of beans and a saucer of milk had been put out for me, in case I wanted something before they returned.

Now I love my beans Saturday night and Sunday morning, but to be expected to make a dinner of them, in place of the nice little lamb kidney that was served up for me every Sunday, was adding insult to injury.

I dragged the beans out on the floor and threw over the milk saucer; then, as I could do no more mischief, off I went in a huff to look out for their return home.

I did feel a little ashamed, for I remembered that Karl could not get a kidney. The man at the store told him they were all sold, adding, "If that cat of yours will not feed on anything but kidneys, he will die of kidney disease." It was not their fault, and I did feel mean.

Every Sunday Karl and Will studied their lesson. They would sit at the table with their books, while I had a hassock in front of them, with my little Bible open on it. Here I would pose for an hour, with my paws folded on the open book, looking from one to the other, for I loved them dearly.

This Sunday I would not look at my book. The boys tried to make me, but were obliged to give it up. I behaved just like a bad boy, running after imaginary balls, jumping over the hassock, sitting on the Bible, till at last Will said: "I will call Aunt Milly. We shall never get our lesson if she does not take Daisy away."

This did not please me. I just picked up my book, and when my mistress came in I was sitting at my hassock, my claws clasped over my Bible (though it was upside down), looking as innocent as possible.

All this naughtiness because I wanted to be a choir boy and walk in the processional with the rest of the boys. I think it would have been better if they had taken me to church.

One thing always gave me great pleasure: I never could tire of cat stories. I think it may be a help to the understanding of cat nature if I give the most interesting ones for people to read.

With the horrors of vivisection and other cruelties practised upon animals, it is time for them to assert themselves. Even a cat's voice may be heard. Children can be taught to respect the rights of animals if their parents will interest themselves in their dumb servants.

My mistress met two very nice ladies one summer while in the country. They were cat-lovers, and gave many nice anecdotes of cats they had known. I will tell you one I particularly liked.

A friend of theirs had a great many cats, and as their number increased she felt the necessity of giving up some of them. She found homes for all but one; and one day, when her friends were visiting her, she asked them if they would take the cat and drop her near some nice house, where they had no doubt she would soon make a home. It was not a very pleasant commission, but they could not very well refuse.

Pussy had evidently heard their conversation, for she tried to hide from them. She was very quiet, never responding to their coaxing, covering her face with her paws in great sorrow. They drove many miles into the country before they could think of parting with her.

At last a large and finely situated farmhouse attracted them by its homelike aspect. It was a low, rambling house painted red, and the barns and outbuildings were in keeping. Everything looked inviting. The large kitchen-garden at the back of the house seemed just the place for cats to enjoy. An opening in the trees gave them a glimpse of a small stream meandering through the country, reflecting the rustic scene in its clear depth.

"Here," they said, "we will leave her. Surely no one in a place like this could turn away from a poor cat."

They coaxed her, and in spite of her clinging to them, put her down very gently. She stood like one dazed. Then she turned and surveyed the house and its surroundings. She looked long at the clear, bright water, as if in deep thought. She then looked up at the sky, and after giving them a reproachful glance, she walked slowly toward the river. Reaching it, she paused one moment, then deliberately walked in. Twice she rose to the surface, then the waters closed over her forever.

They could make no effort to save her. Knowing cats' strong dislike of water, they had no idea she would go near it. It was, they said, a clear case of suicide. Homeless, friendless, and wretched, she preferred death, even in the element a cat usually dreads, to seeking a new home.

The people were very unhappy about it. They said they felt like murderers, and never had believed before that cats could think and suffer. They said that they should ever after do all they could for animals, particularly cats, in atonement for their share, though unintentional, in the death of poor pussy.

It made me appreciate the care I had had all my life, when I heard such sad stories of cats.

Cats are fond of mischief, and I fear I never thought of the sorrow I should cause when I saw a good opportunity for fun.

We made a visit one summer in a family where the old grandfather, from Vermont, was spending a few weeks. He was an original character, and we were entertained by his quaint speeches and his old-fashioned manners. He thought Boston was one of the biggest and wickedest places in the world. I was the only one he seemed to be at home with, though I never could tell why, for I disliked him from the first sight I had of his horrid little eyes, with a real wicked expression, and his flesh looked just like an over-baked apple.

The wonder of all to me was his head, which was the part I could not understand. It was covered by uneven, red-brown hair, with no seam in it, and it looked just like a cocoanut.

He ate so loud I thought some one was choking, and when I walked over to the side of the table and looked in his face, I found he was eating with a big knife so fast it made me wink. This increased my dislike of him, and I refused all his overtures to make friends with me.

He said I was "a proud critter." He guessed lots of time was spent on keeping my fur so nice. And "as to that trinket on my neck, it was too fine for a cat."

One day I solved the mystery of his head-gear. I chanced to peep into his room,—as no place was sacred from my investigation,—and I saw another old man, his head as bare as the bed-post. When he said "Pussy, Pussy," I fled in alarm, but not before I had discovered that it was the same old man minus the top of his head. It was a wonder to me, and I never rested till I found that head-gear. They called it a wig, but I called it a "bird's nest."

Then I made up my mind to investigate it. Soon my opportunity came. All the people had gone to ride, and I was making a tour of the house, when loud breathing convinced me my old man was at home. Bad cat that I was, I just followed the noise, and sure enough, there he lay, flat on his back, his mouth wide open, sound asleep.

Of course I climbed up and looked into his open mouth. Another discovery I made: he had not one tooth in his head! And the wind and spray that covered me, from his open mouth, satisfied me with a brief investigation.

On the floor, by his side, lay the bone of contention, the brown wig I had speculated on so long. I grabbed it, and carrying it into a corner, inspected it thoroughly. Then I clawed it a little, and at last seated myself in it. Something about it acted like a narcotic, and in this uncomfortable bird's nest I fell asleep.

I dreamed that I was sitting under the piazza, when I heard voices. One of them said: "Why should not cat's fur be used for wigs and bangs? Gray hair is so fashionable."

"Oh," replied a young voice, "think of Aunt Sally with a maltese front-piece, and Grandpa and Uncle Jim with tiger-cat wigs!"

"Well," replied the first speaker, "if it were the fashion, we should like it. That great, pampered cat belonging to those two big-feeling old maids would make nice wigs, for his fur is as soft as silk."

"Yes, and that long tail of his," said the young girl, "would make a beautiful tippet, with a squirrel's head on it."

"But," lowering her voice, "if Brother Rob was here I would get him to coax him off, and get his skin. It would make a beautiful rug for my room."

Just then a shout awoke me, and the old man on the lounge also. He fought wildly for his wig. Dazed by my dream, I sat blinking my half-open eyes from one to the other. They were just screaming with laughter at the sight I presented, seated in Grandfather's wig.

Miss Milly took me out rather roughly, I thought, and smoothed it as well as she could. The old man looked on in surprise, muttering, "I knew that durned critter was up to mischief."

After it was combed out and put on right, the old man, conciliated by a good dinner that he loved, invited me to a seat on his knee in token of his forgiveness. I declined the favor with scorn. Sit on a knee covered with corduroy when all my life I had been used to broadcloth? Never!

My dream troubled me very much. I am a superstitious cat, and believe in warnings. So I kept close to my mistress; for in every one that approached I saw an enemy ready to despoil me of my beautiful fur coat. Though I am a good judge of human nature, as silent people are apt to be, I never had that confidence in people, that makes life so pleasant, I had felt before my dream.

When we left for home, Grandfather Tomkins said to Miss Milly: "You had better give that great critter to me. He would like my farm to run about in, and I have taken a liking to him." Then he added, with a sly wink at me, "He can sleep in an old wig I have at home."

I trembled at the thought, and hid in the folds of Miss Milly's dress, as she said, "Daisy is just like a child to us; we could never part with him."

"Well, well," he said; "I believe the critter knows all we say."

I was glad enough to see the last of that place. I preferred one room and no companions but my own friends. These uncongenial people had given me a good lesson.

I was more careful about running away, for when one has a fur garment to protect, suspecting every one of a desire to make wigs, front-pieces, tippets, and fur rugs of it, he has a great care. I only wish I could tell my dream to my friends, but it is a great consolation to write it.