Miranda Eliot Swan

IN my humble opinion no one ever told stories to equal those of my friends. Miss Eleanor could tell the cutest little fox and pig stories, while Miss Milly excelled on cat stories.

During my sickness they entertained me finely. Miss Eleanor used to tell a story of the "Pig Family," and the boys were wild over it. No matter how many new ones were told, they never were satisfied to go to sleep without hearing the well-worn pig story.

One night when Miss Eleanor was away, Miss Milly put the children to bed, and of course told them stories. They were not satisfied without the pig story. She was in a hurry, and preferred to tell stories out of her own head, saying she did not know the Pig Family; that was Aunt Eleanor's story.

At last, as they would not go to sleep without it, she told it to them as she remembered it. When it was finished, she looked at Willie, and saw that his lip was quivering and his eyes were full of tears.

"What is the matter?" she said.

"You haven't told about the little blue pig," he sobbed.

"Oh, nonsense!" she said; "he is dead probably."

This finished him. He cried as if his heart would break. She said she never killed a pig before, and had such a hard time bringing that blue one to life, she never would kill another.

Now I am just like the children. I love to hear the same stories over and over, and feel really acquainted with the little creatures that they tell about. And I take after my mistress. I build "castles in the air," though I have heard her say she always got an axe ready to demolish them, for she knew they would have to go. I wish I did know what an axe is. I would have one too.

One day there was a real big snowstorm. I looked out of the window, and when I saw the big white snowflakes coming down, I did wonder about them. Miss Eleanor read one day of a little girl who, on seeing the snowflakes, asked her mother if the angels were shaking their feather beds.

What a little silly she was, for I know better than that. I do not believe even an angel would throw away feathers. They are so nice, I do love to sleep on them. But then cats know more; only they keep it to themselves.

We had a good fire in the grate, and it crackled and spluttered, and looked, as Miss Eleanor said, very homelike. Just then a young lady called at the door to return a book my mistress had loaned her. They asked her to come in and have tea with them.

She had a room in the upper story, and they had frequently invited her in to warm her, for she had no fire, and they feared she was not very well off, and they tried to befriend her without hurting her pride.

She was very pretty and well educated, and I liked her very much. She petted me and told me stories of cats she had known in her home before her father and mother had died, for she was an orphan.

She was very sad, and Miss Milly took out all her pictures and treasures to amuse her. At last she said: "I will tell you about the first cat I ever remember. He belonged to my father, and his name was Tom."

I pricked up my ears, for I was wild to hear the story of Tom. All the little anecdotes I had heard of him pleased me very much.

I think my mistress's father and mother were lovely people, and when any one comes in and speaks of having known them, I listen with all my heart. And now I was to hear all about Tom. So I got up on Miss Milly's lap, ready to devour every word.

My mistress said she did not know where Tom was born. He first made his dÉbut in one of the good old-fashioned houses now standing in Salem, of witchcraft fame. She said:—

"My father petted him with his children, and he was the ruling spirit of the house. Though not a handsome cat, he could be very fascinating. He was so coy of his marks of favor that one valued them more for their rarity. That he had blue blood in his veins no one could doubt, from the supreme contempt he evinced toward poor alley cats. He always perched himself on the highest place on the fence and looked down upon them. They looked up to him in the most abject manner, for they knew he was generous and had the right to give the contents of the swill house to them, if he pleased."

He was very fond of Miss Milly, and as she was the youngest, and not very strong, he made it his special duty to amuse her.

After having stolen a squab that had been cooked for her, and persuaded her to pretend she had eaten it, he ever after was a devoted friend to her. When they had company, Tom was a study. He inspected them with a critical eye. If satisfied, he allowed himself to be petted by them. Often, however, he would reject the offered attention, with a hiss of scorn, and make himself scarce while they remained. Their father said Tom was a good judge of character, for he turned a "cold shoulder" where he himself would have been pleased to do the same.

They had an old bachelor cousin, and their mother was his favorite aunt. The son of her eldest brother, naturally he was a welcome guest with all the family. Having no brothers of their own, they were inclined to receive Cousin Robert's oddities with favor. He would come in of an evening, and if not noticed by them would remove his wraps and soon make himself at home.

One evening, to his sorrow, Cousin Robert made them a visit. After a short conversation with his aunt, he drew near the table where his cousins were playing games. One or two smothered sounds proved his enjoyment.

Cousin Robert was rather fond of cats, but his advances to acquaintance with Tom had met with poor success. His gentle "Pussy, Pussy" and extended hand had been met with disdain. Their father said he thought that Tom resented the "Pussy" as too weak a name for his majesty.

He never approached his would-be friend and cousin or accepted his flag of truce. Their father, later on, did remember that Tom had cast unfriendly glances at Cousin Robert from his corner where he could overlook all their movements. Subsequent events explained their meaning in a manner most unfavorable to their object.

This evening the children were full of fun. The game was very attractive, and Cousin Robert never thought of Tom.

Suddenly their mother exclaimed, "What a strong smell of medicine!" Then remembering that Cousin Robert had rheumatism, and very likely it was liniment he had used, she tried to pass it over. Too late, however, for they were all sensible of a very strong medicinal smell by this time.

A low laugh from their father, who was seated in his armchair by the fire, called our attention to Tom. He was in his usual corner, engaged in a furious battle with some dark object. Just as they asked, "Is it a mouse," one fierce tug dislodged the cork from a bottle from which he had just torn the paper, and they all cried out "Valerian!"

Tom bounded out of his corner, crushing in his grasp the dark object he had battled with, and drunk with the valerian, he turned over and over in perfect abandonment.

Cousin Robert gazed with dazed eyes upon the scene; then he rushed forward, saying, "Good Godfrey! it's my—my hat!"

The shouts of laughter and the fiendish leer of Tom's eye, as he gazed upon him, rendered their poor cousin speechless, after having aired his only approach to profanity.

After a time he made grab after grab at his poor old hat. In vain, however; for Tom turned over and over, crushing it out of shape, flourishing such formidable claws every time he tried to rescue it, serving friend and foe alike, when the children tried to help their cousin, that they were obliged to give up the attempt.

Tom held the fort, and knew how to keep it; and the children were too well aware of Tom's power as an illustrator to desire to represent etchings, even by their "own artist, taken on the spot."

When at last the bottle was taken from him, only one-half of the valerian was left.

As soon as their father could command his voice, he said, "I will make good the loss of the hat, and keep Tom on short rations to pay for it."

The children were bursting with suppressed laughter at the sight of Cousin Robert, in one of their father's old hats. When they said good night to him, Tom got up, and, walking around him, cocked up his eye as if to say, "How funny you do look!"

Tom went in for his full share of the fun, when they all drew near the fire, laughing over the funny features of the scene. If his tongue was silent, his eyes were eloquent with a language they all understood.

After a time he went to his corner and returned with the poor old hat, which he laid with great dignity at his master's feet. "That settles the question," he seemed to say.

It did settle it with Cousin Robert. Though he got a new hat, it was months before he visited them again, and then Tom was put out of the room—an indignity he resented by stealing a neighbor's chicken.

It was pure wickedness, for he did not care for it himself, but gave it to the poor alley cats to devour; for he patronized them and had many disreputable pensioners. All his master said, when told of Tom's wickedness, was, "Pay for it." And to Tom he would say, "If you go on this way, you bad boy, we shall end our days in the poorhouse."

Tom looked as if he did not care where we ended our days, if we took him with us. And he was very sure his master would never go without him.

Tom carried the old felt hat up into his den in the attic, and when any unusual noise was heard, his master would say, "Tom is rehearsing his play of 'Valerian, or The Old Felt Hat.'"

I thought the story of Cousin Robert very nice, and when I lie on the lounge, looking in the fire, I can see all these scenes, and I do enjoy it. Miss Eleanor says she thinks I have a great deal of imagination. I suppose it is something nice, so I guess I have. I don't feel a bit jealous, for Miss Milly was a child then, and Tom was not her special pet, as I am; for I know that I am the "very apple of her eye," as I have heard people say, and it sounds big because I don't know what it means.

Miss Milly said she would tell more about Tom some day, for the young lady was very much pleased with his story. She looked warm and happy, and drank lots of tea, and ate crackers and had a good time generally.

Some time after, a friend called who had known them from childhood and knew Tom. Such nice reminiscences I never heard before. When she noticed me, she began talking about cats, and I thought she would never stop.

They invited her to take tea, though they laughingly said, "We have no two dishes alike, and very humble fare."

She enjoyed it, however, though she had a lovely home, servants and carriages at her command. This little bit of Bohemianism, as they called it, was a delight to her. She made them promise to spend the day with her, saying, "You can bring Daisy, for I will send a carriage for you, and my Priggy will be delighted with him."

I was pleased with the invitation, but took a dislike to Priggy at once. Such a name! Just think of it! To be called Priggy, when there are beautiful flowers and places that cats can be named for. To call a poor creature Priggy was weakness personified. I was disgusted, and refused to believe in Priggy.

As we never went to see him, my mistress not being well enough to visit, I never had the chance to express my indignation to him. Perhaps it is just as well. Poor little fool! He may think Priggy is a lovely name.

Some time after, when it stormed very hard, and the young lady upstairs was cold and low-spirited, my mistress invited her down and entertained us with more of Tom's history.

She said Tom was very fastidious in regard to dress. He despised anything ragged, and a dirty swill man (waste merchants they are called now) aroused his deepest anger. Beggars of all ages and sex he ignored. The children's dresses he looked over with a critical eye, and if he detected a rag, he would make mending impossible.

What he would have done in these days of sewing machines cannot be imagined, for he was frantic over a thread of cotton or silk, and only a knot kept the whole work from being torn to pieces by his sharp teeth.

They had one of the best-natured Pats to do their outdoor work that could be found. Pat Ryan was a faithful soul. His one great fault was his love of the bottle.

He very soon gave up the attempt of making friends with Tom, for he answered all his advances with hisses and growls, loud and deep. His tail would swell up, and he would bristle all over when Pat tried to pet him; just as human beings do when they are presumed upon by those they think beneath them in the social scale.

Pat had truly to earn his living by "the sweat of his brow." No modern helps for him. His whole stock in trade consisted of two large firkins on a rough wheel-barrow, to transport the waste that he went from house to house collecting.

He would have thought the millennium had come could he have looked forward to the progress of to-day,—the strong blue carts, with their well-fed high-steppers, and the Patricks of the period, seated with pipes in their mouths, and leather lap-robes, in imitation of their employers, going their rounds, pounding back gates, and bullying the servants if they were not prompt to greet them.

This improvement in the swill business might have made Pat give up his bottle and take to the nearly as demoralizing vice of smoking all the time. But his heavy wheel-barrow had no horse but himself, and the overflowing firkins were a load for him, particularly when, as was often the case, he was as full as his firkins.

It was then that Tom saw his opportunity. When Pat's gait was unsteady, his vision oblique, when he magnified his load by double firkins, double barrow, double people, and double street, Tom would swoop down upon him, and by some dexterous movement, known only to himself, cross Pat's path and overthrow his load. Then, reaching the highest place on the fence, he would look down, as if to say: "Well, you have come to grief. How did you do it?"

Pat was not deceived. Drunk or sober, he recognized his enemy, and gave him the full measure of his wrath. "Ye limb of Satan," he would say, "ye'll get it yet!" Such promises were never realized. Old Cloven-foot only could compete with this clever cat.

One unlucky day Pat came earlier than usual, and finding the gate closed, had to reach his arm over to unfasten it. It was quite a stretch over the top of the fence, and Pat's head did not come even with the top, so that he could not look over.

Tom, who was looking on, at once took in the situation. He crawled on his belly on the ledge of the fence just below the top, and every time Pat would reach over his hand, Tom would grab it with his open paws, his claws as sharp as needles.

Yelling with rage and pain, realizing that it was his enemy, Tom, poor Pat, unwilling to give up, tried and tried again, only to be served in the same manner.

At last he mounted on the barrow, bringing his head on a level with the fence. Before he could gain advantage from this move Tom had grabbed with both paws Pat's old straw hat, rushing like mad up to the house.

Pat had by this time forced an entrance, and ran after him, in pursuit of his old hat, calling on all the saints to demolish Tom. Bareheaded, with torn and bleeding hands, witnesses of his wrongs, Pat poured forth his tale of woe to his friends in the kitchen, where he found sympathy, for Tom was feared by all the servants. Of course the culprit was nowhere to be seen.

Their mistress soon healed the breach, if not the wound, by giving Pat an old hat. To be sure, it was rather too respectable looking for his calling, but then, he was satisfied even if it did not accord with the rest of his outfit. No salve for his wound would have equalled that hat.

Miss Milly said as she watched him from her window, walking off with his new hat on, Tom crawled out from under the sofa, and, mounting the arm of her chair, said in cat language, "Don't he look just like Cousin Robert?"

Miss Milly said that when her father came home, Tom ran to meet him; then he took his master's slippers, and carried them to his chair.

"What means this unusual demonstration?" asked his master. Tom hung his head and walked under the chair. Then, when his master was seated, he crawled out, and, mounting to the arm of his chair, rubbed against his shoulder. Secure of his position, he looked around on them, as if to say, "Now tell all you know." With his large eyes fixed on their faces, he enjoyed over again his adventures, wagging his tail in recognition of the telling points in the story they related to their father.

His master said: "Tom's ancestors must have been in the hat trade, he is so fond of hats. We shall have to establish a branch of the business, and make Tom the head. If he goes on in this way, we cannot find hats enough to pay his debts."

Tom enjoyed it, looking at Miss Milly as if to say, "Don't I do it to keep up her spirits?"

He did not come in contact with Pat for some time, for Pat prudently kept out of his way. His cunning only slumbered, however. They called it turning over a new leaf; but one day he came out with a new joke on Pat.

"Looking from my window," Miss Milly said, "one morning, I saw quite an army of cats assembled around the plank walk leading to the swill house. Tom, seated on the highest post in the yard, surveyed them with great satisfaction, which was shown by the proud elevation of his head.

"His most gracious manner was explained when Pat, coming in, dispersed them, and a long array of bones was exposed to view—the remains of the feast Tom had invited them to partake of.

"Pat could not do justice to the subject. Shaking his fist at Tom, who never winked, but gazed with solemn eyes at him, he said: 'Ye mane crathur, ye are a human for spite, picking out the best for the old alley cats ye hates. I will get a dog.' Tom only yawned, and said as plain as cat could say, 'How tiresome!' After he had watched poor Pat picking up the leavings, muttering all the time hatred of his enemy, he came to me for approval. My mother being in the room, she put him in the attic, telling him he ought to be punished by solitary confinement.

"He soon procured his release by making such a racket over my head, running about, upsetting marbles, then chasing them about, that I was very glad to open the door and say, 'You bad cat, come down.' He came when he got ready, very slowly, and was quite cool to me, though I told him he had made my head ache with his racket.

"He was not a neighborly cat, never visiting, as cats often do, the neighbors' houses, and he treated their cats with the greatest disdain. He often fed them. I have seen him pick open the waste-house door, claw out a lot of bread and bones for the benefit of the hungry crowd. Then he would mount the fence and look on. 'With them, but not of them,' was his motto.

"Though he did not visit around, he knew everything going on in the street. He overlooked the butcher, baker, and grocer, and knew every grain of provision carried into the houses, even going so far as smelling of the meat; but when offered anything, he refused with such contempt that one and all came to look upon him as a very aristocratic cat.

"Every carriage that came to the street was received by him. He always waited till the trunks were carried in, the driver paid, and then he would come home satisfied.

"A friend of ours, who boarded in the next house, had just returned from her country home. Tom, being a favorite of hers, received her, and superintended the removal of her trunks with great interest. He followed her into the house and remained some time. When my mother called him home, he came very unwillingly.

"The next morning after breakfast he disappeared. This was nothing unusual, as my father said, 'Probably Tom had some business needing his attention daily.'

"In the afternoon, when my mother called on our friend, she found Tom had dined there.

"After a time, this lady, remembering that she had brought me a book from her home, proposed going up to her trunk for it. Shortly after, she called my mother, who, with the lady of the house, went up to the attic where the trunks were kept. There they found Tom with two of the house cats seated on a huge trunk that had not been opened. The trunk bore marks of their claws, as scratches long and deep had torn and disfigured the leather.

"The scene was most laughable. Tom looked wise (nothing could embarrass him), while the others looked sheepish. They could not be induced to leave their perch, and at last light dawned on the situation, when the friend said, 'Do you think Tom remembers that I promised him some fresh catmint from the country?' 'Undoubtedly,' said my mother; 'he not only remembers, but he smells it.'

"The catmint was soon produced, and they all had a feast. Tom wanted to stay and have a free fight after he had eaten his fill; but my mother let him see the large bag she carried home, and he followed her unwillingly. He knew where it was kept, and would go and mew before the closet door till he got his catmint. After it was gone, on seeing the empty bag, he went over to our friend's, and up to the trunk. Nothing would satisfy him but looking in and seeing it was empty.

"For some time he was cool to our friend, but after a few days, remembering perhaps that she might go home and get him more, he accepted her marks of affection with quiet dignity.

"Tom was very thoughtful. When told not to do certain things, he was very ready to obey. His master would say, 'Tom, did I not tell you never to get into my chair unless there is a covering on it?' and Tom would look as ashamed while the hairs were brushed off, and would avoid the chair for a long time, and once he was seen to pull the tidy down from the back, and sit on it. As it was lace, and he tore a hole in it, his thoughtfulness was appreciated only by his master.

"Tom was not a cat for every one to love. He had very little reverence in his composition. My father and mother," Miss Milly continued, "were very hospitable, and always at the church gatherings entertained all they could accommodate. Unlike the children of to-day, we were kept in the background.

"One of our guests was an old travelling preacher—'colporteur,' as he was called, since he carried about religious books for sale. There is no doubt he sold many, for buying a book was a more simple thing than arguing with him, his tongue being one of the most aggressive.

"Every morning the family were early called to prayers, kneeling down before chairs in the long room, having to remain in that position while this old man prayed for every one around, calling them by name. All fared alike. Though I do not believe he remembered our faces, he never forgot our names. My name, unfortunately, was taken from Shakespeare, and not from some heroine of religious fiction; and I suffered more when mine was called than my sister did, nearly all of the family having good Bible names that he enjoyed repeating. It is not necessary to say how long he lingered over it to impress its worldliness on his listeners. It was to me like opening a wound every morning.

"Tom, however, paid him for it. Perhaps he did not like his own name being left out. An additional cause for revenge, no doubt, was that when once he passed the reverend gentleman, the humane Christian put out his foot, giving Tom a slight kick, and said, 'What a great beast!' This was enough to arouse Tom's ire, even if not mentioning him with the family had not been enough. So one morning Tom attended family prayers.

"Now this old man wore shoes tied with good strong strings, with little tags on the ends. Tom looked at them and saw his opportunity. Just in the middle of the prayer he pounced upon one of the long strings, giving a pull with his sharp, strong teeth that made the words in the mouth of his victim come out with a jerk.

"Of course Tom fled at the sound, and after a time the prayer continued. Finally, just as we were hoping for the last clause, it came in the shape of Tom, who rushed out from under the sofa, and with one wrench untied the other shoe, while the amen came out with a bound. Then we had to listen to a long harangue on the sin of keeping animal pets where we could feed poor children.

"My father and mother listened respectfully, but made no promise of turning God's dumb creatures out to starve. My elder sister quoted to us:—

But then, the 'Ancient Mariner' himself could not have convinced this ancient bigot.

"Tom kept out of the way for some time, but we did not trust him. After untying his enemy's shoes, we were afraid he would attack his brown wig. My mother every morning made sure he was out of the way before we went to prayers.

"How it happened, we never knew, but Tom outwitted her, and one morning, the last of the visitor's stay at our house, Tom made his mark, gaining a place in our memory never to be filled by any other cat.

"Just at the close of a long prayer Tom crept along stealthily toward the chair of his enemy. No one was in a position to see him; but when he crawled by the lounge where I was lying, I felt his presence, and my heart seemed to stand still, for I knew he was bent on mischief. I dared not move, and had to watch him with bated breath as he gained on his unconscious prey. Now his noble enemy never bowed his head in prayer, but, kneeling before a chair, his hands spread out, his eyes closed, his body swaying to and fro, presented a very undignified appearance.

"No doubt Tom thought so, for he walked around and faced him, looking in his face through the opening in the back of the chair for a long time. Suddenly he made a grab (I think he intended to catch the fluttering end of the necktie), but just then the preacher lowered his head, and Tom's claws came down full on the bridge of his nose with such force that the words of the prayer were shouted in a manner suggesting profanity.

"All was confusion, as the enraged old man started to his feet, prayer and religion alike forgotten in his desire for revenge. Too late, however; for Tom rushed from the room, his tail up in the air, like a flag of victory. He did not appear again until all trace of our visitor was removed.

"Poor old man! He did look abject, with the blood dripping over the end of his nose, and tears of rage and pain in his eyes. Never did piety disappear so quickly as it did from this good old man, in view of his wrongs. One would have thought Tom possessed of human intelligence to hear him denounced. My sister said she believed he was sorry that Tom had no soul to be lost, thus to appease his wrath.

"My mother produced salve and some court-plaster and made him as comfortable as possible, but without receiving any thanks. He left us, very indignant that my father would not promise to have Tom killed. He refused to remain to breakfast, saying he would not take another meal in the house with that 'ungodly cat.'

"As my father paid all his expenses, and my mother gave him new and warm clothing, he had no reason to be offended. My sister said he was a 'wolf in sheep's clothing,' and Tom knew it, and had been trying to protect us against him.

"Tom spent the night at a neighbor's, coming home the next day in a most amiable frame of mind and a very (for him) humble air. Instead of running to meet my father as usual, he kept in his corner, pretending to be asleep. No one spoke to him, and he bore it as long as he could; then he walked over to my father, and, putting a paw on each knee, looked up in his face with a piteous mew.

"Poor father could not bear that. His tender heart was touched, and he put his hand on Tom's head, saying, 'Oh, Tom, I am so sorry you are such a wicked boy!' but the tone assured Tom, who at once jumped up on my father's shoulder and kissed his face with delight.

"All through the long sermon preached to him of his sins he sat very quiet, and never once winked, but kept his wide-open, wise eyes on his master; at last he yawned two or three times, and then washed his face. But peace was established.

"'What a character that man will give you, Tom, wherever he goes,' said my mother.

"Tom shook his head as if to say: 'Such is fame. I always wanted to be famous. Then, I love to etch, particularly on noses, and that was a good big one. I enjoyed it.'

"Poor Tom! I can hardly tell of his death even now, after so many years, without the swelling in my throat, to keep back the tears caused by deep sorrow for my pet.

"One night he went out and did not return till morning. The door of one of the outbuildings was left open for him to go in if he pleased, but he never came home till morning; then, as we learned from the servants, he went up to his den in the attic. At noon time he did not come down, and my sister went in search of him and found him dead.

"He was not in his nice little basket bed, of which he was very proud; but lay on some old relics, among the most noticeable of which was the old hat of Cousin Robert.

"He had been poisoned. His bright face was all green, and his brilliant eyes were glassy. We could not even rub and kiss his dear old nose as he liked us to, for drops had run down from his mouth and stained the beautiful fur coat we loved so well, and my mother said we must not touch him.

"Under the pile of things where he lay was an open map of the United States; he had trampled it down some time before. We often said he studied it when alone. Tom was closed up in this map, with a large rug outside, and buried in the river.

"How we mourned for him and how changed was that lovely river view to me! I could never have been consoled, had not a dear old lady said to me,—

"'Why do you mourn so for your precious pet?'

"'Ah,' I said, 'I shall never, never see him again.'

"'Why not?' she asked.

"'Because cats have no souls, no after life.'

"'My child,' she answered, 'God never gave us these dear, affectionate creatures to care for and then part with forever. You will have your dear Tom again where perfect happiness is secured by just such meetings.'

"I think she was right; and as good Dr. Watts so beautifully describes in that well-known Baptist hymn, 'Sweet Fields beyond the Swelling Flood,' there is no doubt there we shall find our faithful dumb friends.

"My father never recovered from Tom's loss. He would not take his accustomed place by the fire where Tom had been his companion for so many years, and he never made a pet of any of the many cats we had, though they were very bright ones.

"My dear good father! I have very little recollection of him, as he died while I was quite young. But I never remember him without Tom seated in all his glory by his side."

When Miss Milly had finished her story we were all subdued by the death of Tom; but then he had a happy life, so I just winked off my tears and hoped I should know him in heaven.