Miranda Eliot Swan

I HAVE never been particularly fond of poetry; it has always, with a few exceptions, seemed to me to be "wishy-washy."

One day when it was quite dismal and rainy, Miss Eleanor said, "This little poem of Tupper's is a real protest for the future life and immortality of animals."

Of course that great big word was a poser, but after a time spent under the bed and a great deal of stuttering I mastered it. Then she read these lines, and I must quote them because they may influence those who never have any mind of their own, and depend on other people's opinions, to believe that cats have an after life.

And then she read the story of the poor wretch whom no one followed to the grave but his faithful dog, who walked so mournfully behind the hearse.

Yes, I could understand and see it all, and when Miss Milly wiped her eyes, and Miss Eleanor's voice grew tremulous, I had to wink and sneeze several times to conceal from them how deeply I was touched.

And I know all that I care to about funerals. When I hear the roll of carriages, I mount a chair and look out of the window, and feel so sorry for them, remembering how I felt when they carried away our dear one, and left me alone all day, sitting in her easy-chair. And when I see that dreadful vehicle called a hearse, I am thankful that cats do not have to ride in them,—above all, the little white hearse. It does look just like the circus cars that I have seen pass, and the first time I saw it, I looked behind for the elephant, and the other beasts I had always seen in their train.

It makes one a convert to cremation. If I had the question to decide, it would be cremation for man and beast.

I hope women will excuse me for not mentioning them first. We fall into the bad habit of speaking of man only, as if men were the only ones worth a thought, but it is a question no one can answer, "Where would be the men, were there no women?"

I think the heathen custom of burning wives on the funeral pyres of their husbands a good one. It would certainly help dispose of some of the "surplus women" men are so exercised about; for if the widows were all disposed of, there would be a chance for the single ones. And if there were no divorces, no second marriages, then how careful husbands and wives would be of each other, if they knew the survivor would have to do escort duty on that last, long journey, to the one death had marked for its own.

Perhaps all this is too deep for a cat, you think. Well, perhaps it is; but then, cats can't help thinking of all the abuse heaped upon them and the unjust remarks on their habits and ways of living and having their children: and I ask, in the name of slandered cats, why is such judgment passed on them? They are not married, so are not unfaithful, and they are not divorced. While they live with another husband they have all the children that God allows them, and they take care of the little ones till they are of an age to look out for themselves.

Now I hope it will be handed down to posterity that one cat who has himself lived a blameless life has dared to compare the morality of cats with the morality of human beings, who are supposed to be so much more intelligent, and are bound by the laws of the land to be honest and virtuous.

Please don't say, "This cat knows too much," for I will tell you stories, and true ones, too, that will make you believe in the intelligence of our race. I feel sure my cat stories will be appreciated; for in a large company of strangers, where all are sitting around in grim silence, just let some one have the courage to tell a cat story, and the ice is broken at once. This "one touch of nature" makes them all grin. It is the "open sesame"; like a hydra with never ending heads—they spring up. As soon as one is finished, another begins. The heads all have tails (or tales) of cats they have known. One is surprised at the wonderful revelation of how deep a hold the household pet has in the hearts of those who love him.

My mistress had another story from the same lady who told her the last one I related. It was called, "A Confiding Cat." In 1877, says a writer in "Nature," "I was absent from Madras for two months, and left in my quarters three cats, one of which, an English tabby, was a very gentle cat, an affectionate creature. During my absence the quarters were occupied by two young gentlemen who delighted in teasing and frightening the cats. About one week before my return the English cat had kittens, which she carefully concealed behind the bookcase in the library. On the morning of my return I saw the cat and petted her as usual. Then I left the house for about one hour. On returning to dress, I found that the kittens were located in the corner of my dressing room, where previous broods had been deposited and nursed. On questioning the servant as to how they came there, he at once replied, 'Sir, the old cat, taking them one by one in her mouth, brought them in here.' In other words, the mother had carried them one by one in her mouth from the library to my dressing room, where they lay quite exposed."

I do not think I have heard of a more remarkable instance of reasoning and affectionate confidence than this in an animal. I need hardly say it gave me great pleasure. The train of reasoning seemed to be as follows: "Now that my master has returned, there is no risk of the kittens being injured by the two young savages in the house. So I will take them out for my protector to see and admire, and keep them in the corner where all my former children have been nursed in safety."

I think it a lovely story. Some will say, because the cat was an English tabby, "So English, you know!"—in a sarcastic manner; but I say as the old man did, "Nater is nater." And a true mother cat will fight for her own, whatever nation she belongs to. I wish all professional people were like this cat's master.

And I do think our colleges would do better to confer the degree of "B.A." on cats and dogs than on many of the brainless creatures made in the "image of their Maker." There is where the resemblance ceases, "image" is the only indication.

If some of the students would expand their hearts by defending poor abused animals, it would be much more for the benefit of society and for their own development than rowing and kicking as they do. They kick enough between the ages of one and ten to last a lifetime. And I would like to ask one question more, while I am about it: Is there one man, woman, or child who can play ball equal to a cat?

I hope the time will come when doctors will just as soon use the knife on their children as they now do on poor animals so completely in their power. I believe they will have to suffer for every case of cruelty offered up on the altar of that scapegoat called "science." God who made the victim will require atonement.

In my humble opinion, if all the stories told of them are true, it would be no loss to the world or their friends if science could be benefited by the cutting up of a few doctors' and ministers' children. Perhaps by exposing their hearts (while they suffer the agony that poor animals do while under these operations) they might get at the root of wickedness and hardness of heart that seems to be inborn in them; and thus improve the morality of the coming generation. It would be no loss to society to sacrifice a few of them.

I can tell all the professors, and possessors too, that there is no earthly use in using a cat's or dog's heart or liver to decide what causes diseases in human beings. They are no more alike than fire and water. The hearts of human beings are not enlarged by kindness, and are hard from their own wicked natures, while their livers would be well enough if they indulged in proper food and drinks.

A cat's heart is tender and kind and gives love for love; and her liver—well, that is all right; she probably keeps that in good repair by a moderate diet of liver. And if a cat should have disease of the kidneys, why, "a hair of the same dog"—you know the old saying—will cure it, and a good diet of kidney will counteract the disease.

Of course doctors would scorn such a suggestion from a cat; but it might work in the case of their patient as well as in animals—only a doctor who dares order the plebeian diet of liver or kidney would never prosper unless he gave a foreign name to them or smothered them with a title. But just think of it. Do you often hear of the poor laborer with either of these diseases? He has liver instead of turkey, and kidney instead of chickens, and if he is not killed by some modern improvement, he is likely to live forever.

I offer this without the least expectation of a fee. I am no M.D. or D.D. I am "a Daisy"; but my eyes are open, and although I have green around me I am white. So if any one says in a sarcastic manner, "she's a daisy," I shall not be green enough to take it to myself in their sense, but just remember that "it takes a rogue to catch a rogue," and feel happy in my superiority.

While I am moralizing I might as well give my readers the benefit of it. Why are not cats used as barometers? It would certainly save much money, and Blue Hill Observatory would be a good outlook for the weather-wise cat, and she would make an able assistant without a salary. Just observe her movements as the earlier generations did, and there is no doubt the weather notes will be correct.

As early as 1643 an old book was published which says of the cat: "She useth to wash her face with her feet, which she licketh, and moisteneth with her tongue. And it is observed by some, that if she put her feet beyond the crown of her head, in this kind of washing, it is a sign of rain." If a cat scratches the furniture or frisks around more than usual, she is said to be "raising the wind."

Cats are sensitive to air, full of motion and electricity, which seems to put them in good spirits; while a warm lifeless atmosphere makes them languid.

Sailors are as a class very superstitious in regard to cats. Their family, when the father, son, or brother has gone on a voyage, watch the family cat to know about the absent one. If a cat sickens or disappears, it is looked upon as an indication of the illness or death of the absent one. A sailor's family will make a pet and companion of the family cat. The cat that chances to go to sea is just worshipped by all on board the ship and is the real captain.

There is another little story that comes to my mind just now, as illustrating how much a cat notices and remembers. The cat in question was called Ole. Why, or wherefore, I cannot say. Perhaps he was a Norwegian, from the name, or his ancestors may have been Norwegians. He lived in Syracuse, New York, perhaps he was named for that most perfect musician and gentleman, Ole Bull, as people have a craze for naming their children for celebrated people, and they often name their pets for them. There is no doubt that animals do greater credit to their names than pampered children.

The cat called Ole was a great favorite in the family where he belonged. He had his place at the table and was very fond of his master, following his every movement when carving, with great interest. Even though he craved what was being carved, he never made a movement to hasten his dinner. Subsequent events proved he had not watched in vain.

One day the daughter of the family was attracted to the dining room by the loud and peremptory calls of Ole. She opened the door, and there sat Ole in his master's place at the head of the table. The large mat for the meat platter to rest on he had drawn in front of him, and on it lay a large rat.

The satisfaction with which he greeted her was evident, and he purred forth his delight at having provided and served up a game dinner. It proved that he had thought about the etiquette of the table. Having no platter, he had taken the next best thing, the mat, where the platter usually rested.

It is needless to say Ole was more petted then ever, though people, when told the story, would say, "How wonderful!" but behind their backs would say they guessed it was a fish instead of a rat that Ole had caught. But I believe in the rat. A cat detects and despises shams.

A friend of my mistress said that in a country house where she was visiting they had an open fireplace in one of the rooms, and one of those very absurd gas-logs.

The family cat walked in one day, and, going over to the rug, prepared to have a delightful snooze. But she no sooner approached the fireplace than the idea of the sham fire arrested her. She gave one resentful look at her mistress and walked out of the room. She never went into that room again, preferring the reality of the kitchen fire to an elegant sham. There is very little danger that a cat will ever be deceived after she has had the chance to investigate.

If the ravens and birds were half as bright as Pussy, the best gotten-up scarecrow in the field would never cause them one moment of disquiet or the loss of one good meal. She has such quick ears that even the moving of a leaf in the wind or the creak of a window is enough to bring her to her feet ready for an encounter.