Miranda Eliot Swan

MY mistress was not silly about me. She would say: "I am perfectly satisfied with Daisy, just as God made him. I do not presume to improve what he has made perfect. I do all I can to bring out his good points, and leave the rest to nature."

Then she told me the story of "Adonis." His mistress had his ears pierced and gold earrings put in them. He wore them at home only.

That cat did suffer for his mistress's vanity, and I could not help wishing she had been the victim; for one day a lady called, bringing with her a pet dog. She said, "My dog has a lovely disposition, and will not touch your cat."

She had not calculated on Adonis having a temper, and the consequences were disastrous. Ever since his ears were pierced, Adonis had been fretful and snappish. His beautiful earrings were no pleasure to him, for he could not give them a pull without making his ears sore.

When he saw this pampered dog in his very home, he arose in his anger, and flew at the little pet in great wrath. Of course the dog retaliated, though frightened almost out of his skin. The result was, he tore out one of Adonis's earrings, making a long slit in his ear, and got repaid by having his own eyes almost scratched out.

His mistress was well paid for her cruelty in decorating her cat in this foolish manner. From a loving, happy cat he was transformed into a cross, quarrelsome creature that no one could love.

Then she cast him off and got a new plaything, this time a dog, all covered with bells and ribbons, that she could take around with her.

Poor Adonis was suffered in the house, but left to the servants, and his nice quarters given to the dog, while he was left in the kitchen, where his high temper made him disliked, and his torn and swollen ears made him an object of derision.

My mistress would say: "Never, Daisy, shall you be made miserable by such foolishness. People who treat animals in this way are not their real friends; they use them selfishly as a decoration for themselves when they might make them intelligent companions and sincere friends."

That there are many good people who appreciate animals, the stories that I have given you will prove. The story of Freida is an instance, and I can vouch for its truth.

Freida was a nice cat, aristocratic and refined in her ideas. She inherited her name from a Danish relative of her master, and brought the old home days back to memory.

She had a very beautiful home not many miles from Boston. It was a large house, and was called "The Mansion." It had a cupola where Freida could go up and overlook the high hills and see the gilded dome of the State House quite plainly.

Then there was the stable, and a beautiful flowerbed in front of the house.

It was rightly called "The Mansion," for it stood alone, surrounded by beautiful trees, and looked down with dignity on the smaller houses around it.

Freida was a very happy and fortunate cat. She had a kind master, and her mistress was very lovely and good. She was a very dear friend of Miss Milly, and was born in good old Salem, and, like all the people in that bewitching place, she thought a home was not perfect without the family cat.

All this would have been very delightful, had not a great change taken place in this charming home. But then, there would have been no story; for Freida's life would have been just like that of other cats, pleasant but uneventful.

The good mistress fell ill and was ordered a change of air, and a voyage to Europe.

I know how I felt, for I wanted my mistress to go abroad; and when her friend sent her a card decorated with wild flowers and edelweiss from Chamonix, I was just crazy to see this beautiful place that she wrote about so charmingly.

I was very wicked, I fear, for I got the card off of the table and sat upon it. I said to myself, "It is just as nice to sit upon the picture flowers as it would be to have the real ones." I thought how nice it would be to go with my mistress, for I was sure she would take me with her, and then I could run up and down the mountains just as I pleased.

When she took me on her lap, showing me the card, and told me how many miles of ocean separated her from her friend, it made me shiver at the thought of crossing it. But then, in her arms I would not be afraid to go to Jericho. I do hate water; there is too much used on me when I am washed, and I wish I could be washed with land instead.

All this is not telling about Freida, whose story I started to tell you.

The beautiful house was closed, and Freida was taken to the home of her mistress's brother near Boston. Two of her sisters, who were very fond of Freida, were there, making it homelike for her. But for all their petting she was homesick. They were obliged to keep her very close, for fear she would run away.

She was a great care to them, and one day they missed her, and on going to the furnace they saw a strange sight. A fluffy ball was turning over and over in the ashes, and on drawing it out they found it was Freida. She was almost suffocated, but the master, a charming man, just like his sister in kindness of heart, went at once for a doctor. He said they must take her where the air could blow over her, and also give her brandy.

Her tongue was hanging out of her mouth, and she was a wretched creature. They worked over her for hours, and then the sisters brushed off the ashes and tended her as kindly as they would a baby. Soon she looked as nice as ever, and that cat never tried cremation again.

It proves how good and kind people can be to their dumb friends.

Poor Freida! she was destined to die in a violent manner. She returned to her beautiful home only to meet her fate.

The man who carried groceries to the house had a very gentle and kind horse. Strange to say, a friendship sprang up between Freida and this nice horse. She was always on hand to greet him every day, rubbing against his legs and showing her fondness for him in many ways, while he would put down his head for her to caress. It was a very funny sight.

One day when the man came out he turned the wagon quickly, and it crushed over poor Freida, breaking her back and killing her instantly. The man was very much troubled about it, and he said, after that, the horse would try not to go up the hill.

She was buried near the place where she was killed, and they all mourned for her, and still remember her with affection.

They have a cat now called Frity, a dignified creature, but no cat will ever take Freida's place.

My mistress said that when she was visiting there she felt as if Freida's spirit was around, and at night she could hear her voice mingling with the voices of the pines.

How much sorrow we could save our friends if we could speak! People think cats cannot understand and read character, but they can; and they know the true from the false very quickly.

We had rooms, at one time, where everything was satisfactory, and the landlady said she was very fond of cats; for my mistress would tell the people of whom she engaged rooms about me.

This woman was very nice to me before my mistress, but I could not like her at all. And my instinct was right, for when I went through her kitchen, to go out for my daily airing, she looked "daggers" at me, and said, "Scat!"

I was so provoked I walked just as slow as I could and held up my head; but she came at me with her dishcloth, and as I did not care to be hit by that dirty thing, smelling of fish, I swallowed my pride and ran away. She slammed the back door after me, and called me a "pampered brute."

I dared not show my head again for a long time. I was cold and hungry, but I had faith. I knew I should be looked for; and, sure enough, both of them came to hunt for me, the woman of the house with them, all smiles. She said: "Poor Pussy! Did it want to come in?"

I just glared at her. I wanted to say, "It did not want you to let it in." I thought the treatment bad enough; but to be called it broke the back of my belief in her.

I kept out of her way; but one morning she saw me coming in from the kitchen, and drove me upstairs with her duster. My mistress saw her, and was very indignant, though she did not say anything, but she never let me go down alone after that.

This woman had a little step-son. She kept him in from play with his friends on Saturday afternoons, to get his Sunday-school lessons, and he just hated her and the lessons, as a matter of course.

I used to play and chase my tail as if I did not know what it was, to divert his attention, for I did pity him. He was pleased, but it made him forget the long, tiresome answers. So I gave up trying to amuse him, for I did not want him to be punished. And when, after all my sympathy, he pulled and pinched my tail, I said, "He is a chip from the old block," and left him to his deceitful step-mother.

I felt very glad that, with all their sorrows and wrongs, cats never have step-fathers or mothers. It is better never to have known your own father than to have one who is always bringing you a new mother. And I guess, after all, there is just as much morality among cats as there is among human beings.

Sometimes there were days when I could not contain myself. I wanted to run and fight, and send forth my voice just as other cats were allowed to. The Bohemian blood my poor mother suffered from was answerable for this state of feeling.

At this time we lived in a flat on the fifth story of a very high building. It was a very small place, but we were passing through sad reverses just then, though I could not understand, else I would never have added to their trials.

Miss Milly would go away every day, and when she returned at night, looked so white and tired, it made me very anxious. Though she petted me, and called me her greatest comfort, she did not play with me, and her brightness was gone.

After she had gone in the morning, Miss Eleanor and I would go about and attend to our little work, and then, when she would sit down to mend the boys' clothes, she would take me in her lap and talk to me about their troubles.

The boys had both found places, and were working very hard and away all day.

We were lonesome. The kitchen had a large window, and outside there was a long wooden box made on it, and here the janitor brought fresh earth every few days, for it was my garden park and hunting ground. It was my only outing, for I never went down over the stairs. When I went out there, I was so near the sky that the earth seemed very far away. I did long for a run over the green grass.

Miss Eleanor, when it was pleasant, would take me up through a boxed-up stairway to the top of the house, where I could run a long time. It was very large, for the building covered a great space, and was gravelled over like the street. A very high wall surrounded it, so there was no chance to run away.

One night I could not sleep. I was possessed to go out. The window of our bedroom was open, and I got out into the gutter and walked along. It ran around the building and was very narrow, and I half drew back. Then I said, "Courage!" and went on till I reached the corner where the pointed tower cut me off. Then I realized my situation. I could not turn around in this narrow space, and I closed my eyes in horror. I dared not look below, the distance was so great. Above, the beautiful stars seemed to look down on me and my wickedness.

How sorry I was! No one could see me, a little gray speck, way up so high. I remained there till the morning light gave me a little courage. I tried to think of good things, and I remembered about the little sparrows that God cared for, and I trusted he would not let me "fall to the ground" for my dear mistress's sake.

She had suffered so much I did not want her to have the pain of losing me. So I just shut my eyes and turned very slowly and painfully, with many slips and strains; but my face at last was turned homeward. Then I cowered down with real vertigo. I could not take one step; but soon I braced up and crawled along till I reached the bedroom window, where I was safe.

The delight of my friends may be imagined. They had hunted everywhere for me, and Miss Milly had had almost a nervous fit, for she said: "He has fallen down and has been dashed to pieces by this time." They did not go to bed, and were waiting for the morning light to search the building.

Of course I was very much ashamed, though it proved how much they loved me. I promised myself I would never try them again; and I was frightened when I realized what a narrow escape I had had.

Then I enjoyed my good breakfast, washed myself thoroughly, and getting into my nice basket, slept all day.

But there are moments now when the horror of my situation overpowers me, and I always hear with pity about the men who mount the high buildings and church steeples. And I never, though I am a patriotic cat, desire to go to the top of Bunker Hill Monument. The picture of it satisfies me. It makes my head spin, and I have vertigo of the mind; just to think of it makes me lose my head. For a cat to lose his head is a serious matter. We might spare a piece of tail, but we need every bit of the head.

That reminds me of a cat of Miss Eleanor that really lost half of its tail. Her name was "Persimmon."

The family all laughed at Miss Eleanor for her romantic idea, and very soon the name degenerated into "Sim"—a much more appropriate one for the wild and homely creature who answered to it. She was one of Miss Eleanor's many pensioners. Somehow the mean-looking and abused always were those she selected for pets.

After they had in vain tried to find a home for Sim, she at last settled down as one of the family, to the disgust of their old and well-bred cat.

Sim had no manners, and was not in the least degree sensitive. She was a dirty white, with pale greenish eyes; and a dark shadow under them gave her a weird aspect. Miss Milly said the dark shadow was "ashes," but Miss Eleanor said it was the "shadow of deep thought." More people, however, believed in the ashes than in the thought.

She would crowd herself in where there was no room for her; and after the loss of her tail, she was more determined to assert her position than before.

It happened in this wise: Sim had a very high temper, and in a quarrel with a bigger cat than herself she was vanquished. In trying to run away she climbed the fence. The cat following could only reach her tail. It was a long one, and she struck her claws into it with such force that she nearly tore it off. Sim went about, for a few days, a sorry object, till it fell off. The remains of it only measured about two inches.

She exhibited herself on the front doorstep whenever any one called, in an unblushing manner. A friend of my mistresses, a professor of music, asked what kind of animal she was, saying he had never met just her like.

At last she made herself so disagreeable that the mother said they must dispose of her. They felt badly, but their mother's decision they never questioned.

Sim was put into a bag and given to two boys of kind and reliable natures, who promised to care for her very kindly. She was taken to the Juniper, and drowned. The boys said they would take a boat out into deep water and drop her in. The society with the long name had not then been organized, and dear good Dr. Angell had not entered upon his life-long work of protecting animals, so this method of getting rid of them was thought the most humane.

The children had been sent to Beverly, to their elder sister's, to spend the day, and their mother hoped by her cheerfulness to make them forget the cat.

About five o'clock they returned home, and on going into the sitting room who should they see but Sim, or Bobtail, as she was called, sitting by the fire, washing her face.

Their mother laughed at their surprise. She said the cat was taken away at ten o'clock, and at four she saw a shadow on the window and heard a loud mew, and on her opening the door, Sim walked in. She fed her, and since then she had spent the time washing herself—a thing she never was willing to do.

It was too late, however, for her to reform. The mother had decided on her fate, and she was doomed.

"I shall see the next time that it is a sure thing," their mother said; "as to her return, we must investigate that matter."

Later on, the boys came in. They were not told of Sim's return. They were not exactly untruthful about it, but evaded the true story. They said, when asked how far out they had taken her, that they could not get a boat, and had got rid of her on the rocks.

"Are you sure she is dead?" asked the girls.

"Dead? I guess so! Dead enough!" they both answered.

"Then here is an instance of one returned from the dead," said Miss Eleanor, bringing in Sim, who yelled and scratched as soon as she saw her would-be executioners.

Their faces were a study. "Is it Sim?" they asked in such real astonishment that no one could doubt them.

"Now, boys," the mother said, "you have deceived us; but we will listen to your story if you will tell the truth."

With shamefacedness they said they did not mean to be deceitful; they really believed she was dead. They took her down to Juniper, and while they were trying to find a boat she had burst open the bag and run off over the rocks. They followed her, and she disappeared under a rock into the water. They heard a splash, and waited some time to make sure that she was gone. It must have been a stone that fell in, while Sim escaped. They were very honest in telling their story, and they were forgiven and received their money, though the mother decided to attend to the business in her own way.

When, some days after, Sim was missing, no one asked any questions, believing that everything had been done for the best.

But how that cat found her way home is a question no one could ever answer. The boys carried her down in a wagon. The Juniper (now called the "Willows"—a famous Salem resort) was about a mile from the home she was taken from. It is a rather crooked road for one to remember. She probably hid herself and followed the boys at a distance. My opinion is that Sim just used her wits, and thought it out as we all do, and followed the trail of the wagon.

It is really a cat tail we are all sure of.

The family said that they never could go down to that pleasant resort, in after years, without thinking that Sim was hovering around in spirit. Had she been black, a witch cat, they would have felt sure of it.