Chapter II: Part 2

She was on the window-seat in an instant, and had scrambled out of the window before Viper, who was very fat, could come up to her. It was with some difficulty that he got upon the window-seat, and quite in vain that he tried to squeeze his fat body through the opening of the window. How he growled with disappointed rage, as he stood on his hind legs on the window-seat, stretching his head, as far as his little short neck would allow, through the opening, to see what had become of puss.

What _had_ become of her? She had dropped down into the street, and had crept into the shade of one of the heavy broad-stone carvings beneath the window, and there she lay, panting with fright, to get her breath a little, and think what was to be done. To go back to the Palace was out of the question. But then, where could she go? Poor cat! What a muddle she was in! She lay snug for the best part of an hour before she dared venture out of her hiding-place. At last, peeping all about her, she crept out and ran, with all her speed, down the street, not knowing in the least where she was flying. She had not gone far before some ragamuffins caught sight of her. Shouting, whooping, laughing, they chased her. She ran faster and faster, and darting suddenly down an alley, was soon out of sight of her pursuers. She heard their screams and yellings growing fainter and fainter in the distance, and feeling that the immediate danger was past, she stopped to look, and see where she was. She found that she was in a little, dirty, miserable court, open at one end, through which she saw trees and green fields. So she ran on, and, in a short time, she found that she had left the town behind her, and was once more in the open country. At last she came to a small clump of trees which put her in mind of the forest near her old mistress’s hut. She climbed up in the largest one, knowing that she would be safe from dogs there at least, and finding a snug place among the branches in the middle of the tree,--for though it was autumn, yet the leaves were still pretty thick,--she made up her mind to pass the night there.

But what was she to do for supper? Her squabble with Viper had taken place before dinner, and now there was no chance of anything but what she could get herself. Perhaps she might, with good luck, catch a bird before night, but that could not take the place of the nice bits of fowl and saucers of rich milk that Ermengarde gave her every night. However, she was too glad to be safe and snug up in the tree to be very fussy. So she made up her mind to lie there till it grew towards roosting time, and then see what she could find for supper. At last nightfall came, and the birds flew back to their nests. In a few minutes she caught a robin, but that was all she had that night, and weary and hungry the cat climbed back in the tree again, and was soon asleep. When she woke, she was still hungry, and she ached in every bone. So three or four days passed, until poor puss began to think she would never be able to find her way back to her old home in the forest, and, at last, quite ready to die of cold and hunger, she stretched herself out on a thick bed of leaves, and cried, “Oh, that I had never listened to that deceitful, mischievous magpie!”

It was drawing towards sunset; there had been several storms during the day, but, as the evening came on, the weather had cleared up a little, and a gleam of sunshine just then shot out from among the black clouds, and fell upon something glittering beside her.

She lifted her eyes slowly, for she had no strength to be alert now, and saw the bright and beautiful fairy, with her car drawn by the silver pheasants.

“Have you learnt yet to be contented with plain fare at home?” asked the fairy.

“Oh, if you would only take me back to my old mistress,” cried the poor cat, “I should never, never be discontented again!”

The fairy smiled, and touching her lightly with her silver wand, bade her close her eyes--another moment, and she bade her open them: and--most wonderful of all wonderful things that had happened to her--the trees, the country, the distant city, all were gone! There was a fine log-fire on the hearth, sparkling and crackling; whirr, whirr, whirr, went the old woman’s wheel, and there she sat in her chair just as usual. The wind was blowing and the rain was pelting against the shutters, exactly as it had done the night puss left the cottage in such a strange way. In fact, everything looked entirely the same. The cat rubbed her eyes, but nothing could she see of the fairy, or the car, or the silver pheasants.

How had she got back, and so quick, too? And the old woman did not seem at all surprised to see her. It was very odd! She could not make it out, anyhow; and at last it struck her that perhaps she might have been dreaming, and never been out of the hut at all. Yet those terrible growls of Viper’s, and those dismal nights and days in the trees! No, they must have been real!

But her puzzling was broken into by the cheerful voice of her old mistress, calling out, “Come, my pussy! It is supper-time!” As she spoke, she rose from her spinning-wheel, and taking down some eggs and a cake of brown bread, with a large jug from her corner cupboard, she broke the eggs into the frying-pan, and they were soon hissing and sputtering over the fire. Then she placed a large saucer on the table, and broke some bread into it; and, turning to the fire, she took off the frying-pan, and emptied the eggs into a dish on the table, and sat down to her supper. But before she tasted a bit herself, she poured some nice goat’s milk over the bread, and set it down on the hearth before the cat.

Now I will venture to say puss never before in her life ate a meal so thankfully. She made a resolution after every mouthful never to say one word to that silly, chattering magpie again; and never to wish any more foolish wishes, but to stay at home, do her duty in catching her mistress’s mice, and be contented and thankful for the brown bread and milk, without troubling her head about countesses and buttered crumpets any more.

She kept her word. She never spoke to the magpie afterwards, but was a steady friend of the owl until the day of his death; and when he did die, which was not until he was very old, he left to her, in his will, his share of the mice that lived in the neighborhood of the cottage.

As to the magpie, finding that her company was no longer wanted in that part of the world, she very wisely took her flight far away to the other side of the wood.

Whether she still lives there, and goes on chattering about the grand things she used to see in the Palace of the Countess von Rustenfustenmustencrustenberg, is more than I can tell you. If you want to find out, you must go to the northern part of the Duchy of Kittencorkenstringen; and then you must walk seventeen leagues and three-quarters still farther north; and then you must turn off to your right, just where you see the old fir-stump with the rook’s nest in it; and then you must walk eleven leagues and a quarter more, and then turn to your left, and after you have kept on for about fifteen leagues more, you will see the wood where the magpie lives; and then if you walk quite through it to the other side, you will see the old woman’s cottage; and, if it should happen to be a fine day, I dare say you will see her sitting in the sunshine spinning, and, curled round beside her, the Contented Cat.

* * * * *

“What a nice story, Impty,” said Dolly, as the black kitten purred out the last word. “And don’t you just love that old owl?”

“I always _did_ like owls myself,” Impty answered. “They seem so much more like cats than birds. Their feathers are so thick they look like fur, and then, owls see in the dark as well as cats do, and they eat mice, and are really _most_ respectable. But good night, now,” he added, jumping down from the bed, “we’ve had such a long story-time this evening, that I must go to sleep at once, if I am to have another tale ready for you to-morrow.”

THE FOURTH NIGHT

“We sat up so disgracefully late last night,” began Impty, yawning, “that I’m sleepy yet. _I_ had to go to Cat-Land, you know, and although that’s very pleasant, still, it isn’t much of a rest.”

“What are you going to tell me to-night?” Dolly asked, as she made a place on the pillow for the black kitten.

“To-night it’s going to be a shorter story,” Impty replied. “They call it, in Cat-Land, ‘The Cat Who Married a Mouse.’”

THE CAT WHO MARRIED A
MOUSE
]

Once upon a time, a cat and a mouse made friends, and at last they grew to love each other very much, for the mouse was a clever little thing, and puss was as fine a cat as you could hope to see in a day’s journey. So they decided to marry, and live always in the same house, and be very comfortable indeed.

One day, during the summer, the cat said to his wife, “My dear, we must take care to lay in a store for the winter, or we shall die with hunger; you, little Mousey, cannot venture to go about anywhere for fear you should be caught in a trap, but I had better go and see about it.”

This good advice was followed, and in a few days Tom came safely back with a large jar full of beautiful meat covered with fat, which he had found. They had a long talk about a place in which to hide this treasure; but at last Tom said: “I don’t know a better place than the church. No one ever thinks of robbing a church; so if we place the jar under the altar, and take care not to touch it, then we shall have plenty to eat in the winter.”

The jar was carried to church, and put in a place of safety, but the meat did not stay there long.

Tom kept thinking of what was in the jar, and longing so much for a taste, that at last he made an excuse to get away from home.

“Mousey,” he said, one day, “I have had an invitation from one of my cousins to be present at the christening of her little son who was born a few weeks ago. He is a beautiful kitten, she tells me,--gray, with black stripes,--and my cousin wishes me to be godfather.”

“Oh, yes! Go, by all means,” replied the mouse. “But when you are enjoying yourself, think of me, and bring me a drop of the sweet, red wine if you can.” Tom promised to do as she asked him, and went off as if he were going to see his cousin. But after all it was not true. Tom had no cousin, nor had he been asked to be godfather.

No, he went right off to the church, and slipped under the table where the jar of meat stood, and sat looking at it. He did not look for long, however, for presently he went close up and began licking and licking the fat on the top of the jar, till it was nearly all gone. Then he took a walk on the roofs of the houses in the town, and finally stretched himself out in the sun, and stroked his whiskers as often as he thought of the delicious feast he had just had. As soon as the evening closed in, he returned home.

“Oh! Here you are again,” said the mouse. “Have you spent a pleasant day?”

“Yes, indeed,” he replied. “Everything passed off very well.”

“And what name did they give the young kitten?” she asked.

“Top-off,” said Tom, quite coolly.

“Top-off!” cried the mouse. “That _is_ a curious and uncommon name! Is it a family name?”

“It is a very old name in our family,” replied the cat. “And it’s not worse than Thieves, as your ancestors were called.”

Poor little mousey made no reply, and for a while nothing more was said about Tom’s cousins.

But Tom could not forget the jar of meat in the church, and the thought of it made him long so much that he was obliged to make up another tale of a christening. So he told the little mouse, that a lady-cat, his aunt, had invited him this time, and that the kitten was a great beauty, all black, excepting a white ring around its neck, so he could not refuse to be present.

“For one day, dear Mousey, you will do me this kindness, and keep house at home alone?” he asked.

The good little mouse willingly agreed, and Tom ran off; but as soon as he reached the town, he jumped over the churchyard wall, and very quickly found his way to the place where the jar of meat was hidden. This time he feasted so greedily, that when he had finished, the jar was more than half empty.

“It tastes as nice as it smells,” said the cat, after his joyful day’s work was over and he had taken a nice nap. But as soon as he returned home, the mouse asked what name had been given to the kitten this time.

Tom was a little puzzled to know what to say, but at last he replied: “Ah! I remember now. They named it Half-Gone.”

“Half-Gone! Why, Tom, what a queer name! I never heard of it before in my life, and I am sure it cannot be found in the ‘Register.’”

The cat did not answer, and for a time all went on as usual, till another longing fit made him rub his whiskers and think of the jar of meat. “Mousey,” said he, one day, “of all good things there are always three; do you know I have had a third invitation to be godfather? And this time the little kitten is quite black, without a single white hair. Such a thing has not happened in our family for many years, so you will let me go, won’t you?”

“Top-Off and Half-Gone are such curious names, Tom,” replied the mouse, “that they are enough to make one suspicious.”

“Oh, nonsense!” said the cat. “What can you know about names, staying here at home all day long in your gray coat and soft fur, with nothing to do but catch crickets? You can know very little of what men do in the world.”

Poor little mousey was silent, and she patiently remained at home during the absence of the greedy, deceitful cat, who, this time, feasted himself till he had quite cleaned out the jar and left it empty.

“When all is gone, then one can rest,” said he to himself, as he returned home at night quite sleek and fat.

“Well, Tom,” said the mouse, as soon as she saw him, “and what is the name of this third child?”

“I hope you will be pleased at last,” he replied; “it is All-Gone.”

“All-Gone!” cried the mouse, “that is the most suspicious name yet; I can scarcely believe it. What does it mean?” Then she shook her head, rolled herself up, and went to sleep.

After this Tom was not invited to any more christenings; but as the winter came on, and in the night no provisions could be found, the mouse thought of the careful store they had laid up, and said to the cat, “Come, Tom, let us fetch the jar of meat from the church; it will be such a nice relish for us.”

“Ah, yes,” he replied. “It will be a fine relish to you, I dare say, when you stretch out your little tongue to taste it!” So he took himself out of the way, and mousey went to the church by herself. But what was her vexation at finding the jar still standing in the same place, but quite empty.

Then she returned home, and found Tom looking as if he did not care, although he was at first rather ashamed to face her.

“I understand now,” said the little mouse, quite gently. “I can see what has happened. A fine friend you have been to deceive me in this manner! When you told me you were going to stand godfather to the three little kittens, you never visited your relations at all; but, instead of that, you went to the church three times, and ate up all the meat in the jar. I know, now, what you meant by Top-Off, Half-Gone,--”

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“Will you be quiet?” cried the cat, in a rage. “If you say another word, I will eat you.”

But the poor little mouse had got the name on the tip of her tongue when Tom interrupted her, and she could not stop herself. Out it came--“All-Gone!”

Tom, who only wanted an excuse to eat up his poor little wife, sprang upon her the minute she uttered the word, broke her back with his paw, and ate her up!

* * * * *

“Oh, Impty,” cried Dolly, as the story ended, “what a wicked cat! I hope you would never, never do such a thing! You _wouldn’t_ would you?”

“No,” answered the kitten, yawning again, “I never should. In the first place, I’d not dream of marrying a mouse. _I_ always eat ’em.”

THE FIFTH NIGHT

“I’m a little late this evening,” purred Impty, as he rubbed up against Dolly the next night. “But the large yellow cat across the street is giving a Catnip Tea, and I simply _had_ to stay for one cup.”

“I do hope that you’re going to tell me a pleasanter story this time,” said the little girl. “I dreamed all night long about that poor mouse.”

“To-night,” said the black kitten, “I am going to tell you of Mother Michel, and the wonderful adventures of her cat, Moumouth. It is _very_ exciting, and it turns out beautifully in the end.”

Mother Michel
And
Her Cat
]

More than a hundred years ago there lived in Paris an old countess, Madame de la Grenouillière, a widow who had no children and who loved animals very dearly. But she was quite unfortunate, for none of her pets, no matter how much she loved or cared for them, ever lived. One by one they died, and, at last, the Countess decided that she would have no more. However, one day, as she was riding home in her chariot, she saw a crowd of children tormenting a poor street-cat. They had tied a sauce-pan to its tail, and goodness knows what would have happened if Madame had not put her head out of the window and called to them that whoever should bring the cat to her would be rewarded with a piece of gold.

The crowd of children all ran after the cat, not to torment him now, but to bring him safely to the rich lady and gain the reward; and he was nearly as much in danger from kindness as he had been from cruelty. At last he was caught, and brought safely to the Countess. Once she had him safe in the chariot, she took a good look at him, and then said: “Poor pussy! What a very ugly little cat you really are!” But when the cat turned to look reproachfully at her, she exclaimed: “Well, he may be ugly, but he certainly has very fine eyes. Here,” she added, turning to her companion, “once more I will have a pet. Let us take this poor pussy with us, and see what a comfortable, happy life at my fireside will do for him.”

So saying, she placed him in the arms of her friend, Mother Michel, and together they all three rode home.

Besides her companion, there was another one of her household upon whom the Countess greatly relied, and this was her steward, whom the old lady had nicknamed Lustucru. Now Lustucru was as bad as Mother Michel was good; he hated all animals as much as the Countess and her companion loved them; and, when he saw them bringing home another cat, he was very angry, although he pretended to be pleased, and called the cat “pretty puss” more than once. And this the cat seemed to know, for he walked away from Master Lustucru whenever he saw him coming.

At the end of four or five weeks you would never have known Moumouth. They had given him this name because, so an old scholar told the Countess, that Moumouth, in Hebrew, meant “saved from the sauce-pans.” And, in a second month, Moumouth had grown fat, and his fur shone as if it were satin.

But something, which always does turn up, even in the happiest cat’s life, came to disturb Moumouth’s peace of mind. Madame de la Grenouillière was called to Normandy by the sickness of her sister, and, alas, Moumouth could not go with her because the sick lady did not like cats.

“Come here, Mother Michel,” said the Countess; “I am going to trust my precious cat to you. Take care of him well, and if, on my return, he is alive and thriving, I will leave you a pension of three hundred dollars a year.”

“But, Madame,” replied her companion, “I will take care of Moumouth because I love him as if he were my own.”

“I know that,” said the old Countess, “but be very, very careful, and I will reward your zeal.”

When the steward heard this promise, he was wild with wrath. “Mother Michel will have everything,” he said, “and there will be nothing left for me. Well, Moumouth, once the Countess is out of the way, we’ll see about your precious life.”

The Countess set out on her journey, and Mother Michel, worthy of the confidence that had been shown her, now took the greatest care of Moumouth. She petted him, she patted him, and fed him so well that he grew even handsomer. All this time Lustucru was looking on, waiting for a chance to kill Moumouth when his faithful guardian should not be on the watch. One evening, when the cat was asleep before the fire, Lustucru came to Mother Michel, and begged her to go down and see one of the servants who was very ill with rheumatism. As soon as she had left the room, he seized Moumouth, who had not even time to mew, and threw him head over heels into a large bag. Then the wicked man ran swiftly across the garden, and out into the street toward the Seine, and, the river once reached, he opened the bag and tossed Moumouth into the water. He was in such haste to get home that he did not wait to see the poor cat struggling for his life in the river; nor did he see, a moment later, Moumouth crawling to a little ledge just at the foot of one of the arches of the bridge.

Instead, he ran home quickly, for fear Mother Michel would have finished her visit, and come to look for Moumouth. He slipped quietly into bed, and when, in a little while, she came and knocked at his door, he pretended to have just waked up from a sound sleep.

_Page 149._]

“Moumouth lost!” he cried, pretending to be very sorry indeed. “Oh, I’ll get up immediately and help you look for him. Such a fine fellow! It would be a thousand pities if anything happened to him.” And so, at the head of all the servants of the house, Lustucru helped Mother Michel search from garret to cellar.

But was Moumouth shivering all this time just above the cold waters of the Seine? Oh, no, although there for a number of hours he sat all huddled up, not daring to take his life in his paws and swim to shore. But at daybreak, about five o’clock in the morning, two fishermen came to the bridge to try their luck. What good-fortune for Moumouth! As soon as the lines were let down he seized them, and the fishermen, imagining from his weight that he must be some splendid fish, hauled him quickly in. But when, instead of a fish, a cat bounded off on the bridge, they stood in astonishment for a moment, and then ran after him as fast as they could. Moumouth redoubled his speed, and escaped his pursuers by jumping through the open windows of a bakery. Here he found some bags of flour, and, tired out, he went to sleep at once. But he was so hungry that he soon woke up, and remembering his old habit of catching mice and rats when he was a gutter-cat, he sprang at the first mouse that popped its head out of a hole. Round and round the room he chased his prey, and the baker’s boy, seeing the hunt, lifted a broom to hit him as he passed, but the baker forbade him to strike Moumouth. “He is a good mouser,” he said; “he shall stay here and rid the bakery of all the rats and mice that are eating us out of house and home.”

When Moumouth heard these words he grew so frightened--believing that he would never see Mother Michel again--that he sprang through the nearest window, and so escaped into the street. Here he wandered among the back-alleys until nightfall, and then he scurried home as fast as he could scamper. He hid in the garret and timidly crept behind some boxes to wait until he should hear Mother Michel moving about downstairs the next morning.

All this time the household was searching still for Moumouth. The wicked Lustucru pretended to hear him crying in the garden; then, after they had vainly searched in every thicket and hedge, he would cry: “No. I’m sure that I heard him mewing in the cellar.” At last, laughing to himself, he said, “Do you know, I think he must be in the garret.” Up the long stairway Mother Michel ran, and who should come out and rub affectionately against her skirts but Moumouth!

Never was any one so glad to see a cat before; and Lustucru pretended to be as happy as the old lady herself. After this Mother Michel never let Moumouth go out of her sight; she petted him nearly to death and made him sleep in her room. There was no chance for Lustucru to catch the cat alone again.

“But he shall not escape me,” thought the wicked steward, and keeping this idea always in his mind, he bought a package of rat-poison, and, as he hid it safely away, he cried to himself, “This ‘Death to Rats’ shall soon be ‘Death to Cats!’” The next day, when Mother Michel brought up Moumouth’s dinner,--good chicken patties,--Lustucru sprinkled poison all over them. Moumouth, hungry as he was, refused to eat, and Mother Michel, vexed at last with the whims of her charge, said: “Well! If you don’t eat those patties, Sir, you’ll get nothing else for dinner! Why, I’ve a good mind to eat them myself.”

“Oh, don’t!” cried Lustucru, jumping up in alarm. “A Christian should not eat food that’s been prepared for an animal.”

“Well,” replied Mother Michel, “either the cat eats those patties, or he goes hungry.”

And hungry poor Moumouth did go, all that day and all the next, living on scraps which the cook threw to him. But eat the poisoned food the clever cat would not. So the patties stayed locked up in Mother Michel’s cupboard, and they were soon forgotten, except by Lustucru. He had failed so often to kill Moumouth himself, that he knew he must try some other means.

And Fate, which isn’t always kind to cats, threw just such a chance, he thought, in his way. One morning, as he was returning early from market, he saw a little ragged boy gazing hungrily at the open kitchen, and, no doubt, wishing himself well inside.

“What is your name?” asked Lustucru.

“Faribole, Monsieur,” answered the little boy, making a low bow.

“And what are you doing here, spying in my mistress’s windows? Are you thinking that you would like to be one of her household?”

“I was, indeed, Monsieur,” answered Faribole. “Could you tell me if there is any need of a scullion, for I would willingly do any work, I am so hungry and homeless.”

“I am the steward,” said Monsieur Lustucru, proudly, “and I alone have the power to engage you. This I will do if you will promise to obey me in all things.”

“Oh, I will do your bidding in everything,” the little fellow pleaded.

“Then,” said the steward, “follow me, and I will instruct you in your duties.”

When they were safely in the house, Lustucru turned to Faribole and said, “Do you see that cat?”--pointing to the sleeping Moumouth. “You must try to make that creature your friend, for he is the chief pet of our mistress, Madame de la Grenouillière. Make him love you, make him your friend, and all will be well.”

For a month Faribole played with Moumouth; he coaxed him, he petted him, and, at last, completely won the cat’s heart. Moumouth would have followed him anywhere.

At the end of a month’s time, Lustucru called the boy to him.

“You have done all I told you to,” he said, as if he were very much pleased.

“And now shall I stay here always, Monsieur?” Faribole asked eagerly.

“That depends upon your being willing to do what I tell you, my lad,” answered the steward. “You must, to-night, call Moumouth out into the garden. There you and I will put him into a large sack, and together we will beat him to death.”

“Never! Never!” cried Faribole, who loved the cat very much. “I could never do such a dreadful thing as that!”

For answer Lustucru went to the closet where the boy’s ragged garments, that he had worn upon first entering the house, were hanging.

“Take off the clothes I gave you, and go away instantly in these rags, if you are not willing to obey me!” said Lustucru, savagely.

In vain poor Faribole wept and begged for Moumouth’s life to be spared, but the wicked steward refused to listen to another word; and, at last, Faribole, growing less and less brave as he thought of his hungry days and wet nights on the pavements of Paris, promised that he would help Lustucru do this cruel deed.

The next day, as the afternoon was drawing to a close, Mother Michel called Faribole to her and said: “I am going out on an errand, now, and I am going to leave Moumouth with you. Be kind to him, and the Countess will reward your kindness when she returns.”

Alas! No sooner had she started than Faribole, the tears running down his face, coaxed Moumouth into the garden. There, at the end of a long alley, stood Lustucru waiting, sack in hand. He seized the cat, thrust him in the sack, and, in spite of all his struggles, tied the cord in a tight knot. He raised his club, and was about to strike when back came Mother Michel, out of breath from running so fast.

“Our dear mistress is returning, Lustucru,” she cried, panting. “Come, let us go to meet her with all the rest of the household.”

She turned, and was soon out of sight.

“Here!” cried Lustucru, out of patience at the delay. “Here, Faribole! Take this wretched cat, beat him until he can’t stir, and then throw him into the Seine.” And he, too, ran away to welcome the Countess home again. When he returned, there was Faribole, his face all wet with tears, but no Moumouth!

“Have you done as I told you?” asked the wicked man, and the boy nodded his head, too sad to speak.

But here they heard the voice of Mother Michel calling Faribole.

“Faribole! Faribole! Come hither! Our mistress, the dear Countess, wishes you to bring her dear cat to her immediately.”

Faribole went slowly, and with his head hanging.

“Oh, Mother Michel!” he cried, “while Moumouth and I were at play in the garden, he got frightened by some boys who were passing, and ran away to hide in the hedge.”

The Countess was very much grieved, and Mother Michel tried to console her. “Once he was lost for several days, and he came back unharmed,” she said.

But though they looked everywhere, and offered rewards, no Moumouth was to be found.

At last Mother Michel decided to go to the fortune-teller around the corner, hoping that there she might hear some news of her lost pet.

The fortune-teller turned over her pack of cards. “You are looking for something that is lost,” she said. “Ah, I see by the cards that it is a cat.” She turned over a few more, “My poor lady,” she said sorrowfully, “your cat has been sold to a butcher, and eaten for a rabbit!”

Mother Michel was just beginning to wring her hands with grief, when she heard a violent scratching at the door, and then, right through a pane of glass bounded Moumouth, and jumped straight into her friendly lap.

“You wicked woman!” cried Mother Michel, angrily; “first you steal our cat, and then you pretend that he is dead. Oh, this is a fine tale to tell my mistress, the Countess. She’ll have you put in prison for this!”

“Mercy! Mercy!” begged the fortune-teller, falling on her knees. “I did not know the cat was yours. It was brought to me by a little lad named Faribole, who knew I wanted one. Forgive me! Do not have me punished for a thing that I did not know was wrong.”

Mother Michel was so happy at finding Moumouth that she readily forgave the poor woman, and hurried home to show the dear pet to the Countess. Madame de la Grenouillière was as delighted to see Moumouth as her companion had been to find him. When they had petted him and fed him and, at last, left him asleep on a down cushion, they sent for Faribole, and asked him why he had done so wicked a thing.

“Oh,” cried the poor boy, “I wanted to save him from Monsieur Lustucru, and that seemed to be the only way. He wanted me to beat him to death.”

No one believed him, of course. The steward indignantly denied such intentions, and poor Faribole was sent away in disgrace.

But Lustucru’s wickedness could not always remain hidden. Some days after Moumouth’s return, while looking through her cupboard, Mother Michel found three dead rats and the remains of the chicken patties that Moumouth had refused to eat. She carried them to the Countess, and they sent for the steward.

“Oh, Lustucru,” said his mistress, “the rats are troubling me so in here that I wanted to know if you had any rat-poison.”

“Certainly, Madame,” he replied, bowing. “Wait one moment, and I will bring it to you.”

The Countess soon found that the two poisons were exactly the same, and, besides, there began to be people who said that they had seen Lustucru throw Moumouth from the bridge into the Seine. The steward, who feared that he would receive his just reward, ran away suddenly one night, and took service shortly after on a ship that was wrecked on the Sandwich Islands. And so all his sins were punished, for it is said that the cannibals ate him for dinner the next day!

As for Faribole, he was taken again into the Countess’s service, where, so willingly did he work, and so earnestly did he repent of his misdoing, that Mother Michel adopted him as her own son. When the old Countess died, she left in her will, as she had promised, an annuity of three hundred dollars to Moumouth and Mother Michel, to be shared between them, and when one died, the other was to receive the whole legacy. So these three--Mother Michel, Moumouth, and Faribole--lived together happy and contented all their days. And when Moumouth died,--for all cats must, you know,--he had a grand funeral, and a fine monument with the story of his life written on it in Latin, so that all might know how good and wise a cat he had been.

* * * * *

“There!” purred Impty. “Isn’t that a fine tale? And, you see, it did turn out well, didn’t it? Why, Moumouth became so famous that people made a nursery rhyme out of his story. French children sing it to this day, and know it as well as you do ‘Three Little Kittens.’”

“Oh, Impty! What lovely stories the King of the Cats does tell you! I wish I could go to Cat-Land some night. Couldn’t I?” Dolly coaxed.

“I’ll see,” said Impty, settling himself for his sleep-journey. “To-night I’ll ask my grandfather, and _maybe_ he’ll let you come.”

THE SIXTH NIGHT

“Can I go to Cat-Land, Impty dear?” asked Dolly, sitting up eagerly, as soon as the black kitten jumped on the bed.

“No, you can’t,” Impty answered. “I’m awfully sorry, but my grandfather says that unless you can change into a cat you can’t go; and people can’t change into cats, nor cats into people, nowadays. I can’t imagine wanting to be a human being, but there was a cat once that did. Did you ever hear of her?”

There was, once upon a time, a cat who was not at all satisfied with herself. It was not that she wished to be more beautiful, but, because she had fallen in love with a young man, she wanted to be changed into a girl, that he might love her in return. So she prayed before the altar of Venus, and begged that the goddess would make her a beautiful maiden. So long and so earnestly did the cat pray, that Venus at last grew sorry for her, and changed her into one of the loveliest girls in the world, so beautiful, indeed, that, as soon as he saw her, the young man begged her to marry him. Everything was going as happily as possible, when Venus, just to see if she had been able to give the cat another nature in changing her shape, put a mouse down before her. Instantly the girl sprang from her seat, and chased the mouse round and round the room, caught it, and would have eaten it, had not Venus turned her at once into a cat again, for she saw it was of no use, and that what was bred in the bone would always stick to the flesh.

* * * * *

“Of course it’s a pity she didn’t have more sense,” added Impty, sagely; “but then, mice are _such_ a temptation! Æsop--my grandfather says he wrote the fable hundreds and hundreds of years ago--knew just as much about animals as he did about men. I’m going to tell you his story of ‘The Cat and the Fox.’”

THE CAT
AND THE
FOX
]

One day a cat met a fox in the wood. “Ah,” she thought, “he is clever and sensible, and talked of in the world a good deal; I will speak to him.” So she said, quite in a friendly manner: “Good morning, dear Mr. Fox; how are you? And how do things go with you in these hard times?”

The fox, full of pride, looked at the cat from head to foot, and hardly knew what to say to her for a long time. At last he replied: “Oh, you poor little whisker-cleaner, you old gray tabby, you hungry mouse-hunter, what are you thinking about to come to me, and to stand there and ask me how I am getting on? What do you know, and how many tricks have you?”

“I only know one trick,” answered the cat, meekly.

“And pray what is that?” he asked.

“Well,” she said, “if the hounds are behind me, I can spring up into a tree out of their way and save myself.”

“Is that all?” cried the fox. “Why, I am master of a hundred tricks, and have, over and above all, a sackful of cunning. But I pity you, Puss, so come with me, and I will teach you how to baffle both men and hounds.”

At this moment a hunter with four hounds was seen approaching. The cat sprang nimbly up a tree and seated herself on the highest branch, where, by the spreading foliage, she was quite hidden.

“Turn out the sack, Master Fox, turn out the sack!” cried the cat; but the hounds had already seized him, and held him fast.

“Ah, Master Fox,” cried the cat, “your hundred tricks are not of much use to you. Now, if you had only known one like mine, you would not have lost your life so quickly.”

* * * * *

“And now I really must go,” said Impty. “I’m sorry not to tell you more to-night, but our Caterwauling Class meets at eight in the backyard, and I’m leader. They say I’ve a wonderful voice for so young a cat. Isn’t it lucky that the shutter doesn’t close quite tight? If it did I’d never see the fence, nor my friends, either, and, just as likely as not, they’d elect Tabby Gray in my place out of spite. Good-by!”

THE SEVENTH NIGHT

Outside it was cold and wet; twilight had come early, and Impty trotted in shivering and a little cross.

“I almost wish that I wasn’t black,” he growled, as he cuddled up beside Dolly. “Miss Jane’s airing her furs; _she_ says there’s frost in the air, and she picked me up just because she thought I was her old muff. The idea of mixing up a respectable kitten with a monkey muff!”

“What did you do, Impty?” asked Dolly, curiously.

“Oh, I just stuck out my claws, and miaoued a little. _Any_ cat would, and then she said, ‘There’s that everlasting kitten!’ and shooed me out of the door, and I got all wet before I could run in again.”

“Poor kitty!” said the little girl, patting him.

“To-night is Hallowe’en,” went on Impty, “and people used to believe that witches and cats could go where they pleased on that night. They can’t, really. I wish they could, for then I’d sail off through the air with Miss Jane’s furs, and never, never bring them back! Or, perhaps, I’d bite her boa in two like ‘The Cat and the Pudding-Bag String.’ But it does seem a little odd that, long, long years ago on this very Eve of All Hallows, Dick Whittington heard the Bow Bells calling to him, ‘Turn, turn again, Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of London!’ Do you know the tale of Dick Whittington and his wonderful Cat? If not, I’m going to tell it to you to-night.”

Dick Whittington
And His
Wonderful Cat.
]

A long, long time ago there lived in England a little country lad, Dick Whittington by name. Now Dick’s father was a poor man, a farm-laborer, working early and late in the fields that his family might be able to live on even the simplest fare. Sometimes there was very little of this, and at last Dick made up his mind to go to London and win a fortune for the whole family. There, so he had heard, the streets were paved with gold, and any one might become rich for the asking.

So one night, when every one else was fast asleep in his bed, Dick tied his Sunday clothes together in a bundle and ran away on the wide high-road that led to London-Town. Many a weary mile he walked; and, when he was very hungry, and it seemed as if his tired feet could not take another step, he cheered himself up by thinking of those streets of gold. At last he came to London, and what was his disappointment to see only rough cobble-stones, looking just like those in the market-square near his own home. As he was wandering up and down, footsore and not knowing where to go, he caught sight of a little golden-haired girl. It was the only gold he had seen since he came to London. She stared from the window above at the little ragged fellow, and then, as if she suddenly thought that he might be hungry, she ran down and begged the porter to let Dick in.

Now this little girl was Alice Fitzgerald, the daughter of a rich merchant, his only child, and petted and loved by all who knew her. Even the cook, crabbed and cross to every one else, could deny her nothing; and because she asked him so prettily to feed the hungry boy, he took Dick in, gave him some supper, and, the next day, made him his scullion.

Dick worked harder than he had ever worked in all his life before. He never saw Alice except when she went out to walk or ride, for the kitchens were a long way from the parlors above. The cook was cross, the work was dull, and, worst of all, the little, chilly garret in which the boy slept was filled with mice and rats. These worried him so, running over him at night, waking him from the happy dream that he was at home again, that he spent his last penny for a cat which a ragged urchin was carrying through the streets. Soon the mice and the rats ceased to trouble him, and life seemed easier after all.

Master Fitzgerald, the merchant in whose kitchens Dick worked, was a kind-hearted man, and whenever he sent out a ship laden with his goods, he let his servants add some venture of their own, too, upon which they could make a profit. Soon after puss had driven away all the rats and the mice in her little master’s garret, the merchant called together his household, and asked each one what they would send with his fine new outward-bound ship. Some brought one thing, some another, but Dick Whittington had only his cat to send. All the servants laughed at him, and the cook called him a little fool for putting so silly a thing on his master’s vessel. But the merchant said that if Dick wished to sell the cat it should go, and pussy was carefully put on board the ship. After she was gone how Dick did miss her! He had never realized how fond he was of her until she was so far away that he could not call her back; and the rats and the mice, as if they knew that there was no cat lying in wait for them, ran back into the garret again. At last Dick grew so discouraged that he packed his clothes in a little bundle and stole out of the house softly one All Hallow’s Eve to run back to his home. There the skies were blue, and the people kind, and even if the streets were not paved with gold, all the woods and fields were yellow with Autumn.

But, as he walked quickly along the road that led to the open country, the great Bells of Bow Church began to ring, and the sound came to Dick Whittington’s ears like a voice, for it called, “Turn, turn again, Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of London!” The little boy listened, and said to himself, “Perhaps there’s good luck yet in store for me!” and once more the Bells of Bow pealed out, “Turn, turn again, Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of London.”

So back to his garret and his work went Dick, resolved to stay a while longer at least, and give the Bow Bells’ prophecy a chance to come true. The cook was still cross, the work was as hard as ever, and, as the mice and rats gnawed and gnawed, Dick missed his furry friend very much. But he kept on steadily working, and, by and by, his patience was rewarded. The ship that had sailed so long before with his little venture on board, returned, and the captain told a marvellous tale.

A favorable wind had brought the vessel quickly to the coast of Barbary, and there the sailors went ashore, carrying with them some bales of merchandise to sell to the Sultan, who was so much pleased with the wonderful things that he bought them all, and bade the captain and his officers dine at the palace. They went, but, no sooner were they seated at a long table spread with magnificent gold and silver dishes, and everything good to eat and drink, than swarms of rats and mice ran out of the walls, and devoured all the banquet. The captain, vexed to lose his dinner so, sent the cabin-boy for the cat which had been left on board the vessel, and, as soon as she came to the palace-door, and saw the mice and rats, she sprang from the boy’s arms and chased them all away, just as she had done in Dick’s attic in far-off London. Then the Sultan of Barbary begged to buy this wonderful creature, and offered the captain three hundred thousand pounds for her. So pussy was sold, and a great fortune came in her stead to the little scullion.

And Dick Whittington was worthy of his good luck, for he sent for all his family to come to London and live like lords; he even gave presents to the servants who had laughed at him and his cat.

His master, the wealthy merchant, made him a partner in his ships and ventures; his fortune yearly increased, and when he had grown to be a young man, he married Alice Fitzgerald, and, last of all, he was knighted by the king, became Sir Richard Whittington, and was thrice Lord Mayor of London, as the Bow Bells had long, long ago chimed in his ears.

* * * * *

“And the best of it all is,” added Impty, with a wide, red yawn, “that Sir Richard never forgot what had brought him his good-fortune when he was only poor little Dick Whittington; for, in all his statues and pictures, there is a little cat curled down in one corner, in memory of his own puss.”

“How I wish I could see one of them,” said Dolly, earnestly. “I do love people to remember things.”

“My grandfather, the King of the Cats, has lots in his palace in Cat-Land. Now, if I could only take you with me--but I can’t; it’s no use wishing, so good night!”

THE EIGHTH NIGHT

As Impty settled down into his place the next night, his purr sounded almost like a laugh.

“Why, Kitty, what _are_ you laughing at?” Dolly asked, for the black kitten was usually a sober little person.

“I was just thinking of a prank my grandfather played in his young days, long, long before he ever thought of being the King of the Cats. If you like, I’ll tell it to you.”

THE FUNERAL
OF
TOM GRIMALKIN
]

There were once four crows that sat in an ash-tree near an old farm-house. It wasn’t long before the owl that lived hard by looked out of his window under the eaves of the loft, and said to them:--

“Good day to you.”

“Good day,” answered the crows.

“Have you any spare time?” asked the owl. “Then I can put you in the way of earning an honest penny.”

“Indeed, we’d like to,” said the four, for the snow was lying old and thick over the whole country, and there wasn’t much to be earned.

“My good comrade, Tom Grimalkin, is dead,” said the owl. “Now, I was thinking you might carry him to his grave. When my old friend was alive, he often used to say to me: ‘Jan Owl,’ he would say, ‘you must give me a decent burial. A respectable life deserves a respectable funeral,’ he used to say, for he was a clever cat. Now, look here! You four have good black coats on, and are honest people--”

“Come along, then,” said the crows, and crept in through the owl-hole after him, one by one.