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.”