Sally in her fur coat

Sally was a very busy cat, and she always gave her whole attention to whatever she was doing, whether it was sitting on her register, or washing her face, or helping Miss Harvey make the beds. Indeed, Miss Harvey often would say, ‘Sally, you are like the little busy bee,’ and she would repeat a part of the poem. Sally had her own opinion of the little busy bee, and she did not especially like to be told she was like him, for she had been stung by a bee on one occasion. Who could have suspected that anything so small could hurt one so much? And then where was he in winter? Certainly not gathering honey from every opening flower. She suspected he was in snug quarters resting and leading an idle life, while she was busy all the year around. First there was the delicious breakfast that Miss Harvey gave Oxford and herself, of warm milk and oatmeal, and then she spent a great deal of time washing herself. And she had to help Oxford, for he could not wash behind his ears, and then he would wash behind Sally’s ears to help her out. And it took a good deal of time to manicure her nails.

But where she felt she was of the greatest use was in helping Miss Harvey with the beds, for dear Miss Harvey might have been lonely without her. Did she not often say, ‘You are my little comfort’? To be sure she sometimes said, ‘Troublesome comfort,’ but it was a great deal to be any comfort. Sally never heard Miss Harvey call any one else in the house a comfort, not even Oxford, who deserved such words, for he was ridding the house of mice. So Miss Harvey and Sally would go upstairs to make the beds; as soon as Miss Harvey had turned back the mattress and put on a sheet, Sally would jump on the bed and knead the sheet with her paws. But she liked to get on the blankets much the best, they were so soft and woolly, and sometimes after patticaking them well and going around in a circle as if she were making a bed for herself in the Wild Wood, she would curl herself up in a ball and settle down for a nap. It was then that Miss Harvey would call her a troublesome comfort and gently take her off and put her on a chair. But Sally would be back again and on the spread.

One of Sally’s most interesting occupations was looking out of the windows. There was so much to be seen even in winter, but when the spring came and there was a faint green fuzz on the trees, and the birds came back from the South and began to sing, and Sally could sun herself out-of-doors, she was busier than ever.

At this time of year the nights were more interesting than the days, and she was only sorry that her dear Miss Harvey did not agree with her as to how a night should be spent. Miss Harvey seemed to think that all cats ought to be in bed at a certain hour, like people, whereas every cat knows that so much goes on at night one hates to miss that it is hard to be forced to stay in the house. Sally spent a great deal of time sleeping by day. That was the sensible way. To race about until one was tired and then take a long nap. And these naps could be taken at noon when it was too hot to be out-of-doors. But even though Sally was closed in at night, there was a great deal going on which she could enjoy. There were concerts given by her cat friends, and there was the wonderful moonlight that made it so bright out-of-doors, and there was the excitement of the sound of the scurrying of small feet through the walls and the thought that perhaps one could catch another mouse. She agreed with her ancestress, Martha Furbush-Tailby, about these things, and liked her verses on the subject.

Sometimes Sally would go into the room where all the books were, and Miss Winifred had her writing-desk and her typewriter. Sally would sit patiently by her mouse-hole and Miss Winifred would sit by her typewriter with her hands in her lap, for it sometimes seemed to be as hard to catch ideas as to catch a mouse, and then suddenly Miss Winifred’s fingers would fly over the keys and the black writing would come out on the paper. Sally had many ideas herself, in fact she was never at a loss for them. She wished she could write on the typewriter, and once, when Miss Winifred had left it uncovered with a sheet of paper in it, she had walked over the keys, but she could not make it write. She wanted to write a letter to dear Miss Harvey to tell her how she loved her. Of course Miss Harvey must know in part how she felt, for she so often put her paws around her neck and pressed her face against hers, but a letter could tell more.

So one day when Miss Winifred had left a sheet of typewriting paper on her desk, Sally skipped onto it. She looked down and saw that the marks of her paws were plainly to be seen. This was what the footprints said:

She heard Miss Winifred coming and jumped down on the floor. Miss Winifred took up the sheet of paper and was about to put it into the typewriter.

‘Don’t,’ Sally pleaded in her thought-transference language. ‘That is my letter to Miss Harvey, the first I ever wrote.’

But Miss Winifred could not understand. She looked at the paper a little more closely with her near-sighted eyes.

‘Goodness, you little witch,’ she said, ‘you have walked all over my sheet.’

Sally saw that she was about to put it into the waste-paper basket.

‘It is my letter,’ Sally repeated in her own language. How she wished she had human speech! But this time it really seemed as if Miss Winifred understood, for she called to Miss Harvey, who was setting the table in the dining-room.

‘Come here a minute and see what Sally has done,’ she said as she held up the sheet. ‘See Sally’s paw-marks all over the paper. I think she must have been writing a love-letter to you.’

Sally never knew whether Miss Harvey could read what she had written, but, after all, it did not make much difference whether or not she could make out the actual words, for she seemed so pleased to have it.

‘Dear little Sally,’ she said, and she stopped to stroke the pussy in passing her. ‘So you thought you would write a letter? I must show it to Elvira.’