Just before we left Maple Road the kind Providence had sent me five kittens; but one day upon awaking from my nap, three were missing. I knew they could not have crawled out, for they were only a few days old, and as I looked for them I smelled the odor of that same medicine that mistress gets for homeless and sick cats. I suppose she thought I had too many to take care of; and knowing that whatever she does is for the best, I gave myself over wholly to those that remained with me.

One of my kittens was black with white toes and a white breast which mistress always called his “white shirt.” The markings on his face were so irregular that it made him look as if he had a crooked nose. But he was clever and energetic. His full name was Booker T. Washington, and I used to hear mistress say that he was every whit worthy of it. His immaculate white shirt front, together with his dignified bearing, gave him a real preacher-like appearance.

My other kitten was a Maltese, with white markings. When still very small he was promised to Miss Gracie Jones, one of our new neighbors on Elmwood Place, who came over every day after school and played with him. She named him Admiral Dewey. But Booker was the great favorite, and mistress would not promise him to anybody, although many asked for him.

Soon after we became settled in our new home, both my kittens were taken very ill. They seemed to be in great pain at times, and they would moan and cry out in their helplessness so that it was pitiful to see them. At last they became so weak that they were no longer able to walk from the basket to their box; but mistress bore with them very patiently, as did also Bettie. She would scald milk for them and when it had cooled, feed it to them from a spoon, with a napkin tied around their neck. With such excellent nursing the two invalids began gradually to improve, and Miss Gracie was overjoyed, thinking she would soon be able to take Dewey to her home. But all of a sudden her mother was taken very ill, and the Doctor said they must go to Denver to live for a long time. Then Miss Gracie had to give up Dewey because Denver, they say, is very far away.

For several days after Miss Gracie’s departure Dewey sat on the window-seat almost constantly looking for his friend; and when at last he despaired of her coming he refused to play or to eat, and thus he pined away, until one morning he did not rise at all. When Bettie went to his basket to see what was the trouble, Dewey lay there dead. He had died of a broken heart, I verily believe.

And right here let me relate a story that Guy read to his mother one evening about a little waif of a kitten that a boy found in the basement of his school building in the great city of San Francisco. He was a kind little lad, and anxious to help the kitty, so he took her up to his teacher.

When Guy had read that far he turned to his mother and said, “I know what my teacher would do, if I should bring a cat into the schoolroom; she would put the cat out and make me stay after school.”

“Well, read on,” said his mother, “and let’s see what this teacher did.” So Guy read the piece through, while I lay perched on his shoulder and listened. The story went on to say how the teacher took the kitty in and fixed her a comfortable place behind the stove; how for many days she carried her home for the night and brought her back in the morning; and how she was such a well behaved kitty and always stayed dutifully in her corner, during study hours. But at recess and after school kitty played at marbles with the boys, and caught spools and strings for the girls. By and by some of the children asked permission to take the kitty home, and the teacher allowed them to take her by turns as a reward for good conduct. One morning on the way to school, a saucy dog frightened the kitty, and she escaped from the arms of the boy that was carrying her. But he succeeded in getting her again, and after that somebody sent a fish-net shopping bag to that school for the kitty to be conveyed in. And now she has a different home and a new master or mistress every day; yet she is just as happy with one as another.

Now does not this refute the wicked slander that cats have no love for people, but only for themselves and for their comfortable homes? And is it not true that those who say this are usually the ones who never gave a cat any affection, and consequently don’t deserve any in return?

The loss of little Dewey was indeed a hard blow for Booker, but, fortunately, about that time he made the acquaintance of a new cat in the neighborhood named Molly Scott, a handsome tiger, and his remaining days at mistress’ house were really love’s young dream.

But even love’s young dream is of short duration, if a cat may be allowed to express an opinion on such a matter. One evening mistress wrapped up Booker and took him out in the Switzerland bag to visit a friend, and when she returned it was without him.

“They would not let me bring him back,” said mistress when Bettie inquired after Booker. “But I am sure he couldn’t find a happier home anywhere, for not only is every member of the family perfectly in love with him, but even the housekeeper begged me to let him stay, and promised to give him the kindest attention.”

After Booker’s departure, for more than a week his friend Molly came over every morning to look for him. She would meow first at the back door, then at the front door, and not receiving any response, would climb up on the different window ledges and call for her friend. But after a while she fell in with a new cat by the name of Goldie, and he, in time, came to fill Booker’s place in her affections.

A word about Goldie: One cold winter evening mistress brought home in a bag a yellow tiger cat, which I thought from his appearance must have come from the very slums of catdom. He was all bedraggled with mud, and his face resembled that of a sore-eyed poodle. But after a bath, oh, what a difference! Then it turned out that the stranger had a beautiful fluffy coat of sunshiny yellow and white, with brown stripes intermingled, and the name “Goldie” was thought none too nice for him. The very first neighbor that saw him was ready to adopt him, and this was Mrs. Gafney, the mother of our little friends George and Doris. And there Goldie is to-day, a delightful playmate, and an all-around household treasure.

I noticed during the first few days Goldie was with us that he would not allow any one to touch his tail, and would claw and scratch whoever attempted to touch it, even in a friendly way. Mistress tried her best to teach Goldie better manners by scratching him on the head and gradually going farther down his back. But just as soon as she got near his tail, Goldie would begin to eye her suspiciously, and indeed poor mistress’ hands were a network of scratches before she had gained Goldie’s confidence enough so that he no longer dug his fierce claws into her flesh.

I was very curious to know what caused Goldie to act so, and at the first opportunity I asked him the reason.

“Reason enough,” said he. “If you had had your tail pinched and twisted as mine has been by a cowardly sneak of a boy, you would be wary too. But I finally tired of such a life and started out in search of a better home.”

“And how were you so fortunate as to fall into the hands of our mistress?” said Budge, who had come to hear Goldie’s story.

“Fortunate, I should say it was fortunate,” said Goldie. “I will tell you all about it. After tramping from door to door for several days, and sleeping under barns and coal sheds, one evening I followed two ladies up to a beautiful house. But evidently they had not noticed me, for as soon as they entered, the door was shut, and I was left behind. I felt very badly, especially as I had learned from their conversation that they were friends of cats. As I sat there on the porch-rail wondering what next to do, I noticed that it was not a very great distance to a brilliantly lighted window, and being anxious to attract the attention of those ladies I made a bold leap and landed safely on the window-sill. There in that beautiful room sat four ladies, and a gentleman, and one of the ladies came at once to the window and begged the gentleman to open it. He did so, and I heard him say something about a ‘poor apology for a cat’ as he took me in and set me on a rug. Then one and another began talking about me in a way that was anything but complimentary, while the lady that had asked to let me in sat on the floor beside me, looking me over, and occasionally rubbing my nose and head.

“I felt that I had at last found a friend, and sure enough, when it was time to go home, she asked for a laundry bag to carry me in, saying she would give me a bath and prepare me for a home because I was a very nice cat. And that is how I was brought here that evening.”

Before Goldie went to live with George and Doris, he spent some very happy days with us. He was a fine mouser, and was always rummaging around the barn over in the corn-field. Of course he never succeeded in catching any mice for the simple reason that the barn is too close to our premises, and no mouse could exist there for a single day.

And now speaking of mice, let me say right here: never expect a poorly-fed, ill-treated cat to catch them, because such a cat in time loses her sense of smell so completely that she is unable to scent mice at all. But on the other hand, the better you treat her, the more she will do for you in return.