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!”