She would
hold it down with one paw, and lick it by the half-hour together, trying
to make it set properly. But the moment she let it go up it would cock
again. I have heard her cry with vexation because of this.
One day a neighbouring cat came to see her, and the squirrel was clearly
the subject of their talk.
"It's a good colour," said the friend, looking critically at the supposed
kitten, who was sitting up on his haunches combing his whiskers, and
saying the only truthfully pleasant thing about him that she could think
of.
"He's a lovely colour," exclaimed our cat proudly.
"I don't like his legs much," remarked the friend.
"No," responded his mother thoughtfully, "you're right there. His legs
are his weak point. I can't say I think much of his legs myself."
"Maybe they'll fill out later on," suggested the friend, kindly.
"Oh, I hope so," replied the mother, regaining her momentarily dashed
cheerfulness. "Oh yes, they'll come all right in time. And then look at
his tail. Now, honestly, did you ever see a kitten with a finer tail?"
"Yes, it's a good tail," assented the other; "but why do you do it up
over his head?"
"I don't," answered our cat. "It goes that way. I can't make it out. I
suppose it will come straight as he gets older.
Pages:
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160