tempted. He came down from the wall. The children were able to stroke his back. Goodness, how thin he was! The stranger was the great topic of conversation. We discussed him at table: we would tame the tramp, we would keep him, we would make him a bed of hay. It was a most important matter; I can see to this day, I shall always see, the council of rattleheads deliberating on the cat's fate. They were not satisfied until the savage animal remained. Soon he grew into a magnificent Tom. His large round head, his muscular legs, his reddish fur, flecked with darker patches, reminded one of a little jaguar. He was named Ginger because of his tawny hue. A mate joined him later, picked up in almost similar circumstances. Such was the beginning of my series of Gingers, which I have kept for almost twenty years, in spite of various movings. The first time we moved we were anxious about our cats. We were all of us attached to them and should have thought it nothing short of criminal to abandon the poor creatures, whom we had so often petted, to distress and probably to thoughtless persecution. The mothers and the kittens would travel without any trouble: all we had to do was to put them in a basket; they would keep quiet on the journey. But the old Tom-cats were a serious problem. I had two, the head of the family and one of his descendants, quite as strong as himself. We decided to take the grandfather, if he consented to come, and to leave the grandson behind, after finding him a home. My friend Doctor Loriol offered to take the younger cat. The animal was carried to him at nightfall in a closed basket. Hardly were we seated at the evening meal, talking of the good fortune of our Tom-cat, when we saw a dripping mass jump through the window. The shapeless bundle came and rubbed itself against our legs, purring with happiness. It was the cat. I heard his story next day. On arriving at Doctor Loriol's, he was locked up in a bedroom. The moment he saw himself a prisoner in the unfamiliar room, he began to jump about wildly on the furniture, against the windowpanes, among the ornaments on the mantelpiece, threatening to make short work of everything. Mrs. Loriol, frightened by the little lunatic, hastened to open the window; and the cat leaped out among the passers-by. A few minutes later he was back at home. And it was no easy matter; he had to cross the town almost from end to end; he had to make his way through many crowded streets, among a thousand dangers, including boys and dogs; lastly-and this perhaps was even harder he had to pass over a river which ran through the town. There were bridges at hand, many in fact; but the animal, taking the shortest cut, had used none of them, bravely jumping into the water as the streaming fur showed. I had pity on the poor cat so faithful to his home. We agreed to take him with us. We were spared the worry; a few days later he was found lying stiff and stark under a shrub in the garden. Some one had poisoned him! There was still the old cat. He could not be found when we left our home, so I promised the carter an extra two dollars if he would bring the cat to us at our new home with one of his loads. On his last journey with our goods the carter brought him, stowed away under the driver's seat. I scarcely knew my old Tom when we opened the moving prison in which he had been kept since the day before. He came out looking a most alarming beast, scratching and spitting, with bristling hair, bloodshot eyes, lips white with foam. I thought him mad and watched him closely for a time. I was wrong: he was merely bewildered and frightened. Had there been trouble with the carter when he was caught? Did he have a bad time on the journey? I do not know. What I do know is that the very nature of the cat seemed changed; there was no more friendly purring, no more rubbing against our legs; nothing but a wild expression and the deepest gloom. Kind treatment could not soothe him. One day I found him lying dead in the ashes on the hearth. Grief, with the help of old age, had killed him. Would he have gone back to our old home, if he had had the strength? I would not venture to say so. But, at least, I think it very remarkable that an animal should let itself die of homesickness because the weakness of old age prevented it from returning to its former haunts. The next time we moved, the family of Gingers had been renewed; the old ones had passed away, new ones had come, including a full-grown Tom, worthy in every way of his ancestors. He alone gave us trouble in moving; the others, the babies and the mothers, were removed easily. We put them into baskets. The Tom had one to himself, so that the peace might be kept. The journey was made by carriage. Nothing striking happened before our arrival. When we let the mother cats out of their hampers, they inspected the new home and explored the rooms one by one. With their pink noses they recognized the furniture; they found their own seats, their own tables, their own armchairs; but the surroundings were different. They gave little surprised miaows and questioning glances. We petted them and gave them saucers of milk, and by the next day they felt quite at home. It was a different matter with the Tom. We put him in the attic, where he would find plenty of room for his capers. We took turns keeping him company. We gave him a double portion of plates to lick. From time to time we brought some of the other cats to him, to show him that he was not alone in the house. We did everything we could to make him forget the old home. He seemed, in fact, to forget it; he was gentle under the hand that petted him, he came when called, purred, arched his back. We kept him shut up for a week, and then we thought it was time to give him back his liberty. He went down to the kitchen; stood by the table like the others; went out into the garden under the watchful eye of my daughter, who did not lose sight of him; he prowled all around with the most innocent air. He came back. Victory! The Tom-cat would not run away. Next morning: "Puss! Puss!" Not a sign of him! We hunted, we called. Nothing. Oh, the hypocrite, the hypocrite! How he had tricked us! He had gone, he was at our old home. So I declared but the family would not believe it. My two daughters went back to the old home. They found the cat, as I said they would, and brought him back in a hamper. His paws were covered with red clay; and yet the weather was dry, there was no mud. The cat, therefore, must have swum the river, and the moist fur had kept the red earth of the fields through which he had passed. The distance between our two homes was four and a half miles. We kept the deserter in our attic for two weeks, and then we let him out again. Before twenty-four hours had passed he was back at his old home. We had to leave him to his fate. A neighbor out that way told me that he saw him one day hiding behind a hedge with a rabbit in his mouth. He was no longer provided with food; he had to hunt for it as best he could. I heard no more of him. He came to a bad end, no doubt; he had become a robber and must have met with a robber's fate. CLASS ACTIVITIES Adapted. 1. Which did the Toms love more - the Fabre family or the Fabre house? Which of the two was home to them? Tell the chief difference between the way people and animals look upon their homes. 2. Find the paragraphs where the fate of each of the three Tom-cats is told. Which had the saddest end? 3. Volunteer for a talk on one of these topics: a. When our cat found its way home. b. How our dog found its way home. c. The time I was lost. 4. For stories of the way birds and insects find their way home, see: F. M. Chapman, Travels of Birds; J. H. Fabre, Insect Adventures (mason bees), 49-50, (red ants), 58-61. 5. Work for volunteers. You will find sketches and poems about cats by people who like cats as well as by those who dislike them in A. Repplier's books The Cat and The Fireside Sphinx. An essay, "The Grocer's Cat," is in her volume Americans and Others. See also Thomas Gray's poem, "On a Favorite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes," in K. D. Wiggin and N. A. Smith's Golden Numbers, 353-354. You may like to give a special report on cats from what you read in these books, which you can probably find in your public library. Some of you may prefer to write a story or a poem about your own cat and read it to the class. 2. I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER THOMAS HOOD I remember, I remember The house where I was born; I remember, I remember And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer's pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow. I remember, I remember The fir trees dark and high; |