"'But,' you will say, 'is "Fredabel" Spanish too, because I never heard of such a name before?'

"No, I am quite sure you never did; for this reason: no child was ever called by that name before, the fact being that her papa invented the name for her, as it was the only way he could see to get out of a dilemma, or difficulty. And here was the dilemma. When p.u.s.s.y's mistress was quite a baby, her two aunts came to see her, and they had no sooner seen her than they both loved her very much; so they both went one morning into her papa's study, and the following conversation took place:--

"'Good-morning, brother,' said one aunt. 'I love your baby very, _very_ much, and I want you to call her after me--her first name, mind you--and when she grows up she won't lose by it.'

"'Good-morning, brother,' said the other aunt. 'I also love your dear baby very much, and if you call her first name after mine, when she grows up she'll gain by it.'

"Well, when baby's papa heard both the aunts speak like this, he was very much perplexed, and didn't know what to do, because he didn't want to offend either the one aunt or the other.

"But after a great deal of cogitation, he possessed himself of a happy thought, or rather, I should say, a happy thought took possession of him. You see the name of the one aunt was Freda, and the name of the other was Bella, so what more natural than that baby's papa should compound a name for her between the two, and call her Fredabel.

"So he did, and both aunts were pleased and merry and happy.

"But at the time our tale begins baby hadn't grown up, nor anything like it; she was just a little child of not much over four years old.

"Now, as the one aunt always called her Freda and the other Bella, and as everybody else called her Eenie, I think we had better follow everybody else's example, and call her Eenie, too.

"Was Eenie pretty, did you ask? Yes, she was pretty, and, what is still better than being pretty, she was very kind and good. So no wonder that everybody loved her. She had a sweet, lovely face, had Eenie. Her hair, that floated over her lair shoulders, was like a golden sunbeam; her eyes were blue as the bluest sky, and large and liquid and love-speaking, and when she looked down her long dark eyelashes rested on cheeks as soft as the blossom of peach or apricot.

"Yet she was merry withal, merry and bright and gay, and whenever she laughed, her whole face was lighted up and looked as lovely as sunrise in May.

"I have said that Eenie was good and kind, and so she was; good and kind to every creature around her. She never tormented harmless insects, as cruel children do, and so all creatures seemed to love her in return: the trees whispered to her, the birds sang to her, and the bees told her tales.

"That was p.u.s.s.y Mirram's mistress then; and it was no wonder Mirram was fond of her, and proud to be nursed and carried about by her. Mind you, she would not allow any one else to carry her. If anybody else had taken her up, puss would have said--'Mirram!' which would mean, 'Put me down, please; I've got four legs of my own, and I much prefer to use them.' And if the reply had been--'Well, but you allow Eenie to handle and nurse you,' p.u.s.s.y would have answered and said--

"'Isn't Eenie my mistress, my own dear mistress? Could any one ever be half so kind or careful of me as she is? Does she ever forget to give me milk of a morning or to share with me her own dinner and tea? Does she not always have my saucer filled with the purest, freshest water?

and does she forget that I need a comfortable bed at night? No; my mistress may carry me as much as she pleases, but no one else shall.'

"Now Mirram was a mighty hunter, but she was also very fond of play; and when the dogs were in their kennels on very bright sunshiny days, and her little mistress was in the nursery learning her lessons, as all good children do, Mirram would have to play alone. _She_ wasn't afraid of the bright sunshine, if the dogs were; she would race up into a tall apple-tree, and laying herself full length on a branch, blink and stare at the great sun for half an hour at a time. Then--

"'Oh!' she would cry, 'this resting and looking at the sun is very lazy work. I must play. Let me see, what shall I do? Oh! I have it; I'll knock an apple down--then hurrah! for a game of ball.'

"And so she would hit a big apple, and down it would roll on the broad gravel-path; and down p.u.s.s.y would go, her face beaming with fun; and the game that ensued with that apple was quite a sight to witness. It was lawn-tennis, cricket, and football all in one. Then when quite tired of this, she would thrust the apple under the gra.s.s for the slugs to make their dinner of, and off she would trot to knock the great velvety bees about with her gloved paws. She would soon tire of this, though, because she found the bees such serious fellows.

"She would hit one, and knock it, maybe, a yard away; but the bee would soon get up again.

"'It is all very well for you, Miss Puss,' the bee would say; 'your life is all play, but I've got work to do, for I cannot forget that, brightly though the sun is shining now, before long cold dismal winter will be here, and very queer I should look if I hadn't laid up a store of nice honey to keep me alive.'

"And away the bee would go, humming a tune to himself, and Mirram would spy a pair of b.u.t.terflies floating high over the scarlet-runners, but not higher than Mirram could spring. She couldn't catch them, though.

"'No, no, Miss Puss,' the b.u.t.terflies would say; 'we don't want you to play with us. We don't want any third party, so please keep your paws to yourself.'

"And away they would fly.

"Then perhaps Mirram would find a toad crawling among the strawberry beds.

"'You're after the fruit, aren't you?' p.u.s.s.y would say, touching it gently on the back.

"'No, not at all,' the toad would reply. 'I wouldn't touch a strawberry for the world; the gardener put me here to catch the slugs; he couldn't get on without me at all.'

"'Well, go on with your work, Mr Toad,' p.u.s.s.y would reply; 'I'm off.'

"And what a glorious old garden that was for p.u.s.s.y to play in, and for her mistress to play in! A rambling old place, in which you might lose yourself, or, if you had a companion, play at hide-and-seek till you were tired. And every kind of flower grew here, and every kind of fruit and vegetable as well; just the kind of garden to spend a long summer's day in. Never mind though the day was so hot that the birds ceased to sing, and sat panting all agape on the apple-boughs--so hot that the very fowls forgot to cackle or crow, and there wasn't a sound save the hum of the myriads of insects that floated everywhere around, you wouldn't mind the heat, for wasn't there plenty of shade, arbours of cool foliage, and tents made of creepers?--and oh! the brilliancy of the sunny marigolds, the scarlet cl.u.s.tered geraniums, the larkspurs, purple and white, and the crimson-painted linums. No, you wouldn't mind the heat; weren't there strawberries as large as eggs and as cold as ice?

And weren't there trees laden with crimson and yellow raspberries? And weren't the big lemon-tinted gooseberries bearing the bushes groundwards with the weight of their sweetness, and praying to be pulled? A glorious old garden indeed!

"But see, the dogs have got out of their kennels, and have come down the garden walks on their way to the paddock, and p.u.s.s.y runs to meet them.

"'What! dogs in a garden?' you cry. Yes; but they weren't ordinary dogs, any more than it was an ordinary garden. They were permitted to stroll therein, but they were trained to keep the walks, and smell, but never touch, the flowers. They roamed through the rosary, they rolled on the lawn, they even slept in the beautiful summer-houses; but they never committed a fault--but in the autumn, when pears and apples dropped from the trees, they were permitted, and even encouraged, to eat their fill of the fruit. And they made good use of their privilege, too. These were p.u.s.s.y's playmates all the year round--the immense black Newfoundlands, the princely boarhounds, the beautiful collies, and the one little rascal of a Scottish terrier. You never met the dogs without also meeting Mirram, whether out in the country roads or at home, on the leas or in the paddock; she pulled daisies to throw at the dogs in summer, and in winter she used to lie on her back, and in mere wantonness pitch pellets of snow at the great boar hound himself.

"The dogs all loved her. Once, when she was out with the dogs on a common, a great snarly bulldog came along, and at once ran to kill poor Mirram. You should have seen the commotion that ensued.

"'It is our cat,' they all seemed to cry, in a kind of canine chorus.

'Our cat--_our_ cat--our cat!' And all ran to save her.

"No, they didn't kill him, though the boarhound wanted to; but the biggest Newfoundland, a large-hearted fellow, said, 'No, don't let us kill him, he doesn't know any better; let us just refresh his memory.'

"So he took the cur, and trailed him to the pond and threw him in; and next time that dog met Mirram he walked past her very quietly indeed!

"Mirram loved all the dogs about the place; but I think her greatest favourite was the wee wire-haired Scottish terrier. Perhaps it was because he was about her own size, or perhaps it was because he was so very ugly that she felt a kind of pity for him. But Mirram spent a deal of time in his company, and they used to go trotting away together along the lanes and the hedges, and sometimes they wouldn't return for hours, when they would trot home again, keeping close cheek-by-jowl, and looking very happy and very funny.

"'Broom' this little dog had been called, probably in a frolic, and from some fancied resemblance between his general appearance and the hearth-brush. His face was saucy and impudent, and sharp as needles; his bits of ears c.o.c.ked up, and his tiny wicked-looking eyes glanced from under his s.h.a.ggy eyebrows, as if they had been boatman-beetles. I don't think Broom was ever afraid of anything, and very important the little dog and p.u.s.s.y looked when returning from a ramble. They had secrets of great moment between them, without a doubt. Perhaps, if her mistress had asked Mirram where they went together, and what they did, Mirram would have replied in the following words--

"'Oh! you know, my dear mistress, we go hunting along by the hedgerows and by the ponds, and in the dark forests, and we meet with such thrilling adventures! We capture moles, and we capture great rats and frightful hedgehogs, and Broom is so brave he will grapple even with a weasel; and one day he conquered and killed a huge polecat! Yes, he is so brave, and nothing can ever come over me when Broom is near.'

"Now, no one would have doubted that, in such a pretty, pleasant country home as hers, with such a kind mistress, and so many playmates, p.u.s.s.y Mirram would have been as happy as ever a p.u.s.s.y could be. So she was, as a rule; but not always, because she had that one little fault-- thoughtlessness. Ah! those little faults, how often will they not lead us into trouble!

"I don't say that p.u.s.s.y ever did anything very terrible, to cause her mistress grief. She never did eat the canary, for instance. But she often stopped away all night, and thus caused little Eenie much anxiety.

p.u.s.s.y always confessed her fault, but she was so thoughtless that the very next moonlight night the same thing occurred again, and Mirram never thought, while she was enjoying herself out of doors, that Eenie was suffering sorrow for her sake at home.

"On the flat roof of a house where Mirram often wandered, in the moonlight was a tiny pigeon-hole, so small she couldn't creep in to save her life even, but from this pigeon-hole a bonnie wee kitten used often to pop out and play with Mirram. Where the pigeon-hole led to, or what was away beyond it, p.u.s.s.y couldn't even conjecture, though she often watched and wondered for hours, then put in her head to have a peep; but all was dark.

"Perhaps, when she was quite tired of wondering, and was just going to retire for the night, the little face would appear, and Mirram would forget all about her mistress in the joy of meeting her small friend.

"Then how pleased Mirram would look, and how loudly she would purr, and say to the kitten--

"'Come out, my dear, do come out, and you shall play with my tail.'

"But it was really very thoughtless of Mirram, and just a little selfish as well, not to at once let kittie have her tail to play with; but no.

"'Sit there, my dear, and sing to me,' she would say.

"Kittie would do that just for a little while. Very demure she looked; but kittens can't be demure long, you know; and then there would commence the wildest, maddest, merriest game of romps between the two that ever was seen or heard of; but always when the fun got too exciting for her, kittie popped back again into her pigeon-hole, appearing again in a few moments in the most provoking manner.

"What nights these were for Mirram, and how pleasantly they were spent, and how quickly they pa.s.sed, perhaps no one but p.u.s.s.y and her little friend could tell. When tired of romping and running, like two feline madcaps, Mirram would propose a song, and while the stars glittered overhead, or the moon shone brightly down on them, they would seat themselves lovingly side by side and engage in a duet. Now, however pleasant cats' music heard at midnight may appear to the p.u.s.s.ies themselves, it certainly is not conducive to the sleep of any nervous invalid who may happen to dwell in the neighbouring houses, or very soothing either.

"Mirram found this out to her cost one evening, and so did the kitten as well, for a window was suddenly thrown open not very far from where they sat.

"'Ah!' said Mirram, 'that is sure to be some one who is delighted with our music, and is going to throw something nice to us.'