Friskey came to a sad end. He was run over by a fast team and had to be chloroformed. Flossy was very unhappy about him. They said she acted just like a widow, and, probably, like most widows, got another admirer in his place. He was buried down in the garden quite a little distance from the house, and Flossy was often seen sitting on his grave.

The family thought it very pathetic, but there were others, people who like to destroy our best illusions (whom no one likes or cares for their opinions), who suggested an explanation of the interesting fact, by saying that a catmint bed was on each side of Friskey's grave, and Flossy went there for the catmint.

I do, for my part, hate to be disenchanted when I have indulged in a little bit of sentiment. I do not believe any one ever thanks the person who turns the poetry of life into prose.

My solution of the story is, that Flossy had often played with Friskey in that very catmint bed, and she went there to recall pleasant memories. I have a right to my own opinion, and I know I am very strange; but then, it would be a very stupid world if there were no variety.

I had a singular thought the other day, and it will do no harm to tell it, though I do not care one pin whether others agree with me or not. I think my mistress is original, and I know I am like her. My idea is this: I have heard the stories of Adam and Eve and Noah's Ark--indeed, I was brought up on Bible stories.

Now my thought is this: When Adam and Eve left the garden of Eden, there were two of their dumb companions whose hearts were sad for their master and mistress. They said, "We will not let them go alone." And when Adam and Eve left the garden, a dog walked by his master's side, and a cat by the side of the mistress--faithful in their misfortune.

XVII

THE STORY OF FREIDA

My mistress was not silly about me. She would say: "I am perfectly satisfied with Daisy, just as G.o.d made him. I do not presume to improve what he has made perfect. I do all I can to bring out his good points, and leave the rest to nature."

Then she told me the story of "Adonis." His mistress had his ears pierced and gold earrings put in them. He wore them at home only.

That cat did suffer for his mistress's vanity, and I could not help wishing she had been the victim; for one day a lady called, bringing with her a pet dog. She said, "My dog has a lovely disposition, and will not touch your cat."

She had not calculated on Adonis having a temper, and the consequences were disastrous. Ever since his ears were pierced, Adonis had been fretful and snappish. His beautiful earrings were no pleasure to him, for he could not give them a pull without making his ears sore.

When he saw this pampered dog in his very home, he arose in his anger, and flew at the little pet in great wrath. Of course the dog retaliated, though frightened almost out of his skin. The result was, he tore out one of Adonis's earrings, making a long slit in his ear, and got repaid by having his own eyes almost scratched out.

His mistress was well paid for her cruelty in decorating her cat in this foolish manner. From a loving, happy cat he was transformed into a cross, quarrelsome creature that no one could love.

Then she cast him off and got a new plaything, this time a dog, all covered with bells and ribbons, that she could take around with her.

Poor Adonis was suffered in the house, but left to the servants, and his nice quarters given to the dog, while he was left in the kitchen, where his high temper made him disliked, and his torn and swollen ears made him an object of derision.

My mistress would say: "Never, Daisy, shall you be made miserable by such foolishness. People who treat animals in this way are not their real friends; they use them selfishly as a decoration for themselves when they might make them intelligent companions and sincere friends."

That there are many good people who appreciate animals, the stories that I have given you will prove. The story of Freida is an instance, and I can vouch for its truth.

Freida was a nice cat, aristocratic and refined in her ideas. She inherited her name from a Danish relative of her master, and brought the old home days back to memory.

She had a very beautiful home not many miles from Boston. It was a large house, and was called "The Mansion." It had a cupola where Freida could go up and overlook the high hills and see the gilded dome of the State House quite plainly.

Then there was the stable, and a beautiful flowerbed in front of the house.

It was rightly called "The Mansion," for it stood alone, surrounded by beautiful trees, and looked down with dignity on the smaller houses around it.

Freida was a very happy and fortunate cat. She had a kind master, and her mistress was very lovely and good. She was a very dear friend of Miss Milly, and was born in good old Salem, and, like all the people in that bewitching place, she thought a home was not perfect without the family cat.

All this would have been very delightful, had not a great change taken place in this charming home. But then, there would have been no story; for Freida's life would have been just like that of other cats, pleasant but uneventful.

The good mistress fell ill and was ordered a change of air, and a voyage to Europe.

I know how I felt, for I wanted my mistress to go abroad; and when her friend sent her a card decorated with wild flowers and edelweiss from Chamonix, I was just crazy to see this beautiful place that she wrote about so charmingly.

I was very wicked, I fear, for I got the card off of the table and sat upon it. I said to myself, "It is just as nice to sit upon the picture flowers as it would be to have the real ones." I thought how nice it would be to go with my mistress, for I was sure she would take me with her, and then I could run up and down the mountains just as I pleased.

When she took me on her lap, showing me the card, and told me how many miles of ocean separated her from her friend, it made me shiver at the thought of crossing it. But then, in her arms I would not be afraid to go to Jericho. I do hate water; there is too much used on me when I am washed, and I wish I could be washed with land instead.

All this is not telling about Freida, whose story I started to tell you.

The beautiful house was closed, and Freida was taken to the home of her mistress's brother near Boston. Two of her sisters, who were very fond of Freida, were there, making it homelike for her. But for all their petting she was homesick. They were obliged to keep her very close, for fear she would run away.

She was a great care to them, and one day they missed her, and on going to the furnace they saw a strange sight. A fluffy ball was turning over and over in the ashes, and on drawing it out they found it was Freida.

She was almost suffocated, but the master, a charming man, just like his sister in kindness of heart, went at once for a doctor. He said they must take her where the air could blow over her, and also give her brandy.

Her tongue was hanging out of her mouth, and she was a wretched creature. They worked over her for hours, and then the sisters brushed off the ashes and tended her as kindly as they would a baby. Soon she looked as nice as ever, and that cat never tried cremation again.

It proves how good and kind people can be to their dumb friends.

Poor Freida! she was destined to die in a violent manner. She returned to her beautiful home only to meet her fate.

The man who carried groceries to the house had a very gentle and kind horse. Strange to say, a friendship sprang up between Freida and this nice horse. She was always on hand to greet him every day, rubbing against his legs and showing her fondness for him in many ways, while he would put down his head for her to caress. It was a very funny sight.

One day when the man came out he turned the wagon quickly, and it crushed over poor Freida, breaking her back and killing her instantly.

The man was very much troubled about it, and he said, after that, the horse would try not to go up the hill.

She was buried near the place where she was killed, and they all mourned for her, and still remember her with affection.

They have a cat now called Frity, a dignified creature, but no cat will ever take Freida's place.

My mistress said that when she was visiting there she felt as if Freida's spirit was around, and at night she could hear her voice mingling with the voices of the pines.

How much sorrow we could save our friends if we could speak! People think cats cannot understand and read character, but they can; and they know the true from the false very quickly.

We had rooms, at one time, where everything was satisfactory, and the landlady said she was very fond of cats; for my mistress would tell the people of whom she engaged rooms about me.

This woman was very nice to me before my mistress, but I could not like her at all. And my instinct was right, for when I went through her kitchen, to go out for my daily airing, she looked "daggers" at me, and said, "Scat!"

I was so provoked I walked just as slow as I could and held up my head; but she came at me with her dishcloth, and as I did not care to be hit by that dirty thing, smelling of fish, I swallowed my pride and ran away. She slammed the back door after me, and called me a "pampered brute."

I dared not show my head again for a long time. I was cold and hungry, but I had faith. I knew I should be looked for; and, sure enough, both of them came to hunt for me, the woman of the house with them, all smiles. She said: "Poor p.u.s.s.y! Did it want to come in?"

I just glared at her. I wanted to say, "_It_ did not want you to let _it_ in." I thought the treatment bad enough; but to be called _it_ broke the back of my belief in her.

I kept out of her way; but one morning she saw me coming in from the kitchen, and drove me upstairs with her duster. My mistress saw her, and was very indignant, though she did not say anything, but she never let me go down alone after that.

This woman had a little step-son. She kept him in from play with his friends on Sat.u.r.day afternoons, to get his Sunday-school lessons, and he just hated her and the lessons, as a matter of course.