"Oh, this milk," complained Cook every time it happened. "No sooner do I take my eyes off it than it runs over."

"I can't help my fiery temper," would reply Little Milk, defending herself. "It doesn't make me happy to be angry and to hear the boastings of Cereal, 'I'm Cereal! I'm Cereal! I'm Cereal!' To see her sitting there in her pan and grumbling makes me angrier and angrier."

It happened sometimes that, in spite of the cover, Little Cereal would escape from her pan and creep along the stove, forever repeating:

"I'm Cereal! I'm Cereal! I'm Cereal! Z-h-h! Z-h-h!"

Of course, this did not happen every day, but it did happen, and each time, Cook in despair would say:

"Oh, this Cereal! It is amazing how it will not stay in the pan."

II

As a rule, Cook was excited. Of course, there were plenty of reasons for her agitation. For instance, there was Kitty Moorka. He was a very beautiful cat and Cook loved him very much. In the morning, Moorka would follow at the Cook's heels and meow so pitifully that it would melt a heart of stone.

"Isn't your belly ever filled?" asked Cook, astonished, chasing the cat. "Just think of all that liver you ate last night."

"But that was yesterday," answered Moorka, astonished in his turn.

"To-day, I am hungry again. Meow."

"Why don't you catch mice if you're hungry? Lazy! That's what you are!"

"Talking is very easy. I'd like to see you catch a mouse," Moorka defended himself. "However, I always try hard. Who caught a mouse last week? Who had a scratch the full length of his nose? That's the kind of rat I almost caught. Then she grabbed hold of my nose. It's easy to talk of catching mice. Indeed!"

After eating his liver, Moorka would sit somewhere near the stove where it was warm, close his eyes and doze sweetly.

"I hope you're full, now," said Cook. "Even your eyes are squinting.

Well, you lie-on-your-side cat? Always meat, meat, meat!"

"I'm no vegetarian, you know. I can eat meat!" said Moorka, opening just one eye. "You know I like fish too. It is really pleasant to eat fish, and up to this moment, I can't say which I like better, liver or fish. Out of politeness, I like both. If I were a man, I'd be either a fishman or the butcher-boy who brings us the liver. I'd feed all the cats from every corner of the earth, and I myself would always have my fill."

After eating, Moorka would grow interested in things going on around him, just by way of amus.e.m.e.nt. He would sit on the window where the starling's cage hung. It was pleasant to watch the foolish bird, hopping back and forth.

"I know you, you old rascal!" the starling would call to him. "You don't have to be watching me!"

"Perhaps I would like to make your acquaintance," said Moorka.

"Yes, I know how you make friends," said the starling. "Didn't I see you eat a real live baby sparrow? You disgusting brute!"

"I'm not at all disgusting. On the contrary, everybody loves me," said Moorka. "Come to me. I'll tell you a fairy tale."

"Oh, you rascal!" said the starling. "I know what a fine story-teller you are. Haven't I seen you tell stories to a roasted spring chicken stolen from the kitchen? I know you! You're a fine one!"

"Just as you like," said Moorka. "I was thinking only of your pleasure.

As for that roasted spring chicken, I did eat him. But anyhow, he wasn't good for anything else."

III

Every morning, Moorka would sit near the stove and listen patiently to the quarreling of Little Milk and Little Cereal. He could never understand what it was all about and only blinked his eyes.

"I am Little Milk!"

"I am Little Cereal! Cereal! Cereal!"

"I can't understand a word of it. No, I don't understand it. Why are they angry? If I were to repeat, 'I'm a Cat! I'm a Cat! I'm a Cat!'

could any one take offense at it? I can't understand it at all.

However, I must confess I prefer Milk, especially when she isn't angry."

When they quarreled, Little Cereal and Little Milk would become so heated, they ran all over the stove. Then there arose a horrible smell.

Cook would rush in, wringing her hands, and crying:

"Whatever shall I do now? I can never turn my head away without having something happen."

Setting Milk and Cereal aside, Cook went to market for provisions.

Moorka at once made the best of this. He sat down close to Little Milk and said:

"Mistress Milk, please don't be angry."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Little Milk grew calmer as the cat watched her. Moorka walked around the spot several times, fixed his whiskers very gently and said:

"Listen, folks! It isn't nice to quarrel. Choose me for your judge and I'll settle your affairs very quickly."

The black roach, sitting in the crack of the wall, almost choked with laughter.

"A judge indeed! I must say! Ha! Ha! Ha! It took you to think of it, you old rascal."

But Little Milk and Little Cereal were very glad to have someone settle their quarrel at last, for they really did not know why they were quarreling or what it was all about.

"Very well. Very well. I'll unravel this," said Kitty Moorka. "And I'll do it honestly. Let us begin with Milk."

He walked around the pot several times, touched Little Milk gently with his paw, blew upon her again and started lapping her up.

"Help Help!" shouted the black roach. "He will lap up all the milk and I will be blamed for it."

When Cook returned from market and looked for the milk, the pot was empty. Cat Moorka was sleeping sweetly near the stove as if nothing had happened.

"You good-for-nothing!" scolded Cook, pulling his ear. "Tell me, who drank the milk?"

It was very painful, but Moorka pretended not to understand anything.

He had suddenly become speechless! Then he was thrown out of the kitchen.

Behind the door, he shook himself, smoothed his ruffled fur, curved his tail and said:

"If I were Cook, all the cats would drink milk day and night. However, I am not angry with my Cook, because this is something she can never really understand!"