Daisy Part 1

Daisy.

by Miranda Eliot Swan.

INTRODUCTION

This little story of one cat's life has been written during the intervals of a long and painful illness, when I missed the love and sympathy of my little four-footed friend of eighteen years, now, alas!

nothing but a memory. Indeed, so vividly did his spirit speak to me, that I readily acknowledge him the author of this book, being myself his amanuensis.

From my earliest childhood the love of animals, particularly cats, has been inherent with me. One tale of cruelty, heard by me when a child, distressed me and made me ill, and nightly the panorama of the disgusting crime would haunt my pillow. But I never regret the suffering it caused me, for it taught me my duty to our dumb friends so dependent on us.

If the little stories in this book touch the hearts of its readers as that story touched mine, it will indeed have accomplished its mission.

Just such stories are needed to create interest in the many societies now forming in aid of dumb animals.

There are cases where one must not spare the knife, even though our tenderest and most sensitive feelings recoil, for the cure will be sure.

There are crimes perpetrated every day, in the name of Science, that need just such stories to expose their iniquity. For I believe ignorance is the cause of cruelty in many instances, and a little story told attractively, where retribution follows the deed, will have more effect than reproof. I do not believe there are many hearts so callous, that a little anecdote of cruelty to these helpless creatures will not touch them.

There are many who will read this book who have lost dear little pets, and I would say to them that the dear Father has them all in his care.

In the boundless and beautiful fields of Paradise they will find the dear little friends they have lost waiting for them.

I trust my readers will pardon the many imperfections of this little book, believing that an earnest wish to help our dumb animals is my heart's desire.

MIRANDA ELIOT SWAN.

BOSTON, December 11, 1899.

I

EARLY DAYS

I have no doubt people will wonder that a Cat should write a story. Of course, fighting is more in their line.

However pleased I might have been to help my fellow-sufferers, and use my natural weapons in their defence, a remark I heard made by a very learned man decided me to use my brains instead of my claws.

He quoted:--

"The _pen_ is mightier than the _sword_."

Taking this quotation for my text, I have written my own story, hoping it will benefit the poor cats who are made the victims of great cruelty.

No other animal has to suffer like the household pet, the cat.

I am a Boston boy, born eighteen years ago, in one of the nice old-fashioned houses for which our quiet street was noted.

I was born in a clothes-basket, and do not feel ashamed of my birthplace, though fire and the swill man long ago removed all trace of it.

I cannot remember much about my home. Like all young things, my food and having a good frolic were all I thought of.

I loved my mother, for she was very kind to me while I depended on her for sustenance; but when I grew large enough to lap milk, she began to wean me and teach me that hard lesson--self-dependence.

My mother was very handsome--black as coal, with a long tail and white feet. She was very proud of the latter, keeping them as white as snow; and on account of their beauty she was called "White Foot." She was very graceful and slender--her fur soft and glossy as a raven's wing.

She had brilliant, restless eyes, fierce in expression and watchful, never seeming to trust even her friends. But every one was attracted to her.

We had not much room to boast of. The back yard was very small, but over the way a large unoccupied field gave us a grand opportunity to run and enjoy ourselves.

It was a great neighborhood for cats. Though I thought them rough and aggressive, I enjoyed myself, for I could outrun the biggest of them, and never allowed myself to be defeated.

One day my mother called me to her, and said: "I wish you to listen to what I am about to say to you. The cats who live here are rough alley cats, and have never learned good manners. You have a better chance than they have, and I hope you will grow up gentle and sweet-tempered. Never bite or scratch, and learn to control your angry pa.s.sions. Then you will be a favorite and a very happy cat--happier than your mother, who never had a chance till now. And _now_ it is too late. I shall not be with you long, and you must try to do the best you can for yourself when I am gone."

This conversation with my mother made me very sad, though I was young and full of frolic, and did not fully realize her true meaning. I never forgot her advice, for I knew she was a very wise cat, and her wisdom had been gained through suffering. My life with her was short, for she left us before I was six months old.

Perhaps here I had better tell her story as she related it to me. She had always been very strict with me, and taught me to be very neat, and keep my fur and my claws clean. My claws were a great delight to me, they were so sharp, and I used to bite them with great satisfaction. It was delightful to feel how sharp my teeth were.

Though I did not use a "toothpick," my nails were very useful instead, and I bit them and enjoyed the fun. But one day I bit them so loud that my mother, after reproving me many times, boxed my ears. She was very nervous, and the snapping provoked her very much.

Of course, I was obliged to obey her; but I bit them all the same, only on the sly.

II

MY MOTHER'S STORY

I do not know where I was born. I can only remember a dark cellar where I seemed to belong, and children who drove and frightened me every time I went near the house. The cook was kind to me and put out sc.r.a.ps of food in an old tin plate. I was often obliged by hunger to pick from the swill barrel my dinners. I soon found plenty of rats, and after I learned to kill them, life had some charm for me.

It was a dirty, damp, dark cellar, for the people who owned the house were of the "newly rich" cla.s.s. They thought only of decorating that part of the house open to public inspection. Everything was made to pay its way, and the servants were kept on short rations.

I earned my living (picked from the swill barrel) by killing rats, for the house was infested with them. No one ever spoke a kind word to me, and I often wondered why I was made. I would creep into the house like a criminal.

Once I enjoyed the luxury of sleeping in a chair. Oh, how soft and nice it was, and I began to purr, with the sense of happiness. But I was rudely shaken from my dream of bliss, and this was the only chance I ever had to test the delights of easy chairs. I was driven out with stones and bits of wood till I gladly found refuge for my poor bruised body in the cellar. There I lay in hunger and pain, my heart filled with bitterness toward all mankind. I felt the injustice, if only a poor cat.

It was a great neighborhood for cats, and I soon made friends with them.

I was perfectly reckless, and caterwauled with them, joining their midnight revels with all my heart. We cared not for bottles or bootjacks, but made night terrible. Why should we keep quiet? We had no homes, no nice beds, no friend to speak to us. Why should we care to please those who remembered us only to abuse us?

Now this is all very sad. Since I have seen what life ought to be, in this dear home, I wish with all my heart I had earlier known these good people. I am very thankful that you, my only living child, will grow up in this refined atmosphere.

To return to my dismal history. Soon after my introduction to the nightly revels, I had my first kittens. I never was so happy in my life.

Though I had suffered all alone the most severe pain, the dear little creatures compensated me for my hours of anguish. There were four of them. Two of them were black, and two of them gray. Such perfect little creatures, I was delighted with them. Though we had only an ash-heap for our bed, I kept them on my fur, and did not care for the ashes on my own nice fur coat. No mother on her bed of down, with laces and embroideries around her, could have kept her children nicer than I kept mine.

I followed just the instinct my Maker gave me, and what came after was from no fault of mine, but from the wickedness of human nature, which has unsettled my beliefs and made me a sceptical and unbelieving cat.