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 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
with Mary's grandmother, a fashionable old lady who had a suite of
rooms in a big hotel.
I don't know why old ladies like to live in hotels. I should think if the
feeling of having so many people in a house was bad for a young
cat, it would be worse for an old woman. However, Mary's
grandmother liked it. Her name was Mrs. Ainslee.
I was nearly crazy. There was no noise, no confusion, only a great
many well-dressed people, but it seemed to me that I should
suffocate. There were so many curtains and draperies, so many thick
carpets, and so much dark wood, and such a smell of rich food. I
don't think the human beings minded the food smell as much as I
did. In the open air I should have liked it, but in this hotel it made
me miserable. I could not eat well, nor sleep well. I was cross and
disagreeable, and my tongue became coated. Mary never took me to
drive here. Her grandmother would not let her, and the only outing I
had was a short time every day, when I was allowed to go on a
balcony and look out over the city. We were pretty high up, and it
made me melancholy to see how far I would have to jump to get to
the street. However, I had no thought of running away. I was not
miserable enough for that, but how I did wish that Mary's
grandmother was a poor woman, living in a house with a yard.
Well, an end came to it. One day there was a great talking between
Mary and her nurse, and I caught the word “Maine” several times
repeated. Then Mary came and caught me up.
“To-morrow morning, darling Pussy,” she said, “we are going to
lovely Maine. We are all to meet at the station. Oh! how perfectly
beautiful! I shall be with mamma and papa again!”
I was so pleased that I did not know what to do. When Mary put me
down, I went and crowded myself against one of the closed
windows, and looked at the busy street below. I could not think, for
I had a dull headache. But I just felt happy. Mrs. Ainslee, being an
old lady, hated the cold, and she kept her rooms at a suffocating
heat all the time.
Well, the next morning came. Very early I found myself aroused by
Mary's nurse, old Hannah, who was stepping softly about the room.
Then little Mary woke up, and hurrying out of bed as fast as she
could, the child began to dress herself. In about an hour, Mary had
gone to her grandmother's bed, and had said good-bye, and we
were down in the big dining-room, getting an early breakfast.
After that came a drive in a carriage, then a meeting in a big, big
building with Mary's parents.
It was a very joyful time, but dreadfully confused. I stared in dismay
at the groups of people. Some were standing quietly, other men and
women were rushing to and fro as if they had just lost their pet cat,
and were trying to find her. Fortunately, my dull eye wandering
about in quest of more friends fell on Mona.
I slipped from Mary's arms, and ran up to her. “How do you do, dear
Mona? I am so glad to see you. Do tell me what this great building
is. Why, I should think it would cover the whole of Beacon Hill.”
“This is a railway station, Black-Face,” she said kindly. “See Anthony
over there buying the tickets. Are you coming in the baggage car
with me?”
“I don't know what a baggage car is,” I replied.
“Do you see those long things over there?”
“Those funny little houses on wheels?” I asked.
“Yes—those are railway cars. Some are for men and women, some
for animals, some for other things. Here is Anthony.”
The young man at this moment approached Mr. and Mrs. Denville.
Touching his cap, he put some pieces of paper in their hands. Then
he came up to Mona, and fastened something on her neck.
“What is that?” I mewed.
“My check,” said Mona. “Mr. Denville has to pay for me.”
At that moment, I heard Mary's voice in distress, “Black-Face, Black-
Face, where are you?”
I ran back to her, and Mrs. Denville looked down at me. “You should
have had your cat put in a box or basket, Mary.”
“Oh, mamma, can't she go in the car with me?”
“No, dear, it is breaking rules, and she will be happy in the baggage
car with the other creatures. Serena is there, and Dolly, and the
canaries, and Mona is just going. Anthony will ride with them.”
She put up a finger, and Anthony who was now leading Mona by a
chain, came near.
“Take this cat,” said Mrs. Denville, “and put a collar and string of
some kind on her.”
I sprang into Anthony's arms. I did not wish to be tied.
“She is a good little thing, ma'am,” said Anthony. “I don't think she
would bolt.”
“She might,” said the lady decidedly. “Put a cord on her, in case of
accidents.”
Still holding me, Anthony went up to a kind of little shop on one side
of the building, and bought a collar and chain. Then with me in his
arms and leading Mona, he passed through some big gates, and we
went alongside the rows of funny little houses on wheels.
I was so glad he had me in his arms. The people pressed and jostled
us, but Mona was so big she did not seem to care.
At last Anthony stopped, climbed up some steps, and entered one of
the cars as Mona called them.
I saw an open door behind us. Inside, were lovely soft seats, and
many persons seated on them; but we did not go in there. Right in
front of us was a kind of store-room, or lumber-room, with old
trunks and boxes, and some new ones. There were also some
bicycles.
“Good-morning, baggage-master,” I heard Anthony say, and a man
in his shirt sleeves came toward us. “Where are the rest of our
critters?”
The man pointed toward the other end of the car, so we walked on.
“Mew,” said a cat's voice, and there, to my delight, was Serena
looking at me through the slats of a box.
“Well, Serena,” I said, “how do you do? I am glad to see a member
of my own family again.”
“I am very well,” she replied calmly. “How are you?”
“Oh! nicely. I am sorry to see you in that box.”
“Sorry!” she repeated bridling unamiably, “Why, I was put in here for
protection. They were afraid that something would happen to my
lovely fur. I see you are not boxed.”
I grinned from ear to ear. “No,” I said, “I am not worth boxing.
Where is Slyboots?”
“Here beside me in this other box.”
I looked at it. Slyboots was curled all in a heap. She would hate this
racketing place.
She wouldn't uncurl herself when I spoke to her, so I gazed round
for Dolly.
She was flat on her face in a corner—a perfect heap of misery.
“She is used to the train, too,” said Mona in her rumbling voice—“has
often been on it before. Look up, Dolly. I am here.”
Dolly raised her head, and as Mona's chain was fastened to a ring in
the side of the car, she slipped between the big dog's front paws,
and sat there cowering and trembling.
The canaries were in a cage hanging up on the side of the car. There
was a thick cloth all over them, and perfect stillness inside. They did
not like travelling any better than the rest of us.
I was sorry for Slyboots. I knew she was suffering, and I was
pleased when Anthony tied me, so I could sit beside her box.
Pretty soon we started, and glad I was to get out of the dreadful
noise and confusion of that building. Bells were ringing, smoke was
puffing, men, women and children were still hurrying, and the air
was full of distraction for cats.
The gliding motion was rather pleasant, until we began to go
bumpety bump, and rattle rattle. I did not like that; however, I saw
that there was no danger. Anthony did not look frightened, nor did
the man with the funny cap on, so I plucked up courage and
whispered to Slyboots:
“It is all right—you are quite safe, and we are on our way to lovely
Maine.”
 “SHE SLIPPED BETWEEN THE BIG DOG'S
FRONT PAWS, AND SAT THERE COWERING
AND TREMBLING.”

She never stirred, and I turned to Anthony. He had dragged a stool

right in the midst of us, and sat there quietly looking at us from time
to time. He was a kind-hearted young fellow, and if he had not been
he would not have dared to neglect us, for I had heard the Denvilles
talk of having discharged servant after servant for being unkind to
animals.
Anthony did not love us as the Denvilles did. He rather made fun of
us, but still he was kind to us, and that was good in him.
We soon rushed along at a fearful rate. I never dreamed that Boston
was so large. I thought Beacon Hill was the most of it.
“Why, Mona,” I mewed at the top of my voice to make her hear,
“where did all the houses come from?”
She smiled at me. “There are more houses in the world than you
ever dreamed of, little cat.”
Suddenly we stopped with a great jerk. “What is this?” I asked
curiously. “Is it to give the horses a rest?”
“The what?” inquired old Mona wrinkling her forehead.
“The horses who are dragging us. Have they stopped to take breath,
and get a drink of water?”
Mona just roared with laughter. “Excuse me, Black-Face,” she
gasped, after a time, “but I cannot help it. You are so innocent. Our
motive power does not consist of horses, but steam.”
“Steam,” I said in astonishment—“like the tea-kettle steam?”
“Yes, my kitten, yes.”
“And how many kettles does it take?”
Mona at this laughed so uproariously that I paid no further attention
to her, but looked at the man whom Anthony called the baggage-
master. Had he gone crazy? The train had stopped, and he had
pushed back further the big door in the side of the car, and was
throwing all the boxes and trunks outside. Oh! how angry he was!
I was perfectly terrified. Soon he would get to our corner. Then
would he throw us out? No, for there sat Anthony quite calm and
collected, and reading a newspaper.
“Mona,” I said timidly, for by this time she had calmed herself, and
was only snickering occasionally. “You wouldn't let that man hurt me,
would you?”
“That man—the baggage-master?”
“Yes, Mona.”
“Don't be afraid. When your turn comes to be handled, he will be
quite gentle. I saw Anthony giving him a good big tip.”
“A tip?”
“Yes—money—to be good to us.”
“Meow!” I screamed suddenly, for as the baggage-master stood
panting and glaring after his fit of fury, some other crazy men
outside began to fling back all that he had just put out. However, I
did not need to be afraid, for now his rage was quite over, and he
seized the things rapidly, and put them all neatly into the corner of
the car furthest away from us.
“Mona,” I said indignantly, “it was hardly safe to put us in with that
violent creature. If Anthony should leave us, I am sure we would go
out.”
“Hush! Pussy,” said the good dog authoritatively. “He is only doing
what he is paid to do. At every station he must throw out
passengers' luggage and take on more.”
A sudden light broke over me. Was that what he was doing?
“See, there are the Denvilles' trunks behind us,” continued Mona
—“those big ones with M. D. and H. D. on them.”
“Oh! thank you, thank you, Mona,” I replied. “I am a very foolish cat.
Let me know when we get to Maine. I am so confused with this
racket that I am going to lie down and close my eyes,” and I pressed
close up to Slyboots' box.
Serena was gazing at everything with wide-open eyes. I don't think
she understood things any better than I did, but she was too proud
to ask questions. Before we went to sleep that night I would
probably have to explain everything to her.
I lay down and got up again, and closed my eyes for hours, and
then opened them. It seemed to me that our journey would never
end.
“Are we going round the great, big world, Mona?” I asked wearily.
“No, no, Pussy,” she replied gently, “only over a little bit of it.”
I gazed out the large door in the side of the car, for it was a lovely
day, and the baggage-master left it open a little bit. If he had closed
it I should not have seen a thing, for the windows were high up in
the sides of the car.
We were passing through another big city. Then came fewer houses,
then green grass and trees like the Common.
“Is this the country?” I asked Mona.
“Yes, we are in the real country now.”
“But not in Maine?”
“No, not yet. I will let you know when we reach Maine.”
It was beautiful if it was not Maine, and the scenery kept changing.
Not steady rows of trees like the Common, nor one little pond, but
many trees set different ways and large ponds—“lakes,” Mona called
them, and rivers.
Just when we were getting weariest, we had a very pleasant
diversion. Anthony picked up a basket from the floor, and gave us all
something to eat. How good those sandwiches tasted! Then he gave
us some milk which he poured from bottles into a pan. I considered
it was very thoughtful in him to have provided this lunch and said so.
“It was Mrs. Denville,” said Mona. “It would not have occurred to
Anthony to do it.”
In the bottom of the basket were some nicer sandwiches for
Anthony. He gave some to the baggage-master, and they seemed to
calm him still more.
I went to sleep after our lunch. I actually had a real nap, till I was
awakened by some one saying in my ear, “This is Maine, your lovely
Maine.”
My eyes just flew open—lovely Maine; why it was the dirty part of a
city that we were passing through.
“But this is not the country,” I said.
“No,” replied Mona, “but we shall soon come to the country parts.
Maine has some towns and villages, you know. It is not all fields and
woods.”
“I did not know,” I said confusedly, then I began to watch—to watch
just as an ordinary cat looks after a mouse. Our family was not
much good at catching mice. My father is a little bit disinclined to
exert himself, and Serena thinks mouse-catching vulgar.
“We must make some difference between ourselves and common
cats,” she often says, “so let it be as regards our table.”
Well, I did not at first find Maine very different from Massachusetts.
However, after a while there was more forest—wild-looking forest,
and Mona told me that in those woods the gentlemen from Boston
came to shoot deer.
“Now, Black-Face,” she said at last, “be all alive. Anthony and the
baggage-master have just been saying that we are near our
destination.”
I told Serena and Slyboots. Serena's eyes sparkled, but Slyboots
never uncurled herself. Poor Dolly pricked up her ears just a little bit,
and I stretched my neck to see all I could from the car door.
“This is the opening of the valley,” said the baggage-master, “the
Black River Valley. Those are the Purple Hills on the north, and the
Green Hills on the south.”
“Have you ever been here before?” I asked Mona.
“No, never, but I have been in other country places. This is very
charming though!”
Charming!—it was exquisite, and quite took my breath away.
“Serena,” I said, “can you see?”
“Not a bit,” she replied bitterly; “describe it to me. Is it like the
Common?”
“Yes and no. There are huge green trees, and grass, and water, but
the Common has no big things against the sky like great rows of
houses with trees standing on the top of them.”
“Be more explicit, I beg of you,” she exclaimed irritably. “You are
exceedingly confused in your statements.”
“I will tell her, kitten,” interposed Mona in her calm voice. “Serena,
we are just entering a long, flat valley with low ranges of hills on
each side. The train is gliding among beautiful fields and orchards.
Farm-houses are scattered here and there. There are strips of forest
land, and many little streams. We have not yet come to the Black
River.”
“Thank you,” said Serena prettily. “Your description heightens my
desire to escape from the protecting confines of this travelling cage.”
Mona glanced at the grocer's soap box she was in, and grinned.
Then her heavy nostrils moved delightedly, and she said, “Smell,
kitten!”
My own little nose went like a rabbit's. “Oh! Mona,” I said, “how
perfectly delicious. What is it?”
“Apple orchards in bloom. The valley is sheltered, and the trees
blossom earlier here than elsewhere.”
Just then, we swept right by the front door of a large, old-fashioned
house.
“Put here, of course, before the railway was built,” said Mona. “Now
look, kitten, we are entering the largest orchard yet.”
I did look. I had never seen anything like this on the Common. I
must say the shape of the apple trees seemed rather low and
squatty; but the look of them!
“Oh! Serena,” I screamed, “they are all dressed for a party—in pink
and white. Oh! what beauty. They are not common trees. They must
be Angora trees.”
“I cannot see,” mewed Serena excitedly, “but I can smell. What
delectable odors! How I wish I were out of this box. That perfume
exceeds and goes beyond the catnip.”
“I don't know about that,” I said doubtfully, “but it is very delicious.
The water is running from my mouth.”
“You vulgar thing,” said Serena disdainfully, and she would not speak
to me for a long time.
There were more farms and farm-houses, more meadows and
patches of tall dark pine-woods.
“They seem to have every sort of scenery in this valley,” said
Anthony good-humoredly. Then he began looking round to see if we
were all right. “How many minutes to Black River station, baggage-
master?”
The man looked at his watch. “Five,” he said.
I was greatly excited, and the five minutes seemed as long as an
hour.
However, they passed, and at last the train stopped slowly, and
Anthony got up, and leading Mona, hurried out the door at the end
of the car.
The baggage-master handed the rest of us down very carefully to
him through the big door at the side of the car. All the fierceness
had gone out of him.
 CHAPTER X
WE REACH THE COUNTRY

I found myself in the arms of a slight young man, who had blue eyes
and yellow hair. He had slipped forward when the train stopped, and
had taken me as I was handed out.
Cuddling me up to him quite nicely, he said slyly—“A kitty that looks
as if she had been struck by lightning.”
I suppose I was dreadfully rumpled, still I didn't like to hear it, so I
said “Meow!” in a loud voice, hoping that some of our own party
would hear me. They did not, though I saw them in a great
confusion of heads, and arms, and hurrying feet.
The train did make the people jump at this little station. For two or
three minutes it was dreadful to see the crowding and pushing, and
to hear the thumping of boxes. I thought that the Denvilles' trunks
would be knocked all to pieces.
Finally, when the trouble seemed at the very worst, the train gave a
dreadful yelling and breathing and slowly dragged away.
“Where is my pussy?” I heard in Mary's dear voice. “Where is my
Black-Face? Here are the others, but where is she?”
My captor slipped up to her and held me out.
“Oh! thank you,” said Mary, and she took me in her arms.
This was the first really happy moment that I had known since
leaving Boston. I snuggled down to her. I even began to purr.
Mr. and Mrs. Denville were standing talking to a tall, burly man in big
top boots, homespun clothes, and a soft felt hat.
Mr. Denville called him Mr. Gleason, and I found that he was the
farmer who had bought the old Denville homestead. I liked his face
—it was so humorous. Sometimes his mouth stopped smiling, but his
eyes never stopped. They were twinkling all the time, whether he
was talking or keeping still.
He was a very big man, and he stood looking about at us all without
a word, but with his eyes just dancing.
“Now,” said Mr. Denville at last, in his business-like way, “we are
ready to start, Mr. Gleason.”
The farmer pulled himself together, laughed “Ho! ho!” in a jolly
voice, just as if Mr. Denville had made some good joke, then led the
way to the back of the station house. There was a good-sized,
double-seated carriage there, with a canopy top, and near it stood a
large express wagon.
“Ho! ho! ho!” laughed the farmer again, as he gazed round on us all
—Mr. and Mrs. Denville, Mary as she held me in her arms, Anthony,
Mona, Slyboots and Serena in their boxes, nurse Hannah, and the
big cage of canaries, and the heap of trunks—“Ho! ho! I guess I'll
have to lay in some more cornmeal, and put another house on the
top of the one I've got.”
While the farmer stood laughing to himself, Mr. Denville calmly put
his wife, Mary and me in the back seat of the carriage, and got in
the front seat himself.
Seeing this, the farmer stopped chuckling, and going up to the
horses' heads, unfastened the rope that tied them.
“Denno,” he said to the slight young man who had taken me from
the train, “pack all you can in the express wagon, and make after
me. Come back for what you have to leave.”
Mary held me tightly in her lap, and I gazed curiously about me as
the farmer got into the carriage, picked up the reins, and started
away from the station. A number of little boys were on the ground
staring up at me, but I did not pay much attention to them. I had
seen boys before, and at present I was more interested in lovely
Maine.
The canopy over our heads made a grateful shade, and I looked all
about me. Back of the station on the railway track, were some big
buildings that I heard the farmer tell Mr. Denville were a creamery, a
canning factory, and a warehouse for apple barrels. As we turned up
from the station to drive along a wide road, we passed a number of
stores and houses. They made the station village of Black River. It
was not very pretty just there. We had not yet come to the pretty
part.
Mrs. Denville was looking about her very quietly, but very attentively
as we passed beyond the stores and the houses, then entered on a
long, country road.
“See there,” she said to Mary, “look at those birds building nests in
that bank of earth!”
As she spoke, Mr. Denville leaned over the back of the front seat. “I
am very glad to have you here, Maud,” he said in a deeply gratified
voice. “I have often longed to revisit the haunts of my childhood
with you.”
“Why did you not tell me?” she said in a low voice. “I would have
come long before!”
“Over there,” he said with a sweep of his hand toward a grove of
pines that we were passing, “rye grew when I was a boy. Just think
of that.”
Mrs. Denville looked at the sturdy trees, then at her husband. “And
you are not so very old,” she said.
“And yonder,” he said with another gesture toward the fields and
woods on the other side of the road, “I have hunted foxes and
wildcats many a day.”
“Oh, papa, are there any foxes here now?” asked Mary.
“Not about here,” replied her father. “The land has been cleared so
rapidly that they have retreated to other fastnesses.”
I had noticed that the farmer had been occasionally throwing curious
and sympathetic glances over his shoulder at little Mary, ever since
we left the station. I knew by his eyes that he was a man that liked
children, and soon he said kindly, “Would you like to see a fox, little
sissy?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied joyfully, “very much.”
“Then you and I will take a gun some day and go up on the hills.”
Mary shuddered, “Oh, not a gun, Mr. Farmer.”
“Mr. Gleason,” her mother corrected her.
“Mr. Gleason,” the little girl repeated. “Oh, I would not like to shoot a
fox. Little foxes like to live, Mr. Gleason.”
“Ho! ho!” he chuckled, “but foxes eat hens and chickens, little sissy.”
“Then fasten up the hens, and put out some food for the foxes,” said
Mary gently.
The farmer nearly choked himself laughing. The idea of feeding
foxes seemed to deprive him of every remnant of self-control. I
thought myself it would be a nice plan to feed them, if they were
hungry, but then I didn't know anything about the matter.
Mr. and Mrs. Denville were thoughtfully examining the beautiful
country about us, and did not pay much attention to Mary and the
farmer.
“Have you any children, Mr. Gleason?” Mary asked softly.
She did not mind his laughing. My little mistress is very clever, and
knows quite well whether one is laughing with her, or at her.
“Children,” he said, drawing a big blue and white handkerchief from
his pocket, and wiping his eyes with it, “now, little sissy, just guess.
Would you say I had, or I hadn't.”
“I should say you had,” she replied firmly.
“Good again—you pulled up the right turnip that time. I've got three
children, sissy.”
“Oh! I am so glad,” she replied. “I just wanted some little children to
play with, and papa didn't know whether you had any or not.”
“They're not at home now,” he said. “They are up visiting their aunt
on the hills yonder,” and he pointed to the big swelling land against
the sky in front of us.
We were going now directly toward the long range of the Green
Hills, and away from the Purple Hills.
“Look about you, Black-Face,” murmured Mary in my ear. “Stare your
little city eyes out. Isn't this country delicious?”
I was amused at the remark about my eyes. They were delighted,
but it was my nose just then that was giving me most pleasure.
Animals like strong perfumes, but I never had felt anything as strong
and sweet as this air. In the city of Boston of course I am very near
the ground. Human beings can't realize how different is a cat's point
of view, and point of smell, unless they will drop on all fours, and
walk along close to the ground as we do.
I was about to speak of the Boston smells. They are very varied—
some clean, but mostly dirty. You go a little way, and in addition to
all the queer suggestions of the pavement and gutter, you get a puff
of sewer gas. You go a little further, and get another. Here in the
country there is a different class of smells. When Mary spoke to me
it was apple-blossom mixed with wild flower perfume and coming in
great waves of warm air. I was almost intoxicated, so much so that I
closed my eyes, and gave myself up to the pleasure of smell. Oh,
the delicious country! Why do not cats and people forsake the cities?
I had a dream of bringing all the Boston cats to Black River Valley,
then curiosity made me open my eyes.
We were passing by scattering houses with small orchards about
them. Then turning a corner, we found ourselves in a small village.
Nobody spoke. It was lovely to look down that quiet village street in
this June sunlight, to see the pretty white houses half hidden in
shade trees, or in the exquisite pink and white blossoms of apple
trees. There was just one store in the village. A buggy stood in front
of it, and the old horse attached to it was meditatively chewing the
top from his hitching post, and did not even glance at us as we went
by. I saw one or two faces at the windows, but there was no noise.
No one seemed to wish to disturb the beautiful stillness of the
village, and we drove through it without a word being spoken.
After we left it and were going down a hill to an iron bridge over a
small river, Mr. Denville said quietly, “This is old Black River Village—
not a very lively place since the railway came, and persons began to
build about the station.”
“Oh, look at Mona!” said Mary suddenly.
The good old dog who had been following the carriage with Dolly
close beside her, had plunged down the steep bank of the river, and
rustling among the tall grasses and rushes, lapped eagerly at the
water.
“She is almost overcome with the warmth of that thick coat of hers,”
remarked Mrs. Denville. “We must have her hair cut off before the
really warm weather comes.”
“Why, she is going to swim the river!” exclaimed Mary. “Just look at
her!”
The river was not a very wide one, and she went boldly through it,
with little, bedraggled Dolly paddling behind.
“Now she will be cooler,” said Mary delightedly. “I am so glad she
went in.”
After leaving the little river, we went up a hill past more houses, and
then to my surprise came another river, this one also with a pretty
iron bridge over it.
Mona and Dolly went into this river too, and Mary and the farmer
laughed heartily to see their two heads above the running stream.
I am trying to think how many rivers and streams we passed. I like
to be a truthful little cat, even to myself. It was the same lovely
thing, over and over—farm-houses, orchards, strips of woodland,
streams, and beautiful green meadows.
“Do you like those meadows, sissy?” the farmer said to Mary.
“Oh! they are lovely,” she replied in a low voice. “I am thinking of
the Bible. Don't you remember where the Jews sat down by the
rivers of Babylon, and hung their harps on the willow-trees?”
“And wept because they remembered Zion,” said the farmer in his
genial voice. “Yes, sissy, I remember. They wept because they were
in a strange land, but we should weep if the Lord should take us
away from our meadows. That rich low land is a great thing for our
farms. It does not require fertilizing,” and then he went on to explain
how the streams and rivers brought down the fertile soil from the
high Green Hills and deposited it on the valley.
“And the meadow grass makes hay for the horses, does it?” said
Mary with interest. “That is nice to know; and now, Mr. Gleason, will
you please tell me what you call these handsome horses of yours?”
and she pointed to the fine pair of brown animals that were drawing
us so swiftly along.
“I call them Glory and Dungeon,” replied the farmer, and his eyes
twinkled.
“Glory and Dungeon,” she repeated in rather a mystified tone. “What
queer names. What do they mean?”
“They don't mean anything,” said the farmer with a burst of laughter.
“When I get a new animal, a name for him crops right out of my
mind. I don't know any reason for it.”
Mary looked him up and down. Up his broad back, and shoulders,
and his thick neck, and big hat. Then she peeped round, and tried to
obtain a more satisfactory glimpse of his face that had for some time
been half turned toward her.
He was shaking with amusement, but no one knew what it was
about. I don't think he knew himself. I think he just laughs because
he feels happy.
Mary did not speak, and after a few minutes he composed himself
and turned to speak to Mrs. Denville.
“Now, ma'am, just as you're getting played out, I expect, here we
are at the Black River,” and he pulled up his big horses and made
them stop short on the rustic wooden bridge.
 CHAPTER XI
MAINE, LOVELY MAINE

Mona and Dolly came draggling along, paused at the brink of the
river, then, as if to say, “You are too beautiful to be polluted by our
muddy coats,” they came up on the bridge, and lay down by the
carriage.
“This here river,” said Mr. Gleason warmly, “is to my mind, though
one of the smallest, yet the prettiest we've got. Up there,” and he
pointed his whip to the Green Hills, “it rises among the woods, and
comes rushing down the steep slopes. Then it creeps into yonder
belt of trees and finally comes out here, quiet and tired, and kind of
spreads itself about in these pools to think a bit.”
No one spoke, and we all gazed earnestly at the lovely green pools
fringed by the tall water grasses.
“And after its meditating is done,” continued the farmer, “it gathers
itself up, and meanders down through the meadows till it reaches
our farm, which it just about cuts in two, or unites, whichever way
you choose to take it. Our place wouldn't be much without the river
—get up, Glory and Dungeon,” and he urged on the big powerful
horses.
I was very much interested, but how tired I was! My eyes ached
from the bright sunshine and gazing at such far-away things. I
rather longed for the cool, quiet streets, and the opposite houses of
Beacon Hill. However, this was only my first day, and I felt that I
should soon love this beautiful scenery. Cats are sensitive as well as
human beings; they hate dull and sordid surroundings.
Up one more gentle hill, along a level road, and then the farmer
spoke again. “Here is our young orchard, and there are the farm
buildings.”
Mary let me slip to the seat, and slowly but eagerly, raised herself to
her feet. “Papa, papa, was this your very home?”
Mr. Denville nodded his head. “My very home, but I scarcely
recognize it. This orchard land used to be covered with a spruce
grove. The barn is new, and the house has been changed.”
At this moment, Mr. Gleason turned swiftly from the road to a short
avenue of maple-trees, and drew up in front of a good-sized house
with a green lawn before it.
Mrs. Denville put up her eyebrows. “This does not look like an old-
fashioned farm-house, Harold,” she remarked.
“No, it has been altered,” he said, “the old house has been put on
top of the new one.”
“Why, I never heard of such a thing,” said Mrs. Denville, and little
Mary exclaimed, “But, papa, how could they do it?”
“After my father's death the place was sold,” continued Mr. Denville,
“and the new owner lifted the framework of the old house, and built
under it. We will go over the house, and I will show you what is new
and what is old. Let us get out now. There is Mrs. Gleason.”
A white-faced, thin, quiet-looking woman with a blue apron on was
standing on the veranda at the end of the house. She was smiling
kindly, and stepping quietly forward, she shook hands with the
Denvilles. Mrs. Denville and Mary went in the house with her, but I
stayed to greet Serena and Slyboots. The express wagon was just
turning in the avenue.
Serena's box was soon put on the veranda, and I found that she was
in a fine rage because she had not been allowed to come in the
carriage with us. “To think of putting me in with the servants,” she
said angrily, “and why am I not let out? Can't you get a hatchet?”
“I don't know where there is one,” I said, “and if I did, I could not
hold it in my paws.”
“Well, do something,” she said. “Sit down and mew.”
I sat down beside her box, and screamed for help. Mary soon came
running. “Anthony, Anthony,” she called, “Black-Face wants you to let
her sister out of the box.”
The servant man came hurrying from the carriage-house, and soon
Serena had her liberty.
“Now, Slyboots,” said Mary, and the poor street cat was lifted out.
She went right back in the box again, and lay there till some one let
out the farmer's big black and white dog. He had been shut up
before we arrived lest he should molest us. Now he came bustling
up, his tail in the air, his nose excited, as if to say, “Who are all these
strange creatures that I smell?”
“Barlo,” said Mr. Gleason coming out of the kitchen, “if you touch
these cats, I shall whip you.”
He stared up in his master's face, and wagged his tail. Oh! how he
did want to chase us! Serena and I stood with our backs up.
Slyboots slowly rose from the box that I fancy she thought would be
her coffin, and slunk into the house.
At this instant fortunately, Barlo caught sight of Mona and Dolly who
were lying panting under the trees. Here were two lady visitors. He
could not be rude to them. In great delight he ran toward them,
prostrated himself on the ground, begged them to play, but they
would not. Then he ran like a fox to the orchard, and began to dig
up buried bones from the ploughed land. These he brought and laid
before Mona and Dolly.
They were not going to eat dirty bones when they had lately been
having sandwiches, so they scorned them. Barlo was in a dreadful
state of mind. He whimpered, and licked the air, and behaved like a
very silly dog.
“He is young,” remarked Serena disdainfully. “Now, Black-Face, let us
go in the house and investigate.”
By this time it was getting to be late afternoon. The air was very
chilly, and I was glad to go inside.
We entered a large kitchen. It had good-sized windows, and two
tables, and a sink with a funny, big, red thing, that I afterward
learned was a pump to bring in water from the well. There were also
some rocking-chairs, and a big black stove which was throwing out a
great heat.
Mrs. Denville was sitting in a chair with her feet against the oven to
warm them, and Mary was not dancing about her as she would have
done if she had not had a weak back, but she was slowly circling
about on her toes, while she ate a slice of bread and molasses.
“Look under the stove, Black-Face,” said Serena tragically, “and tell
me what you see.”
I stooped down. A big ugly, grizzled, tortoise-shell cat with glassy
yellow eyes was staring in our direction.
“A grandmother cat you may be sure, and as ugly as sin,” whispered
Serena. “Now, come this way. I smell another.”
She led me toward a deep box heaped with sticks of wood which the
farmer's wife kept putting on the stove instead of coal.
“They must be rich to burn wood all the time,” said Serena; “now,
smell round here.”
I did smell, and discovered a large, young cat—a queer-looking
fellow, apparently all white, standing with one side pressed against
the wall.
His eyes were shut, and his expression was most peculiar.
“He has probably never seen an Angora before,” remarked Serena.
“If he is frightened of us, what would he do if he saw a
thoroughbred, with still longer hair?” I replied.
“Hush, Black-Face,” responded Serena, “up here where common
country cats don't know much, I am going to be out and out
thoroughbred.”
“Are you?” I said. “Well, I am not.”
“You shall be,” she responded angrily.
“I shall not,” I said firmly.
“Why not, dear?” she asked, suddenly growing calm.
“Because mother told me never to lie, and because I know if we do
we are sure to be found out.”
“Well, you may be whatever breed you like,” said Serena with a toss
of her head. “I am going to be Angora, pure and simple. I shall say
we are only half-sisters.”
“And I shall contradict you.”
She paused for a few minutes, and surveyed me angrily. “Black-Face,
you are a teasing little wretch. I wish I had left you at home.”
“That cat behind the box is listening to all you say,” I remarked. “You
do not know how clear your voice is. Now, don't try that
thoroughbred trick, or he will expose you, if I don't.”
“I am sure he could not have heard us,” replied Serena in a
confident tone.
“Very well,” I replied. “Suppose we speak kindly to this cat. He looks
much disturbed.”
“I would rather inspire respect than familiarity,” replied Serena
tossing her head. “I am going to cry for milk. Good-bye,” and she
walked away.
“How do you do?” I inquired going up to the box. “What is your
name?”
“Whoop! Bang!” he exclaimed, suddenly opening his eyes and
turning a flying somersault out into the room, “my name's Joker—
what for the land's sake, is yours?”
I opened my eyes in undisguised astonishment. This cat was neither
shy nor frightened. He was a huge, ungainly young fellow, most
peculiarly marked, for one side was white, and the other was
Maltese gray, and his manner was bold and assured.
“My name is Black-Face,” I said quietly.
“What's that other cat's name that was with you,” he went on; “that
stuck-up thing?”
“Was there a stuck-up cat here?” I said innocently looking over my
shoulder. “I was not aware of it.”
“You know what I mean,” he said with a grin, “that white-faced
mule.”
“Is that your grandmother under the stove?” I asked.
“No,” he said, “I ain't got a relative here. Though I call her grandma
and I call her daughter Aunt Tabby. Aunt Tabby's in under the settin'-
room sofy.”
I softly walked into the next room. There was a pleasant-faced, very
respectable pussy under the sofa. “How do you do?” I said politely
to her.
She bowed her head gravely, and threw me a kind glance.
“I hope you won't mind having so many strange cats come here,” I
continued.
“Everybody keeps a number of cats around here,” she said simply.
“There are so many mice.”
“They steal the food, I suppose.”
“They eat the grain,” she said in mild surprise. “You know the
farmers have corn, buckwheat, oats, wheat and other things in the
bins in their grain-rooms. The mice make sad havoc in the bins,
unless there are cats about. Up in the barn, there is a cat.”
“Called Thummie,” interposed the foolish, grinning Joker. “He's got
double side claws on his paws. He's a sight.”
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