A BOY'S COMPOSITION ON CATS.

Evening Post, Volume XLI, Issue 138, 13 June 1891, Page 1 (Supplement)

A BOY'S COMPOSITION ON CATS.

The cat lives in the house what time she does not lire in Jones's barn. She is real handy to throw stones at and to pull her tail to make her squawk. I make our cat squawk ten or six times every day, and the backs of my hands is drawed out in lines like a map, where her toe nails has got hitched. If I had invented a cat I should have made her without them nails. Cats is full of music. They have concerts every night in our woodshed, and no ticket to pay for. The rich and the poor alike are welcome to hear 'em. Cats live on mice and what cream and beef-steak they can steal out of the pantry. Sometimes they catch chickens, and that makes the old hen mad, and the old woman that owns the chickens madder. And she goes for the cat with a broom, and the cat climbs a tree and sits there and lafs at her, and goes to sleep and dreams she is in a kitchen again, till it comes night, and then she climbs down back end fust and goes off to a concert to see the other cats. Thomas cats has the best voices, and can Bing bass and tenor both at i once. It is nice to hear 'em, but whoa you sleep alone and wake up suddenly by hearing of 'em. there is something or ruther about it that makes a feller's flesh creep and the cold shivers run down his backbone. Cats can climb telegraph-poles and set on the ridge-poles of four-storey hotiees without being dizzy-headed, and thoy can sleep with one eye open and lay awake with both eyes shut, and they can walk as soft as a feather and they can run like chain lightning. Thoy don't like to swim, and they never do, except it's an old cat that you want to get rid of, and you do her up in a bag, with somo bricks and throw her into the millpond off the bridge, and then she'll burst tho bag and swim ashore and kito for home, so's to be there to welcome you when you git there, so's you won't feel lonesome. Cats like to get on the spare bed, among the shams and things, and paw 'em all down into a nest, and they like to go to sleep in your best coat. I expect they enjoy tho fun of hearing you swear the next day when you brush it. I should if I wore a cat. Kittens is cats when they are first born, and there is an awful sight of 'em. Thoy keep coming right along without regard to wind or weather. They are dreadful cute, and can unwind more thread and tear up more fancy gimcracks that the girls make than any other known animal. It ain't lucky to kill a cat. I don't know why. It is good luck to have one come to you if you keep her. You get rich right away, or poor, I forget which. Every cat has nine lives, and they don't never die if let

alone unless they have fits, which most of 'em has. A cat in a fit will bjat a whole circus all to nothing, and the first thing you know she'll come right out of it and go to eating milk just as if nothing had happened. — New York Weekly.