SYMPATHY IN DISTRESS.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XI, Issue 46, 18 November 1893, Page 431

SYMPATHY IN DISTRESS.

It was only a homeless, lost cat, thin, gaunt, and miserable. Its draggled fur was thickly coated with the mud of the streets, while blood flowed freely from a deep cut in one of its ears. It looked the picture of wretchedness as it slowly crept along the street under the friendly shade of the houses. It shivered in the cold wind which swept along in fierce, cutting blasts. It was late. But few passengers were abroad, and of these few or none took notice of the cat. A lost cat is such a common sight, alas ! in all great towns. It arouses no surprise, no concern, little pity. And the poor thing was glad to be thus unnoticed, for lately it had learned that its safety alone lay in keeping out of sight. A quick step or the whoop of a belated newsboy made it dart away or shrink into the darkness of some doorway. It had become half wild with fright. It had found that the mercy of the streets is cruel. Only a few weeks ago it had been a happy favourite in a comfortable home —petted, spoilt, caressed. There it had known no fear. Everyone was a friend, to be purred upon, to be welcomed. Now all that was changed. Since the morning it had probably wandered away from the house after the tempting clank, clank, of the milkman’s cans, it had never known a happy moment, never heard a friendly word, never tasted a good meal. A poor outcast. It had lived on any odd scraps lying in the streets. It had been the butt of cruel thoughtless children, one of the most wretched things alive. And now it had come to the end of it all, it appeared. It hardly possessed strength now to evade its foes, though it had been able to run and leap in the old, happy times. The stone from the hand of a cruel errand boy that had so hurt its ear and head would never have reached it. It mewed feebly at each closed door, it looked longingly at each warm, welllighted house but none heeded it, and, full of despair, it dragged its frozen limbs into the shelter of a dark archway, and lay down exhausted. But it was not the only lost one that had obtained this shelter. A young girl lay at the far end of the archway, gazing into the darkness with despair in her eyes. She, too, was homeless, hopeless, and hungry. She had come up from her village home to the great town, full of brightest hopes, tempted by the stories she had heard of the money that might be obtained there. She had always been poor. Her father's scanty wage had never been sufficient for the wants of his large family. She, the oldest, would go to the big city to search for the fortune—a situation would be easy to find. She had heard that gold might be picked up in many easy ways there. And so, came. And now, a month after, she lay on the cold, bare ground, starving, all her bright visions gone—all her glad hope crushed for ever. No one wanted her here. She could never walk back to her village home—she was too weak, too ill. She heard the roar of the river running near, and dreadful thoughts crept into her mind, and took possession there. And just then, in the flicker of a gas lamp, she saw the cat creep slowly

towards her—lost, hopeless, hungry like herself. She stretched out her hand gently, and murmured : • Pussy, pussy—poor pussy.’ The cat started up, ready to Hee, but the girl's voice was kind. Surely she would do it no barm. It hesitated, and then at length crept towards her, and under the fondling hand a faint purr was presently heard. Sympathy is a wondrous thing, and needs no single word to work its marvels. In a few minutes the girl fell asleep with the cat in her arms, and dreamt of the old home and of her own favourite cat she had left behind her there; and the poor lost animal dreamt too of other days, and both were happy again. But these visions did not last long. A heavy tread, the gleam of a lantern cast upon them, and they awoke to their misery again. ‘ Come, come, what are you doing here T said the policeman. * This isn’t the place to sleep in ; you should go home.’ ‘ Home,’ said the girl, in a low voice, * home —I wish I could ; I wish I had never left it. Ob, dear ! oh, dear !’ There was so much misery in her cry that the man stood perplexed. His duty was clear—he must make her ‘ move on.’ These were his orders ; but where was she to move to? He glanced out into the dark street, and then at the rain drops that were running off his cape, making a small pool on the'ground. She had no shawl, no hat, and what w r as that she held clasped in her arms ? ‘ A cat; well, I never ! You look as if you had enough trouble to feed yourself let alone a cat,’he said. •Is it yours ?’ * No, but it’s friendless, homeless, lost like me,’ she said, with a sob. • But I’m going, I really am ; only I’m so tired, and I know no one here. I can walk about till morning—then—then ’ ‘ Nay, nay, you’re not fit for that, lassie," he said, as she half staggered against the wall. ‘ I don’t know you ; but you look honest. Come with me. I’ll find you a shelter for to-night at least; ay, and for the cat, too.’ She followed him to a house near, his own home, where he lived with his mother. At first the old lady looked doubtfully upon her two unexpected visitors, but, after a whispered conversation with her son, she let him have his way, and both the outcasts slept a dreamless sleep of happiness that night under her roof. It was the beginning of better times for both of them, too. The girl, with the aid of her protectors, soon found a situation, where she stayed, happy and contented, until again the policeman took ber home to his mother, not now as a friendless wanderer, but as his loved wife. And the first night as they sat round the fire hand in hand, he said, stroking the cat purring loudly on the rug at tbeir feet, ‘ I’ve to thank you, pussy, for all this. It was my wife’s kindness to you that made me first loth to move you both on, as my duty was. A lot often turns on as little a thing as a poor lost cat, you see, pussy.’