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THE CAT AND KITTENS.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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109

Page 109

THE CAT AND KITTENS.

Before Ike dropped the cat, it was a matter of much
annoyance to Mrs. Partington, upon coming down stairs
one morning, to find a litter of kittens in her Indian
work-basket, beside her black Sunday bonnet, and upon
the black gloves and handkerchief, long consecrate to
grief. Ike had left the basket uncovered, during a
search for some thread to make a snare to catch a pigeon
with. Her temper was stirred by the circumstance, as
what good, tidy housekeeper's would not have been by
such an occurrence?

“I 'll drownd 'em,” said she, “every one of 'em! O,
you wicked creatur!” continued she, raising her finger,
and shaking it at the cat; “O, you wicked creatur, to
serve me such a trick!”

But the cat, happy in the joys of maternity, purred
gladly among her offspring, and looked upon the old lady,
through her half-closed eyes, as if she did n't really see
any cause for such a fuss.

“Isaac,” said the dame, “take the big tub, and
drownd them kittens.”

There was determination in her eye, and authority in
her tone, and Ike clapped his hands as he hastened to
obey her.

“Stop, Isaac, a minute,” she cried, “and I 'll take
the chill off the water; it would be cruel to put 'em into
it stone-cold.”


110

Page 110

She took the steaming kettle from the stove, and
emptied it into the tub, and then left the rest to Ike.
But she reproached herself for her inhumanity long
afterwards, and could not bear to look the childless cat
in the face, and many a dainty bit did that injured
animal receive from her mistress. Mrs. Partington
perhaps did wrong, as who has n't at some period of life?
Perfection belongeth not to man or woman, and we would
throw this good pen of ours into the street, and never
take another in our fingers, could we pretend that Mrs.
Partington was an exception to this universal rule.