I was polishing the glazed earthenware with the family skill, when I became conscious that the house was resounding to the cry of “Toots!”

“Toots, Toots!” squeaked the housemaid, in the servants’ hall.

“Toots, Toots!” growled the elderly butler, in the pantry.

“Toots, Toots, cock-a-Toots!” yelled that intolerable creature, the Macaw.

“Toots, Toots!” snapped the cook.

“Miow,” said I; for I had finished the cream, and could speak now, though I confess I did not feel equal to any great exertion.

The cook opened the door.  She found me—­she did not find the cream, which she had left in the dish ready for whipping.

Perhaps it was because she had no cream to whip, that she tried to whip me.  Certainly, during the next half-hour, I had reason to be much confused as to the meaning of the word “Toots.”  In the soft voice of my mistress it had always seemed to me to mean cream; now it seemed to mean kicks, blows, flapping dish-cloths, wash-leathers and dusters, pokers, carpet brooms, and every instrument of torture with which a poor cat could be chased from garret to cellar.  I am pretty nimble, and though I never felt less disposed for violent exercise, I flatter myself I led them a good dance before, by a sudden impulse of affectionate trustfulness, I sprang straight into my mistress’s arms for shelter.

“You must beat him, miss,” gasped the cook, “or there’ll never be no bearing him in the house.  Every drop of that lovely cream gone, and half the sweets for the ball supper throwed completely out of calculation!”

“Naughty Toots, naughty Toots, naughty Toots!” cried the young lady, and with every “Toots” she gave me a slap; but as her paws had no claws in them, I was more offended than hurt.

This was my first lesson in honesty, and it was also the beginning of that train of reasoning in my own mind, by which I came to understand that when people called “Toots” they meant me.  And as—­to do them justice—­they generally called me with some kind intention, I made a point of responding to my name.

Indeed, they were so kind to me, and my position was such a very comfortable one, that when a lean tabby called one day for a charitable subscription, and begged me to contribute a few spare partridge bones to a fund for the support of starving cats in the neighbourhood, who had been deserted by families leaving town, I said that really such cases were not much in my line.  There is a great deal of imposition about—­perhaps the cats had stolen the cream, and hadn’t left off stealing it when they were chased by the family.  I doubted if families where the cats deserved respect and consideration ever did leave town.  One has so many calls, if one once begins to subscribe to things; and I am particularly fond of partridge.

But when, a few months later, the very words which the lean tabby had spoken passed between the butler and the cook in reference to our own household, and I learnt that “the family” were going “to leave town,” I felt a pang of conscience, and wished I had subscribed the merry thought, or even the breast-bone—­there was very little on it—­to the Deserted Cats’ Fund.