At one time, when Friskie was the proud mother of four pretty kittens, she was greatly troubled with the liberties that young Herbert, aged three, took with her family.  The little boy didn’t want to hurt the tiny creatures, but he would hold them and play with them.

Mother cat bore this for a time, and then carried the kittens away to the barn, and hid them where no one but herself could find them.

While these babies were yet young Herbert was taken away for a visit.  Strange to say, that upon the morning of the child’s departure Friskie came leading the little ones down to the house.  They could walk now, and at first she came part of the distance with three of them, stopped, surveyed her group and went back for the remaining kitten.  All we have told is strictly true; it was evident that the cat knew when the disturber of her peace was gone, and also evident that she knew how many were her children.

Friskie died at the age of twelve, the most lovable and intelligent cat we have ever known.

Of late we have had two maltese cats in our kitchen, one old, the other young.  The old cat has been jealous and cross with the young one, while the young cat has been kind and pleasant with her companion.  One day the young cat, Friskie’s namesake, sat and meowed piteously.  We were present, and for a time did not notice her, for she is very demonstrative.  What was our surprise to see her go to a low closet in the room and lie down, stretch her paws over her head, and by an effort pull open the door to release the old cat, who had accidentally been shut up in this closet.

The old cat is always very reticent, and would not ask to be let out.  Her usual way of asking to have a door open is to tap upon it with her paw.  She scarcely ever meows.

We might have enlarged upon these incidents, but have simply told facts.

    Outovplace.

    There’s a very strange country called Outovplace,
      (I’ve been there quite often, have you?)
    Where the people can’t find the things they want,
      And hardly know what to do.

    If a boy’s in a hurry, and wants his cap,
      Or a basin to wash his face,
    He never can find that on its nail,
      Or this in its proper place.

    His shoe hides far away under the lounge;
      His handkerchief’s gone astray;
    Oh! how can a boy get off to school,
      If he’s always bothered this way?

    Oh! a very queer country is Outovplace—­
      (Did you say you had been there?)
    Then you’ve seen, like me, a slate on the floor
      And a book upon the stair.

    You think they are easy to find, at least! 
      O, yes! if they would but stay
    Just there till they’re wanted; but then they don’t;
      Alas! that isn’t the way.

    When a boy wants his hat, he sees his ball,
      As plain as ever can be;
    But when he has time for a game, not a sign
      Of bat or a ball finds he.