One cat we named Snowball, just because he was so black.  This cat was an unprincipled thief, and all unknown to us a person who disliked cats in general, and thieving cats in particular, killed Snowball.

We once owned an old cat and her daughter, and when the mother had several kittens and the daughter had but one, the grandmother stole the daughter’s kitten, and though the young mother cried piteously she never regained possession of her child.  Again, once when our brother was ploughing he overturned a rabbit’s nest, and taking the young rabbits therefrom he gave them to the cat, who had just been robbed of her kittens.  Pussy was at once devoted to these babies, and cared for them tenderly, never for a moment neglecting them.  Nevertheless, they died, one by one; their foster mother’s care was not the kind they needed.

Of all our cats we speak most tenderly of Friskie.  She was brought when a kitten to our farm home, and if ever cat deserved eulogy it was she.  A small cat with black coat and white breast and legs, not particularly handsome, but thoroughly good and very intelligent.  The children played with her as they would; she was never known to scratch them, but would show her disapproval of any rough handling by a tap with her tiny velvet paw.  She was too kind to scratch them.

Friskie grew up with Trip, our little black and tan dog, and though Trip was selfish with her, Friskie loved him and showed her affection in various ways.  If the dog came into the house wet with dew or rain the dear little cat would carefully dry him all off with her tongue, and though he growled at her for her officiousness she would persevere till the task was accomplished, and then the two would curl up behind the stove and together take a nap.

When we became the owner of a canary, Friskie at once showed feline propensities; she wanted that bird, and saw no reason why she should be denied it.  But when, from various tokens, Friskie learned that we valued it, she never again evinced any desire for the canary.  And when, afterward, we raised a nest of birdlings, the little cat never attempted to touch them; no, not even when one flew out of doors and alighted almost at her feet.  Instead of seizing it, Friskie watched us as we captured and returned it to the cage.

The writer of this story became ill with extreme prostration, and now Friskie showed her affection in a surprising manner.  Each morning she came into our room with a tidbit, such as she was sure was toothsome:  Mice, rats, at one time a half-grown rabbit, and, at length, a bird.

It was warm weather, the room windows were open, and being upon the first floor, when Friskie brought in her offerings they were seized and thrown from the window to the ground.  At this she would spring after the delicacy and bring it back in a hurry, determined that it should be eaten, mewing and coaxing just as she might with her kittens.  That the food was not accepted evidently distressed her.  When she came with the little bird, she uttered her usual coaxing sound, and then, when it was unheeded, she sprung upon the bed and was about to give it to the invalid, who uttered a scream of fright.  At this dear Friskie fled from the room and, we think, she never brought another treat.  It was useless to try to treat a person so unappreciative.