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Dick Baker's Cat
The Afflictions Of An English Cat
The Blue Dryad
The Black Cat
A Psychical Invasion
Madame Jolicoeur's Cat
Least ViewedMonty's Friend
The Queen's Cat
Madame Jolicoeur's Cat
A Psychical Invasion
The Black Cat
The Blue Dryad
The Blue Dryad
"According to that theory"--said a critical friend, a propos of the
last story but one--"susceptibility of 'discipline' would be the chief
test of animal character, which means that the best dogs get their
character from men. If so--"
"You pity the poor brutes?"
"Oh no. I was going to say that on that principle cats should have next
to no character at all."
"They have plenty," I said, "but it's usually bad--at least hopelessly
unromantic. Who ever heard of a heroic or self-denying cat? Cats do what
they like, not what you want them to do."
He laughed. "Sometimes they do what you like very much. You haven't
heard Mrs. Warburton-Kinneir's cat-story?"
"The Warburton-Kinneirs! I didn't know they were back in England."
"Oh yes. They've been six months in Hampshire, and now they are in town.
She has Thursday afternoons."
"Good," I said, "I'll go the very next Friday, and take my chance...."
Fortunately only one visitor appeared to tea. And as soon as I had
explained my curiosity, he joined me in petitioning for the story which
* * * * *
Stoffles was her name, a familiar abbreviation, and Mephistophelian was
her nature. She had all the usual vices of the feline tribe, including
a double portion of those which men are so fond of describing as
feminine. Vain, indolent, selfish, with a highly cultivated taste for
luxury and neatness in her personal appearance, she was distinguished by
all those little irritating habits and traits for which nothing but an
affectionate heart (a thing in her case conspicuous by its absence) can
It would be incorrect, perhaps, to say that Stoffles did not care for
the society of my husband and myself. She liked the best of everything,
and these our circumstances allowed us to give her. For the rest, though
in kitten days suspected of having caught a mouse, she had never been
known in after life to do anything which the most lax of economists
could describe as useful. She would lie all day in the best arm-chair
enjoying real or pretended slumbers, which never affected her appetite
at supper-time; although in that eventide which is the feline morn she
would, if certain of a sufficient number of admiring spectators,
condescend to amuse their dull human intelligence by exhibitions of her
dexterity. But she was soon bored, and had no conception of altruistic
effort. Abundantly cautious and prudent in all matters concerning her
own safety and comfort, she had that feline celerity of vanishing like
air or water before the foot, hand, or missile of irritated man; while
on the other hand, when a sensitive specimen of the gentler sex (my
grandmother, for example) was attentively holding the door open for her,
she would stiffen and elongate her whole body, and, regardless of all
exhibitions of kindly impatience, proceed out of the drawing-room as
slowly as a funeral cortege of crocodiles.
A good-looking Persian cat is an ornamental piece of furniture in a
house; but though fond of animals, I never succeeded in getting up an
affection for Stoffles until the occurrence of the incident here to be
related. Even in this, however, I cannot conceal from myself that the
share which she took was taken, as usual, solely for her own
We lived, you know, in a comfortable old-fashioned house facing the
highroad, on the slope of a green hill from which one looked across the
gleaming estuary (or the broad mud-flats) of Southampton Water on to the
rich, rolling woodland of the New Forest. I say we, but in fact for some
months I had been alone, and my husband had just returned from one of
his sporting and scientific expeditions in South America. He had already
won fame as a naturalist, and had succeeded in bringing home alive quite
a variety of beasts, usually of the reptile order, whose extreme rarity
seemed to me a merciful provision of Nature.
But all his previous triumphs were completely eclipsed, I soon learned,
by the capture, alive, on this last expedition, of an abominably
poisonous snake, known to those who knew it as the Blue Dryad, or more
familiarly in backwoods slang, as the Half-hour Striker, in vague
reference to its malignant and fatal qualities. The time in which a
snake-bite takes effect is, by the way, no very exact test of its
virulence, the health and condition not only of the victim, but of the
snake, having of course to be taken into account.
But the Blue Dryad, sometimes erroneously described as a variety of
rattlesnake, is, I understand, supposed to kill the average man, under
favourable circumstances, in less time even than the deadly
Copperhead--which it somewhat resembles, except that it is larger in
size, and bears a peculiar streak of faint peacock-blue down the back,
only perceptible in a strong light. This precious reptile was destined
for the Zoological Gardens.
Being in extremely delicate health at the time, I need hardly say that I
knew nothing of these gruesome details until afterwards. Henry (that is
my husband), after entering my room with a robust and sunburned
appearance that did my heart good, merely observed--as soon as we had
exchanged greetings--that he had brought home a pretty snake which
"wouldn't (just as long, that is to say, as it couldn't) do the
slightest harm,"--an evasive assurance which I accepted as became the
nervous wife of an enthusiastic naturalist. I believe I insisted on its
not coming into the house.
The cook, indeed, on my husband expressing a wish to put it in the
kitchen, had taken up a firmer position: she had threatened to "scream"
if "the vermin" were introduced into her premises; which ultimatum,
coming from a stalwart young woman with unimpaired lungs, was
Fortunately the weather was very hot (being in July of the
ever-memorable summer of 1893), so it was decided that the Blue Dryad,
wrapped in flannel and securely confined in a basket, should be left in
the sun, on the farthest corner of the verandah, during the hour or so
in the afternoon when my husband had to visit the town on business.
He had gone off with a cousin of mine, an officer of Engineers in
India, stationed, I think, at Lahore, and home on leave. I remember that
they were a long time, or what seemed to me a long time, over their
luncheon; and the last remark of our guest as he came out of the
dining-room remained in my head as even meaningless words will run in
the head of any idle invalid shut up for most of the day in a silent
room. What he said was, in the positive tone of one emphasizing a
curious and surprising statement, "D'you know, by the way, it's the
one animal that doesn't care a rap for the cobra." And, my husband
seeming to express disbelief and a desire to change the subject as they
entered my boudoir, "It's a holy fact! Goes for it, so smart! Has the
beggar on toast before you can say 'Jack Robinson!'"
The observation did not interest me, but simply ran in my head. Then
they came into my room, only for a few moments, as I was not to be
tired. The Engineer tried to amuse Stoffles, who was seized with such a
fit of mortal boredom that he transferred his attentions to Ruby, the
Gordon setter, a devoted and inseparable friend of mine, under whose
charge I was shortly left as they passed out of the house. The
Lieutenant, it appears, went last, and inadvertently closed without
fastening the verandah door. Thereby hangs a tale of the most trying
quarter of an hour it has been my lot to experience.
I suppose I may have been asleep for ten minutes or so when I was
awakened by the noise of Ruby's heavy body jumping out through the open
window. Feeling restless and seeing me asleep, he had imagined himself
entitled to a short spell off guard. Had the door not been ostensibly
latched he would have made his way out by it, being thoroughly used to
opening doors and such tricks--a capacity which in fact proved fatal to
him. That it was unlatched I saw in a few moments, for the dog on his
return forced it open with a push and trotted up in a disturbed manner
to my bedside. I noticed a tiny spot of blood on the black side of his
nose, and naturally supposed he had scratched himself against a bush or
a piece of wire. "Ruby," I said, "what have you been doing?" Then he
whined as if in pain, crouching close to my side and shaking in every
limb. I should say that I was myself lying with a shawl over my feet on
a deep sofa with a high back. I turned to look at Stoffles, who was
slowly perambulating the room, looking for flies and other insects (her
favourite amusement) on the wainscot. When I glanced again at the dog
his appearance filled me with horror; he was standing, obviously from
pain, swaying from side to side and breathing hard. As I watched, his
body grew more and more rigid. With his eyes fixed on the half-open
door, he drew back as if from the approach of some dreaded object,
raised his head with a pitiful attempt at a bark, which broke off into a
stifled howl, rolled over sideways suddenly, and lay dead. The horrid
stiffness of the body, almost resembling a stuffed creature overset,
made me believe that he had died as he stood, close to my side, perhaps
meaning to defend me--more probably, since few dogs would be proof
against such a terror, trusting that I should protect him against the
thing coming in at the door. Unable to resist the unintelligible idea
that the dog had been frightened to death, I followed the direction of
his last gaze, and at first saw nothing. The next moment I observed
round the corner of the verandah door a small, dark, and slender object,
swaying gently up and down like a dry bough in the wind. It had passed
right into the room with the same slow, regular motion before I realized
what it was and what had happened.
My poor, stupid Ruby must have nosed at the basket on the verandah till
he succeeded somehow in opening it, and have been bitten in return for
his pains by the abominable beast which had been warranted in this
insufficient manner to do no harm, and which I now saw angrily rearing
its head and hissing fiercely at the dead dog within three yards of my
I am not one of those women who jump on chairs or tables when they see a
mouse, but I have a constitutional horror of the most harmless reptiles.
Watching the Blue Dryad as it glided across the patch of sunlight
streaming in from the open window, and knowing what it was, I confess to
being as nearly frightened out of my wits as I ever hope to be. If I had
been well, perhaps I might have managed to scream and run away. As it
was, I simply dared not speak or move a finger for fear of attracting
the beast's attention to myself. Thus I remained a terrified spectator
of the astonishing scene which followed. The whole thing seemed to me
like a dream. As the beast entered the room, I seemed again to hear my
cousin making the remark above mentioned about the cobra. What animal,
I wondered dreamily, could he have meant? Not Ruby! Ruby was dead. I
looked at his stiff body again and shuddered. The whistle of a train
sounded from the valley below, and then an errand-boy passed along the
road at the back of the house (for the second or third time that day)
singing in a cracked voice the fragment of a popular melody, of which I
am sorry to say I know no more--
"I've got a little cat,
And I'm very fond of that;
But daddy wouldn't buy me a bow, wow, wow;"
the wow-wows becoming fainter and further as the youth strode down the
hill. If I had been "myself," as the poor folk say, this coincidence
would have made me laugh, for at that very moment Stoffles, weary of
patting flies and spiders on the back, appeared gently purring on the
crest, so to speak, of the sofa.
It has often occurred to me since that if the scale of things had been
enlarged--if Stoffles, for example, had been a Bengal tiger, and the
Dryad a boa-constrictor or crocodile,--the tragedy which followed would
have been worthy of the pen of any sporting and dramatic historian. I
can only say that, being transacted in such objectionable proximity to
myself, the thing was as impressive as any combat of mastodon and
iguanodon could have been to primitive man.
Stoffles, as I have said, was inordinately vain and self-conscious.
Stalking along the top of the sofa-back and bearing erect the bushy
banner of her magnificent tail, she looked the most ridiculous creature
imaginable. She had proceeded half-way on this pilgrimage towards me
when suddenly, with the rapidity of lightning, as her ear caught the
sound of the hiss and her eyes fell upon the Blue Dryad, her whole
civilized "play-acting" demeanour vanished, and her body stiffened and
contracted to the form of a watchful wild beast with the ferocious and
instinctive antipathy to a natural enemy blazing from its eyes. No
change of a shaken kaleidoscope could have been more complete or more
striking. In one light bound she was on the floor in a compressed,
defensive attitude, with all four feet close together, near, but not too
near, the unknown but clearly hostile intruder; and to my surprise, the
snake turned and made off towards the window. Stoffles trotted lightly
after, obviously interested in its method of locomotion. Then she made a
long arm and playfully dropped a paw upon its tail. The snake wriggled
free in a moment, and coiling its whole length, some three and a half
feet, fronted this new and curious antagonist.
At the very first moment, I need hardly say, I expected that one short
stroke of that little pointed head against the cat's delicate body would
quickly have settled everything. But one is apt to forget that a snake
(I suppose because in romances snakes always "dart") can move but slowly
and awkwardly over a smooth surface, such as a tiled or wooden floor.
The long body, in spite of its wonderful construction, and of the
attitudes in which it is frequently drawn, is no less subject to the
laws of gravitation than that of a hedgehog. A snake that "darts" when
it has nothing secure to hold on by, only overbalances itself. With half
or two-thirds of the body firmly coiled against some rough object or
surface, the head--of a poisonous snake at least--is indeed a deadly
weapon of precision. This particular reptile, perhaps by some instinct,
had now wriggled itself on to a large and thick fur rug about twelve
feet square, upon which arena took place the extraordinary contest that
The audacity of the cat astonished me from the first. I have no reason
to believe she had ever seen a snake before, yet by a sort of instinct
she seemed to know exactly what she was doing. As the Dryad raised its
head, with glittering eyes and forked tongue, Stoffles crouched with
both front paws in the air, sparring as I had seen her do sometimes with
a large moth. The first round passed so swiftly that mortal eye could
hardly see with distinctness what happened. The snake made a dart, and
the cat, all claws, aimed two rapid blows at its advancing head. The
first missed, but the second I could see came home, as the brute,
shaking its neck and head, withdrew further into the jungle--I mean, of
course, the rug. But Stoffles, who had no idea of the match ending in
this manner, crept after it, with an air of attractive carelessness
which was instantly rewarded. A full two feet of the Dryad's body
straightened like a black arrow, and seemed to strike right into the
furry side of its antagonist--seemed, I say, to slow going human eyes;
but the latter shrank, literally fell back, collapsing with such
suddenness that she seemed to have turned herself inside out, and become
the mere skin of a cat. As the serpent recovered itself, she pounced on
it like lightning, driving at least half a dozen claws well home, and
then, apparently realizing that she had not a good enough hold, sprang
lightly into the air from off the body, alighting about a yard off.
There followed a minute of sparring in the air; the snake seemingly
half afraid to strike, the cat waiting on its every movement.
Now, the poisonous snake when provoked is an irritable animal, and the
next attack of the Dryad, maddened by the scratchings of puss and its
own unsuccessful exertions, was so furious, and so close to myself, that
I shuddered for the result. Before this stage, I might perhaps, with a
little effort have escaped, but now panic fear glued me to the spot;
indeed I could not have left my position on the sofa without almost
treading upon Stoffles, whose bristling back was not a yard from my
feet. At last, I thought--as the Blue Dryad, for one second coiled close
as a black silk cable, sprang out the next as straight and sharp as the
piston-rod of an engine,--this lump of feline vanity and conceit is done
for, and--I could not help thinking--it will probably be my turn next!
Little did I appreciate the resources of Stoffles, who without a change
in her vigilant pose, without a wink of her fierce green eyes, sprang
backwards and upwards on to the top of me and there confronted the enemy
as calm as ever, sitting, if you please, upon my feet! I don't know that
any gymnastic performance ever surprised me more than this, though I
have seen this very beast drop twenty feet from a window-sill on to a
stone pavement without appearing to notice any particular change of
level. Cats with so much plumage have probably their own reasons for not
Trembling all over with fright, I could not but observe that she was
trembling too--with rage. Whether instinct inspired her with the
advantages of a situation so extremely unpleasant to me, I cannot say.
The last act of the drama rapidly approached, and no more strategic
catastrophe was ever seen.
For a snake, as everybody knows, naturally rears its head when fighting.
In that position, though one may hit it with a stick, it is extremely
difficult, as this battle had shown, to get hold of. Now, as the Dryad,
curled to a capital S, quivering and hissing advanced for the last time
to the charge, it was bound to strike across the edge of the sofa on
which I lay, at the erect head of Stoffles, which vanished with a
juggling celerity that would have dislocated the collar-bone of any
other animal in creation. From such an exertion the snake recovered
itself with an obvious effort, quick beyond question, but not nearly
quick enough. Before I could well see that it had missed its aim,
Stoffles had launched out like a spring released, and, burying eight or
ten claws in the back of its enemy's head, pinned it down against the
stiff cushion of the sofa. The tail of the agonized reptile flung wildly
in the air and flapped on the arched back of the imperturbable tigress.
The whiskered muzzle of Stoffles dropped quietly, and her teeth met
once, twice, thrice, like the needle and hook of a sewing-machine, in
the neck of the Blue Dryad; and when, after much deliberation, she let
it go, the beast fell into a limp tangle on the floor.
When I saw that the thing was really dead I believe I must have fainted.
Coming to myself, I heard hurried steps and voices. "Great heavens!" my
husband was screaming, "where has the brute got to?" "It's all right,"
said the Engineer; "just you come and look here, old man. Commend me to
the coolness of that cat. After the murder of your priceless specimen,
here's Stoffles cleaning her fur in one of her serenest Anglo-Saxon
So she was. My husband looked grave as I described the scene. "Didn't I
tell you so?" said the Engineer, "and this beast, I take it, is worse
than any cobra."
I can easily believe he was right. From the gland of the said beast, as
I afterwards learned, they extracted enough poison to be the death of
twenty full-grown human beings.
Tightly clasped between its minute teeth was found (what interested me
more) a few long hairs, late the property of Stoffles.
Stoffles, however--she is still with us--has a superfluity of long hair,
and is constantly leaving it about.
G. H. POWELL.
Next: Dick Baker's Cat