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Kittyboy's Christmas

<h1 style="margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 3em;">Kittyboy's Christmas</h1> <h2>by Amy Ella Blanchard</h2> <h2 style="margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 2.5em;">CHAPTER I</h2> Kittyboy was lost. It was an evident fact. He stood on the corner of the alley which led into a wide street to which he had been chased by an aggressive dog, and with every hair bristling, looked around for a friendly door, but they were all shut closely; and the snow was beginning to fall, in an uncertain way, just a flake here and there, displaying exquisitely perfect crystals on the stone steps and the brick pavement, then melting away very slowly. Kittyboy tucked his four small paws neatly under him, and crouched in a corner,[8] once in a while giving a plaintive little "meow," which no one noticed, if any one heard. Yet, after all, Kittyboy's losing of himself was not such a dreadful thing, for he was always being kicked aside as a troublesome beast, even before his little mistress, Annie Brady, was sent away to a Home, being considered by her uncle's family in the light of a nuisance, quite as great as Kittyboy himself. Nevertheless, in spite of his rather unpleasant experiences in the world, Kittyboy was full of a happy confidence in humanity scarcely to be expected. So, presently seeing a figure coming up the street, he rose from his compact attitude and ran along by the railing of an area, rubbing his sides against the narrow bars, and finally followed the figure up the broad steps; then, as the latch-key was turned in the door, he saw his opportunity, and slipped in. [9] It was rather late; eleven o'clock or more, and getting colder every minute. The house was very quiet, no one astir anywhere; a light, however, was burning in one room, where a warm fire blazed in the open grate, the sight of which so delighted Kittyboy that he began to purr contentedly. The light, now turned up, showed more distinctly what manner of person it was whom Kittyboy had followed: an elderly man, with keen, sharp eyes; he was somewhat portly, was well dressed, and brisk in his movements. Kittyboy's little black form, snuggled in one corner, where he sat blinking at the fire, was not noticed by this other occupant of the room, who, lighting a cigar, sat down by a table, stretched out his legs comfortably, and unfolded the evening paper. Presently, the sharp sound of a coal[10] dropping on the polished hearth disturbed Kittyboy's nap, and he jumped up, with visions of whips cracking over his head, and gave a leap away from the fire. The sharp noise also attracted the attention of the reader, who looked over the top of his newspaper to see four little furry feet daintily stepping across the rug. "What are you doing here! Get out, cat!" came an exclamation in so much milder language than that to which Kittyboy was accustomed, that he considered it in the light of an overture, and springing up on the arm of the chair, in which this new acquaintance was sitting, he proceeded to play with the newspaper, patting the two sides, with ears very much forward, and an alert look on the wise little face, as if in momentary expectation of seeing a mouse jump out from the folds of the sheet. [11] The very audacity of the performance tickled the man's fancy. "You impudent little beast," he said; "how did you get in here, anyhow? Aha! I know. I believe I saw you as I came up the steps. You must have slipped in behind me. But this will never do; you will have to get out again. No cats allowed in my house." For answer, Kittyboy began to rub his head against the arm nearest him, purring softly. The man regarded him less severely. "If I'm going to turn you out, I may as well give you something to eat. You are none too well fed, I see," he remarked; and, rising, he took his way to another room, where, after hunting around, he found in the larder a pitcher of cream, set away by the housekeeper for her master's morning coffee. All unconscious of bringing dismay to the worthy woman, Dr.[12] Brewster emptied the contents of the pitcher in a saucer and set it down, watching Kittyboy eagerly lap up this unexpected treat. "Now you must go," said the doctor; and Kittyboy followed confidently at his heels. But the draught of icy wind which greeted him as the front door was opened, caused the little fellow to scamper back to the library, where, before the open fire, he again sat down and began complacently to wash his face. Back into the room came Dr. Brewster, laughing in spite of himself. "You are a sly little rascal," he said; "come, come," and he picked up the unresisting little creature, which cuddled down comfortably in his arms, as if it were beyond the bounds of possibility that a second attempt should be made to put him out, and the good doctor actually began to[13] have compunctions. "I always vowed I'd never have a cat in the house," he said, under his breath; "am I to give in at this late day? Well! you audacious little wretch, I'll let you stay till morning. It's too cold a night to turn any creature out of doors," and Kittyboy's triumph was complete when he was put down on the hearth-rug and allowed to continue his ablutions, while the doctor resumed his paper. But it was strange that the presence of a little black cat could turn a sober man's interest from foreign news and the quotations of the stock market, and that he should have found himself dwelling on the memory of two little eager faces which he had seen that day gazing into a window decked out with Christmas toys, and, furthermore, that twice he should have read over an item which went as follows: "Every year, about Christmas time, a[14] number of letters find their way to the Post Office; they are variously addressed to Santa Claus, Kris Kringle, or St. Nicholas, and are the outcome of childish faith. One is forced to wonder how often they must be followed by disappointment, since there can appear no claimant for them." The doctor, we have said, read the paragraph twice over, and then, lowering his paper, sat looking thoughtfully into the fire. After a while a smile broke over his face, and he returned to his sheet. But the smile did not leave his lips till he extinguished the light and went to his room, leaving the sleeping Kittyboy curled up on the hearth-rug in a condition of delicious warmth and comfort. When, the next morning, at the sight of buckets and brooms brought in by the housemaid, Kittyboy scampered out, it was to find refuge in the dining-room, just[15] as the doctor opened the door to go to his breakfast. This time Kittyboy was not driven out, for the cheery waitress said, "It brings good luck, doctor, sorr, to have a cat come to the house, especially a black cat." And by the time the doctor had finished, indulgently feeding Kittyboy with bits from his own plate, and Kittyboy had responded by such antics as kept the doctor laughing, it was an understood thing that the little cat was fairly adopted into the family. The invasion of a common little street cat into the bachelor's household quite scandalized the good housekeeper, who could not get it out of her head that Kittyboy had in some way purloined the cream, but, said the cheerful Maggie, "It's far too quiet here to suit me, and the doctor actually ate his breakfast this morning without the paper at his elbow. I certainly am[16] glad to see some sort of a young creature about the house." The housekeeper gave a sniff, but even she smiled furtively a moment later at sight of Kittyboy wildly chasing his tail. Buttoning himself up well in his overcoat, the doctor, after breakfast, took his way down town, and went straight to the city Post Office. He did not stop as he passed through the long corridor till he reached the private office of the Postmaster himself. "Hello, Brewster, what brings you here so early?" questioned that worthy, looking up from his desk. "Haven't any complaints to make about Uncle Sam's mail, have you? Don't be too hard on us if things aren't just on time. There is a great rush from now till after the holidays, and you old bachelors are so methodical that, if a letter is a minute[17] and a quarter late, you think the entire Post Office system is tottering. Sit down." "No," replied the doctor. "I didn't come to complain, Hardy, I came to see if I could collect the mail for Santa Claus." Mr. Hardy put down his pen, and stared at his visitor. "What are you driving at, anyhow?" he asked. "Oh, I see; some charity Christmas tree, or something. How much will let me off, doc?" The doctor smiled. "I'm not on that errand at all. I simply want to know if it is possible to have any letters, now lying in this office, addressed to Santa Claus, delivered to me?" Mr. Hardy looked thoughtful for a moment. "Are there any such letters?" he then asked. The doctor felt in his pocket for the last evening's paper, which he had taken[18] the precaution to carry with him, and silently pointed out the paragraph he had read the night before. Mr. Hardy nodded understandingly. "I don't see why you shouldn't have them," he replied finally; "I'll get them for you, doc, if it's possible," and, leaving the office, he presently returned with about half a dozen letters, which he handed to his friend. "There you are," he said. "No need to ask what you're going to do with them. It's just like the things you used to do when we were lads. It takes me back to the old days when Christmas comes around. Come up and see us, doc; the latch string is always out," and he turned to his desk, as the doctor with his budget left the room. The latter went directly to his club, and opened the funny, smudgy little notes. Some of them printed; some sprawled[19] across a wide page, some very zig-zag and uncertain. <blockquote> "Don't, good Santa Claus, forget our corner," read one, "20uth and Purl street, if you can't git down the chimney cause they are reggyters come in the window, we'll leave it a little bit open so you can hist it easy. "Bob." </blockquote> "That youngster's all right," nodded the doctor. "I know the locality, and there's not a doubt but that his stocking will be well-filled." The next was printed. <blockquote> "I am a good girl bring me the doll. Fill wants a bow narrow," </blockquote> —but there was no address, and this, too, was laid aside. Then came a queer little, half-printed, half-written epistle: [20] <blockquote> "Dear Santa: I want a new papa and a new kitten. Conny says kittens are easy enuff to get, but papas are much harder and very spensive. but I dont want just any kitten please, cause my dear Jollity was black and all the kittens this year are grey. if you have any black ones to spare please bring me one and a papa with a red ribbon around its neck. dont go to grandpas at Fort wurth where we were last year cause we aint there now we are at 610 west 12 street. "Elinor Temple." </blockquote> As the doctor read the signature a red flush mounted to his forehead, and he cast a confused look around him; then he slipped the letter into his pocket, took two or three turns up and down the room, and returned to his examination of the rest of the mail. [21] The last two letters were pitiful appeals from homes of want and misery; timid little requests, full of childish faith, which made the doctor shake his head and blink his eyes, frowning the while. These letters he also put aside, and then paced the floor in deep thought. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG style="margin-top: 7em; margin-bottom: 10em;" src="images/image6.jpg" width-obs="100" height-obs="117" alt="End of Chapter illustration" /></div> <hr class="chap" /> [22] <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG style="margin-top: 3em;" src="images/image7.jpg" width-obs="450" height-obs="143" alt="Chapter illustration" /></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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