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Pussy Black-Face: The Story of a Kitten and Her Friends

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<h2 class='c006'>CHAPTER XVIII THE OWL AND THE CHICKENS</h2></div> Serena liked me to go with her when she took her walks about the farm at night. At first I was flattered at her preference for me, then I was interested, and finally I was responsive. Serena was really getting fond of me, and she was becoming unselfish and companionable. She knew that I admired her, and she was so clever that when she set about trying to make me love her she succeeded easily. “We're sisters,” she said gently. “We ought to be great friends.” “Chums,” I said. “Chums, if you like,” she responded graciously. “The older I grow the more I recognize the tie of blood between relatives—and you are really quite nice-looking at times, Black-Face. Just lower your head a little, till I lick your fur into shape between 288your ears where you can't reach it with your tongue.” “Thank you,” I replied. “The tongue can dress things down much better than damp paws.” Serena attended to my toilet beautifully. That was last night. Then we sallied forth for a moonlight walk. It was a beautiful night. There were a few other cats about, but we stepped into the bushes till they passed by. We saw a weasel down near the river, smelt a skunk, listened to the deep breathing of the young cattle and the horses sleeping out in the pasture, and saw with regret that the lovely white woolly sheep had broken into the meadow. “We can't do anything about it,” said Serena. “The farmer will turn them out in the morning. Meantime they're having a fine feed of rich meadow grass, and they won't get whipped for it.” “No, Farmer Gleason never whips anything,” I said. “I wish he owned all the dogs and cats and horses in the world.” “What is that?” said Serena excitedly, 289as we came up the sloping road leading from the meadow to the barn. I looked at the top of the carriage-house. There, perched on the ridge-pole where the pigeons loved to sit in the daytime, was a funny square-looking creature that never moved. “Is it a bird?” I asked. “I think from what I have heard,” said Serena, “that it is a big owl. Keep close to the fence, sister. If he sees our fur, he may seize us. Tabby says Joker was nearly caught once by a big owl. Oh!” and Serena gave a gasp. With her native caution, as soon as she saw the owl, she had led me under the snake fence. Fortunately a few poles had fallen out and had made a rough shelter, under which we crept. I hadn't turned my eyes from the owl but for a second when I felt something strike the poles above us, and saw the flash of two balls of fire, which were eyes. Then I lay gasping with fright. “He struck me,” moaned Serena—“what claws—they felt red hot.” 290“Oh! the wicked creature,” I whispered, then my conscience pricked me. I had just been looking for a nice, sweet, little meadow mouse down by the river. Serena, who never ate mice, was following the workings of my mind. “My back smarts terribly where he ripped it,” she sighed. “I am very sorry for every creature that suffers.” “Wait till we get out of this,” I said comfortingly, “and I will give your back a good licking.” “Thank you,” she murmured, then she said, “Alas! poor Beauty.” “Why do you say that?” I asked. “Beauty and her chickens are sleeping in that apple-tree to-night,” said Serena, nodding toward the young orchard. “She wouldn't go in the hen-house, and Della laughed at her and said she could sleep out. Every chick skipped up the branches after her. That wretch hears them. Chickens move about in their sleep sometimes, the way human babies nestle.” “Mona is sleeping up by the barn door to-night,” 291I said. “She likes to be there because it is high, and she can see all over the farm. I wish she were here.” “She can't fly,” said Serena. “No, but she could bark and rouse the farmer. I'm going to call her,” and I mewed loudly, “Mona, Mona.” The good old dog, who does not sleep as soundly as when she was young, heard me and came running to us. I soon told her the trouble. The owl, of course, knew all about it, but he was a very bold fellow and evidently scorned us all. While Mona was staring and sniffing the air in his direction, the great creature made another swoop. Not a sound was audible. Owls are very sneaky creatures. He hovered over the apple-tree nearest the carriage-house—there was a loud cackle from Beauty, and a spluttering from the chickens. We could hear some of them fluttering to the ground. Mona bounded away. “She can't fly,” I said, “but that owl will be smart if he gets any of the chickens 292while they are near her on the ground.” The owl knew better than to descend too low, but the bold fellow made one more dash at the apple-tree. More chickens cried and flounced wildly about in the darkness. Mona just yelled with rage, and in a jiffy Barlo was leaping and barking beside her. Mr. Gleason was at the window sending up a rocket that made Mr. Owl vanish like a ghost. I laughed the most delicious cat laugh that I ever enjoyed. I just fancied that owl's astonishment when the rocket went flying through the air in his direction. I don't think he will ever come back to the farm. “Let him hunt mice and vermin in the meadow,” said Serena, “and leave our chickens alone.” Part of the family was at the windows, the rest was out-of-doors. Serena and I advanced to the side of Mr. Denville. He ran his hand over my back, then over Serena's. “This cat is bleeding,” he said. “And some of the chickens are gone,” 293said Mr. Gleason, “look at these feathers.” He whirled his lantern round under the trees where the moonbeams did not penetrate, and showed what he had picked up. “There isn't one gone,” said Mona to me. “When the owl flew away, he carried nothing with him.” “Count your chickens,” said Mr. Denville. “Can't,” said the farmer, “they're scattered.” “Do you find any large feathers?” asked Mr. Denville. “No,” said the farmer, “not one. I guess you're right. Morning will tell, anyway. Mona and Barlo will keep the old fellow from making any more visits.” Morning did tell the same story. The owl had pulled a number of feathers out of the chickens, but he had not got one of the little creatures. They were wiser chickens after that, and Beauty was a wiser mother. Every night we saw her going to bed nice and early in the hen-house with her fine brood behind her. She told Serena that it was a dreadful thing for a mother hen to lead her chickens 294into such danger, and she said that they suffered more during the long night when they crouched in the grass, and behind the woodpile, and under the veranda, than when the owl was attacking them. They were a scattered family. Beauty was a very young hen. Everybody called her old, but she really had not had much experience in bringing up chickens. <div class='chapter'> 295 <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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