Part 23 (1/2)

The story I am about to tell you has for its chief interest a little lame girl, very sweet and lovely, who died in old Salem many years ago.

I think good children are almost as nice as good little kittens.

As Jett belonged to this little girl, I must tell you about her, that you may know how devotedly a cat can return affection and kindness. This is the moral of my story, and I tell it to you in the beginning, though I know morals usually come on the end. And then people have got all the interest of the story and they skip the moral. It is better that it should leaven the whole story.

Everything about Salem has a fascination for me, and I often think how nice it would be to fly through the air and take a peep at the people beneath me; but then, this pleasure is given only to black cats, and there is no use for any other colored cat to wish for it.

Little Hope Farley lived in a big, old-fas.h.i.+oned house, with a lovely garden around it. All the rooms were long and wide, with deep window seats, cus.h.i.+oned, and very comfortable--a nice place for a cat to sleep and enjoy herself.

In one of these nice roomy window seats little Hope would lie, with Jett curled up by her side. But I must not antic.i.p.ate; I will tell the story just as I heard it from Miss Milly.

Hope was motherless; her father's sister had made up to her as well as any one ever can the loss of her mother. Aunt Martha was a charming woman of about forty-five, and she took little Hope into her heart at once.

(Dear me! How I wish cats had aunts! I do think they are just the nicest people to care for the unfortunate that can be found.)

Hope's father was a literary man, buried in his studies and books. When a man is that way inclined, he might, for all the good he is to his family, be buried in earnest. Then they would have his memory, and one could read on his tombstone how great a man he was, and the papers could praise him and speak of virtues that nothing but his death would ever have brought to light.

Aunt Martha was abroad when his wife died, and Hope, who was but three years old, was left to the care of a nurse.

Some carelessness caused her to fall, and a curvature of the spine and lameness for life were the consequence.

Dear me! These ”curvatures” and such big words will kill me; but I must tell this story just as my mistress told it to me, for if ever she reads this little book, I want her to know how well I remember all she said.

After Hope met with the accident that crippled her for life, her father wrote to his sister to return and care for his unfortunate child and his helpless self.

She willingly accepted the charge, and soon found she had a ”white elephant” on her hands. Her brother buried himself in his books, and to her care was left not only his child, but the whole household. He did pay the bills, but it was because he had the money; else he would have left even that to her, for she had a good fortune of her own.

Hope repaid her for her care by loving her with all her heart, and they were very happy together.

The beautiful garden was a great source of pleasure to them all. Even the father would walk up and down with his hands behind him; and although he did not seem to notice anything, the air, the fragrance of the flowers, and the peace of the scene probably gave him strength.

Around the sides of the garden, by the high fence, were currant bushes thick and plenty. The fruit was large, red, and tempting, and the flowers of every kind growing in their native beauty made the spot an earthly paradise. There were tall hollyhocks, double leafed, red and white, bachelors'-b.u.t.tons, beds of pinks, and roses of every variety, lilies of the valley, modest but bound to be noticed for their rare fragrance, and beds of pansies that would have made the fortune of the florist. But here no thought of money crept in to mar the beauty of G.o.d's free gift, the beautiful flowers.

The garden sloped down, joining the land belonging to the next house, that faced on the side street. The low fence was broken, and just where the gate had hung, a hedge fence supplied its place, as the gate had fallen to pieces. The rank weeds and flowers grew in tangles; Nature seemed to have fought with Art, and to have gained the victory.

The estate had been unoccupied for years, the owner having just died far away from home, where he had been for years in pursuit of health. His heir, a distant cousin, was expected to make his home here; as his business was in Boston, it would be very convenient.

Great curiosity was expressed regarding the newcomers, particularly as there was a mystery regarding the neglect of the place for so many years; and a mystery in old Salem always wore a bewitching air.

About ten days after their arrival my story commences.

It was way down near the broken gate, under the sheltering boughs of an old apple tree, that a most luxurious seat had been contrived. Like a couch, it was protected at the back by cus.h.i.+ons like the seat.

It was high noon of a sultry day in June, yet the thick leaves of the old apple tree formed a perfect shade for the dear little child reposing in this lovely retreat. The little silent figure and the crutches, leaning against the seat, told the whole melancholy tale: little Hope Farley was a cripple.

The soft hum of bees and insects filled the air, and the scent of flowers perfumed all around, and the bright blue sky above, lending its soft light, made her seem a part and portion of this charming picture of nature. Her doll, her dearest companion, was by her side. She had given her the quaint old-fas.h.i.+oned name of Joanna, and never suffered it to be abbreviated.

She held conversations with her, and confided all her little troubles to her wooden ear. (It would be well if wooden ears and cats' ears were the only ones to hear secrets, would it not? I must put in my cat's oar once in a while, for, you see, this story is a big one for a cat to remember.)

This day Joanna was particularly unsatisfactory, and Hope, getting tired of her airs, said:--

”Joanna, why are you so silent? Don't you hear the bees, and can't you see that great speckled toad under the currant bushes, hopping about?