"In our potato-pot. Now, you will agree with me that potatoes
dressed with cat's hair is not a very nice dish. The next time
I catch Master Tom in the potato-pot, I will kill him."
"John, you are not in earnest. Mrs. - - would never forgive any
injury done to Tom, who is a great favourite."
"Let her keep him at home, then. Think of the brute coming a mile
through the woods to steal from us all he can find, and then
sleeping off the effects of his depredations in the potato-pot."
I could not help laughing, but I begged John by no means to annoy
Emilia by hurting her cat.
The next day, while sitting in the parlour at work, I heard a
dreadful squall, and rushed to the rescue. John was standing, with a
flushed cheek, grasping a large stick in his hand, and Tom was lying
dead at his feet.
"Oh, the poor cat!"
"Yes, I have killed him; but I am sorry for it now. What will
Mrs. - - say?"
"She must not know it. I have told you the story of the pig that
Jacob killed. You had better bury it with the pig."
John was really sorry for having yielded, in a fit of passion, to do
so cruel a thing; yet a few days after he got into a fresh scrape
with Mrs. - -'s animals.
The hens were laying, up at the barn. John was very fond of fresh
eggs, but some strange dog came daily and sucked the eggs. John had
vowed to kill the first dog he found in the act. Mr. - - had a very
fine bull-dog, which he valued very highly; but with Emilia, Chowder
was an especial favourite. Bitterly had she bemoaned the fate of
Tom, and many were the inquiries she made of us as to his sudden
disappearance.
One afternoon John ran into the room. "My dear Mrs. Moodie, what is
Mrs. - -'s dog like?"
"A large bull-dog, brindled black and white."
"Then, by Jove, I've shot him!"
"John, John! you mean me to quarrel in earnest with my friend.
How could you do it?"
"Why, how the deuce should I know her dog from another? I caught the
big thief in the very act of devouring the eggs from under your
sitting hen, and I shot him dead without another thought. But I will
bury him, and she will never find it out a bit more than she did who
killed the cat."
Some time after this, Emilia returned from a visit at P - -. The
first thing she told me was the loss of the dog. She was so vexed at
it, she had had him advertised, offering a reward for his recovery.
I, of course, was called upon to sympathise with her, which I did
with a very bad grace. "I did not like the beast," I said; "he was
cross and fierce, and I was afraid to go up to her house while he
was there."
"Yes; but to lose him so.
