Weekly Trust - - Laugh&relax -

The sandy cat sat by the kitchen fire. Yes­ter­day it had had no sup­per; this morn­ing every­one had for­got­ten it. All night it had caught no mice; all day as yet it had tasted no milk. A lit­tle grey mouse, a saucer full of milk, a few fish or chicken bones, would have sat­is­fied it ; but no grey mouse, with its soft stringy tail be­hind it, ran across the floor ; no milk was near, no chicken bones, no fish, no any­thing. The serv­ing-maid had been wash­ing clothes, and was hang­ing them out to dry. The chil­dren

had loi­tered on their way to school, and were won­der­ing what the mas­ter would say to them. The fa­ther had gone to the fair to help a neigh­bour to choose a horse. The mother sat mak­ing a patch­work quilt. No one thought of the sandy cat; it sat by the fire alone and hun­gry. At last the clothes were all a-dry­ing, the chil­dren had been scolded, and sat learn­ing a les­son for the mor­row. The fa­ther came from the fair, and the patch­work quilt was put away. The serv­ing-maid put on a white apron with a frill, and a clean cap, then tak­ing the sandy cat in her arms, said, “Pussy, shall we go into the gar­den?” So they went and walked up and down, up and down the pathway, till at last they stopped be­fore a rose tree; the serv­ing-maid held up the cat to smell the roses, but with one long bound it leaped from her arms and away-away-away. Whither? Ah, dear chil­dren, I can­not tell, for I was not there to see; but if ever you are a sandy cat you will know that it is a ter­ri­ble thing to be asked to smell roses when you are long­ing for a saucer full of milk and a grey mouse with a soft stringy tail.

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