Aileen Aroon, A Memoir

Chapter Thirty One.

Mirram: A Sketch from the Life of a Cat – About Summer Songs and Songsters

“The mouse destroyed by my pursuitNo longer shall your feasts pollute,Nor rats, from nightly ambuscade,With wasteful teeth your stores invade.”Gay.“Books! ’tis a dull and endless strife,    Come and hear the woodland linnet;How sweet his music! On my life    There’s more of wisdom in it.”Wordsworth.

Ida continued to improve, and she did not let me forget my promise to resume my office of story-telling, which I accordingly did next evening, bringing my portfolio into Ida’s bedroom for the purpose.

Ida had her cat in her arms. The cat was singing low, and had his round, loving head on her shoulder, and his arms buried in her beautiful hair. So this suggested my reading the following: —

Mirram: A Sketch from the Life of a Cat

“Mirram: that was the name of pussy. It appears a strange one, I admit; but you see there is nobody accountable for it except the little cat herself, for she it was who named herself Mirram. I don’t mean to say that pussy actually came to her little mistress, and said in as many words, ‘Mirram is a pretty name, and I should like to be called Mirram. Call me Mirram, please, won’t you?’

“For cats don’t talk nowadays, except in fairy tales; but this is how it was. She was the most gentle and kindly-hearted wee puss, I believe, that ever was born, and if you happened to meet her anywhere, say going down the garden walk, she would look lovingly and confidingly up in your face, holding her tail very erect indeed, and ‘Mirram’ she would say.

“You see, ‘Mirram’ was the only English word, if it be English, that pussy could speak, and she made it do duty on every occasion; so no wonder she came to be called Mirram.

“If she were hungry she would jump upon your knee, and gently rub her shoulders against you and say, ‘Mirram.’

“‘Mirram’ in this case might be translated as follows: ‘Oh, please, my dear little mistress, I am so hungry! I’ve been up ever since five o’clock this morning. With the exception of a bird which I found and ate, feathers and all, and a foolish little mouse, I’ve had no breakfast. Do give me a little milk.’

“This would be an appeal that you couldn’t resist, and you would give her a saucerful of nice new milk, telling her at the same time that it was very naughty of her to devour poor birds, who come and cheer us with their songs both in winter and in summer.

“Another morning she would come hopping in through the open window, when you least expected her, and say ‘Mirram’ in the most kindly tone. This would, of course, mean, ‘Good-morning to you. I’m glad to see you downstairs at last. I’ve been up and out ever since sunrise. And, oh! such fun I’ve been having. You can’t conceive what a fine morning it is, and what a treat it is to rise early.’

“And now, having introduced this little puss to you by name, I must tell you something about her playmates, and say a word or two about the place she lived in, and her life in general, and after that show you how pussy at one time came to grief on account of a little fault she had. Of course, we all have our little faults, which we should strive to conquer, and I may as well confess at once what Mirram’s was. Well, it was —thoughtlessness.

“The first and the chief of pussy’s playmates, then, was her child-mistress. Would you like to know what her name was? I will tell you with pleasure; and when you hear it I’m sure you will say it is a strange one. She had two Christian names – the first was Fredabel, the second was Inez – Fredabel Inez – the latter being Spanish.

“‘But,’ you will say, ‘is “Fredabel” Spanish too, because I never heard of such a name before?’

“No, I am quite sure you never did; for this reason: no child was ever called by that name before, the fact being that her papa invented the name for her, as it was the only way he could see to get out of a dilemma, or difficulty. And here was the dilemma. When pussy’s mistress was quite a baby, her two aunts came to see her, and they had no sooner seen her than they both loved her very much; so they both went one morning into her papa’s study, and the following conversation took place: —

“‘Good-morning, brother,’ said one aunt. ‘I love your baby very, very much, and I want you to call her after me – her first name, mind you – and when she grows up she won’t lose by it.’

“‘Good-morning, brother,’ said the other aunt. ‘I also love your dear baby very much, and if you call her first name after mine, when she grows up she’ll gain by it.’

“Well, when baby’s papa heard both the aunts speak like this, he was very much perplexed, and didn’t know what to do, because he didn’t want to offend either the one aunt or the other.

“But after a great deal of cogitation, he possessed himself of a happy thought, or rather, I should say, a happy thought took possession of him. You see the name of the one aunt was Freda, and the name of the other was Bella, so what more natural than that baby’s papa should compound a name for her between the two, and call her Fredabel.

“So he did, and both aunts were pleased and merry and happy.

“But at the time our tale begins baby hadn’t grown up, nor anything like it; she was just a little child of not much over four years old.

“Now, as the one aunt always called her Freda and the other Bella, and as everybody else called her Eenie, I think we had better follow everybody else’s example, and call her Eenie, too.

“Was Eenie pretty, did you ask? Yes, she was pretty, and, what is still better than being pretty, she was very kind and good. So no wonder that everybody loved her. She had a sweet, lovely face, had Eenie. Her hair, that floated over her lair shoulders, was like a golden sunbeam; her eyes were blue as the bluest sky, and large and liquid and love-speaking, and when she looked down her long dark eyelashes rested on cheeks as soft as the blossom of peach or apricot.

“Yet she was merry withal, merry and bright and gay, and whenever she laughed, her whole face was lighted up and looked as lovely as sunrise in May.

“I have said that Eenie was good and kind, and so she was; good and kind to every creature around her. She never tormented harmless insects, as cruel children do, and so all creatures seemed to love her in return: the trees whispered to her, the birds sang to her, and the bees told her tales.

“That was pussy Mirram’s mistress then; and it was no wonder Mirram was fond of her, and proud to be nursed and carried about by her. Mind you, she would not allow any one else to carry her. If anybody else had taken her up, puss would have said – ‘Mirram!’ which would mean, ‘Put me down, please; I’ve got four legs of my own, and I much prefer to use them.’ And if the reply had been – ‘Well, but you allow Eenie to handle and nurse you,’ pussy would have answered and said —

“‘Isn’t Eenie my mistress, my own dear mistress? Could any one ever be half so kind or careful of me as she is? Does she ever forget to give me milk of a morning or to share with me her own dinner and tea? Does she not always have my saucer filled with the purest, freshest water? and does she forget that I need a comfortable bed at night? No; my mistress may carry me as much as she pleases, but no one else shall.’

“Now Mirram was a mighty hunter, but she was also very fond of play; and when the dogs were in their kennels on very bright sunshiny days, and her little mistress was in the nursery learning her lessons, as all good children do, Mirram would have to play alone. She wasn’t afraid of the bright sunshine, if the dogs were; she would race up into a tall apple-tree, and laying herself full length on a branch, blink and stare at the great sun for half an hour at a time. Then —

“‘Oh!’ she would cry, ‘this resting and looking at the sun is very lazy work. I must play. Let me see, what shall I do? Oh! I have it; I’ll knock an apple down – then hurrah! for a game of ball.’

“And so she would hit a big apple, and down it would roll on the broad gravel-path; and down pussy would go, her face beaming with fun; and the game that ensued with that apple was quite a sight to witness. It was lawn-tennis, cricket, and football all in one. Then when quite tired of this, she would thrust the apple under the grass for the slugs to make their dinner of, and off she would trot to knock the great velvety bees about with her gloved paws. She would soon tire of this, though, because she found the bees such serious fellows.

“She would hit one, and knock it, maybe, a yard away; but the bee would soon get up again.

“‘It is all very well for you, Miss Puss,’ the bee would say; ‘your life is all play, but I’ve got work to do, for I cannot forget that, brightly though the sun is shining now, before long cold dismal winter will be here, and very queer I should look if I hadn’t laid up a store of nice honey to keep me alive.’

“And away the bee would go, humming a tune to himself, and Mirram would spy a pair of butterflies floating high over the scarlet-runners, but not higher than Mirram could spring. She couldn’t catch them, though.

“‘No, no, Miss Puss,’ the butterflies would say; ‘we don’t want you to play with us. We don’t want any third party, so please keep your paws to yourself.’

“And away they would fly.

“Then perhaps Mirram would find a toad crawling among the strawberry beds.

“‘You’re after the fruit, aren’t you?’ pussy would say, touching it gently on the back.

“‘No, not at all,’ the toad would reply. ‘I wouldn’t touch a strawberry for the world; the gardener put me here to catch the slugs; he couldn’t get on without me at all.’

“‘Well, go on with your work, Mr Toad,’ pussy would reply; ‘I’m off.’

“And what a glorious old garden that was for pussy to play in, and for her mistress to play in! A rambling old place, in which you might lose yourself, or, if you had a companion, play at hide-and-seek till you were tired. And every kind of flower grew here, and every kind of fruit and vegetable as well; just the kind of garden to spend a long summer’s day in. Never mind though the day was so hot that the birds ceased to sing, and sat panting all agape on the apple-boughs – so hot that the very fowls forgot to cackle or crow, and there wasn’t a sound save the hum of the myriads of insects that floated everywhere around, you wouldn’t mind the heat, for wasn’t there plenty of shade, arbours of cool foliage, and tents made of creepers? – and oh! the brilliancy of the sunny marigolds, the scarlet clustered geraniums, the larkspurs, purple and white, and the crimson-painted linums. No, you wouldn’t mind the heat; weren’t there strawberries as large as eggs and as cold as ice? And weren’t there trees laden with crimson and yellow raspberries? And weren’t the big lemon-tinted gooseberries bearing the bushes groundwards with the weight of their sweetness, and praying to be pulled? A glorious old garden indeed!

“But see, the dogs have got out of their kennels, and have come down the garden walks on their way to the paddock, and pussy runs to meet them.

“‘What! dogs in a garden?’ you cry. Yes; but they weren’t ordinary dogs, any more than it was an ordinary garden. They were permitted to stroll therein, but they were trained to keep the walks, and smell, but never touch, the flowers. They roamed through the rosary, they rolled on the lawn, they even slept in the beautiful summer-houses; but they never committed a fault – but in the autumn, when pears and apples dropped from the trees, they were permitted, and even encouraged, to eat their fill of the fruit. And they made good use of their privilege, too. These were pussy’s playmates all the year round – the immense black Newfoundlands, the princely boarhounds, the beautiful collies, and the one little rascal of a Scottish terrier. You never met the dogs without also meeting Mirram, whether out in the country roads or at home, on the leas or in the paddock; she pulled daisies to throw at the dogs in summer, and in winter she used to lie on her back, and in mere wantonness pitch pellets of snow at the great boar hound himself.

“The dogs all loved her. Once, when she was out with the dogs on a common, a great snarly bulldog came along, and at once ran to kill poor Mirram. You should have seen the commotion that ensued.

“‘It is our cat,’ they all seemed to cry, in a kind of canine chorus. ‘Our cat —our cat – our cat!’ And all ran to save her.

“No, they didn’t kill him, though the boarhound wanted to; but the biggest Newfoundland, a large-hearted fellow, said, ‘No, don’t let us kill him, he doesn’t know any better; let us just refresh his memory.’

“So he took the cur, and trailed him to the pond and threw him in; and next time that dog met Mirram he walked past her very quietly indeed!

“Mirram loved all the dogs about the place; but I think her greatest favourite was the wee wire-haired Scottish terrier. Perhaps it was because he was about her own size, or perhaps it was because he was so very ugly that she felt a kind of pity for him. But Mirram spent a deal of time in his company, and they used to go trotting away together along the lanes and the hedges, and sometimes they wouldn’t return for hours, when they would trot home again, keeping close cheek-by-jowl, and looking very happy and very funny.

“‘Broom’ this little dog had been called, probably in a frolic, and from some fancied resemblance between his general appearance and the hearth-brush. His face was saucy and impudent, and sharp as needles; his bits of ears cocked up, and his tiny wicked-looking eyes glanced from under his shaggy eyebrows, as if they had been boatman-beetles. I don’t think Broom was ever afraid of anything, and very important the little dog and pussy looked when returning from a ramble. They had secrets of great moment between them, without a doubt. Perhaps, if her mistress had asked Mirram where they went together, and what they did, Mirram would have replied in the following words —

“‘Oh! you know, my dear mistress, we go hunting along by the hedgerows and by the ponds, and in the dark forests, and we meet with such thrilling adventures! We capture moles, and we capture great rats and frightful hedgehogs, and Broom is so brave he will grapple even with a weasel; and one day he conquered and killed a huge polecat! Yes, he is so brave, and nothing can ever come over me when Broom is near.’

“Now, no one would have doubted that, in such a pretty, pleasant country home as hers, with such a kind mistress, and so many playmates, pussy Mirram would have been as happy as ever a pussy could be. So she was, as a rule; but not always, because she had that one little fault – thoughtlessness. Ah! those little faults, how often will they not lead us into trouble!

“I don’t say that pussy ever did anything very terrible, to cause her mistress grief. She never did eat the canary, for instance. But she often stopped away all night, and thus caused little Eenie much anxiety. Pussy always confessed her fault, but she was so thoughtless that the very next moonlight night the same thing occurred again, and Mirram never thought, while she was enjoying herself out of doors, that Eenie was suffering sorrow for her sake at home.

“On the flat roof of a house where Mirram often wandered, in the moonlight was a tiny pigeon-hole, so small she couldn’t creep in to save her life even, but from this pigeon-hole a bonnie wee kitten used often to pop out and play with Mirram. Where the pigeon-hole led to, or what was away beyond it, pussy couldn’t even conjecture, though she often watched and wondered for hours, then put in her head to have a peep; but all was dark.

“Perhaps, when she was quite tired of wondering, and was just going to retire for the night, the little face would appear, and Mirram would forget all about her mistress in the joy of meeting her small friend.

“Then how pleased Mirram would look, and how loudly she would purr, and say to the kitten —

“‘Come out, my dear, do come out, and you shall play with my tail.’

“But it was really very thoughtless of Mirram, and just a little selfish as well, not to at once let kittie have her tail to play with; but no.

“‘Sit there, my dear, and sing to me,’ she would say.

“Kittie would do that just for a little while. Very demure she looked; but kittens can’t be demure long, you know; and then there would commence the wildest, maddest, merriest game of romps between the two that ever was seen or heard of; but always when the fun got too exciting for her, kittie popped back again into her pigeon-hole, appearing again in a few moments in the most provoking manner.

“What nights these were for Mirram, and how pleasantly they were spent, and how quickly they passed, perhaps no one but pussy and her little friend could tell. When tired of romping and running, like two feline madcaps, Mirram would propose a song, and while the stars glittered overhead, or the moon shone brightly down on them, they would seat themselves lovingly side by side and engage in a duet. Now, however pleasant cats’ music heard at midnight may appear to the pussies themselves, it certainly is not conducive to the sleep of any nervous invalid who may happen to dwell in the neighbouring houses, or very soothing either.

“Mirram found this out to her cost one evening, and so did the kitten as well, for a window was suddenly thrown open not very far from where they sat.

“‘Ah!’ said Mirram, ‘that is sure to be some one who is delighted with our music, and is going to throw something nice to us.’

“Alas! alas! the something did come, but it wasn’t nice. It took the shape of a decanter of water and an old boot.

“One night pussy Mirram had stayed out very much longer, and Eenie had gone to bed crying, because she thought she would never, never see her Mirram more.

“Thoughtless Mirram! At that moment she was once again on the roof, and the kittie’s face was at the pigeon-hole. Mirram was sitting up in the most coaxing manner possible.

“‘Come out again,’ she was saying to kittie, ‘come out again. Do come out to – ’

“She didn’t see that terrible black cat stealing up behind; but she heard the low threatening growl, and sprang round to confront her and defend herself.

“The fight was fierce and terrible while it lasted, and poor Mirram got the worst of it. The black cat had well-nigh killed her.

“‘Oh!’ she sobbed, as she dropped bitter, blinding tears on the roof, – ‘oh, if I had never left my mistress! Oh, dear! oh, dear! whatever shall I do?’

“You see Mirram was very sad and sorrowful now; but then, unfortunately, the repentance came when it was too late.”

“Thank you,” Ida said, when I had finished; “I like the description of the garden ever so much. Now tell me something about birds; I’ll shut my eyes and listen.”

“But won’t you be tired, dear?” said my wife.

“No, auntie,” was the reply; “and I won’t go to sleep. I never tire hearing about birds, and flowers, and woods, and wilds, and everything in nature.”

“Here is a little bit, then,” I said, “that will just suit you, Ida. It is short. That is a merit. I call it – ”

About Summer Songs and Songsters

“Sweet is the melody that at this season of the year arises from every feathered songster of forest, field, and lea. I am writing to-day out in the fields, seated, I might say, in the very lap of Nature – my county is the very wildest and prettiest in all mid-England – and I cannot help throwing down my pen occasionally to watch the motions or listen to the singing of some or other of my wild pets. Nothing will convince me that I am not as well known in the woods as if I were indeed a denizen thereof. The birds, at all events, know me, and they do not fear me, because I never hurt or frighten them.

“High overhead yonder, and dimly seen against the light grey of a cloud, is the skylark. He is at far too great a height for me to see his head with the naked eye, so I raise the lorgnettes, and with these I can observe that even as he sings he turns his head earthwards to where, in her cosy grass-lined nest among the tender corn, sits his pretty speckled mate. He is singing to his mate. Yonder, perched on top of the hedgerow, is my friend the yellow-hammer. He is arrayed in pinions of a deeper, brighter orange now. Is it of that he is so proud? is it because of that that there comes ever and anon in his short and simple song a kind of half-hysterical note of joy? Nay, I know why he sings so, because I know where his nest is, and what is in it.

“In the hollow of an old, old tree, bent and battered by the wind and weather, the starling has built, and the male bird trills his song on the highest branch, but in a position to be seen by his mate. Not much music in his song, yet he is terribly in earnest about the matter, and I’ve no doubt the hen admires him, not only for the green metallic gloss of his dark coat, but because he is trying to do his best, and to her his gurgling notes are far sweeter than the music of merle, or the song of the nightingale herself.

“But here is something strange, and it may be new to our little folk. There are wee modest mites of birds in the woods and forests, that really do not care to be heard by any other living ears than those of their mates. I know where there is the nest of a rose-linnet in a bush of furze, and I go and sit myself softly down within a few feet of it, and in a few minutes back comes the male bird; he has been on an errand of some kind. He seats himself on the highest twig of a neighbouring bush. He is silent for a time, but he cannot be so very long; and so he presently breaks out into his tender songlet, but so soft and low is his ditty, that at five yards’ distance methinks you would fail to hear it. There are bold singers enough in copse and wild wood without him. The song of the beautiful chaffinch is clear and defiant. The mavis or speckled thrush is not only loud and bold in his tones, but he is what you might term a singer of humorous songs. His object is evidently to amuse his mate, and he sings from early morning till quite late, trying all sorts of trick notes, mocking and mimicking every bird within hearing distance. He even borrows some notes from the nightingale, after the arrival of that bird in the country; a very sorry imitation he makes of them, doubtless, but still you can recognise them for all that.

“Why is it we all love the robin so? Many would answer this question quickly enough, and with no attempt at analysis, and their reply would be, ‘Oh, because he deserves to be loved.’ This is true enough; but let me tell you why I love him. Though I never had a caged robin, thinking it cruel to deprive a dear bird of its liberty, I always do all I can to make friends with it wherever we meet. I was very young when I made my first acquaintance with Master Robin. We lived in the country, and one time there was a very hard winter indeed; the birds came to the lawn to be fed, but one was not content with simple feeding, and so one colder day than usual he kept throwing himself against a lower pane in the parlour window – the bright, cheerful fire, I suppose, attracted his notice.

“‘You do look so cosy and comfortable in that nice room,’ he seemed to say; ‘think of my cold feet out in this dreary weather.’

“My dear mother – she who first taught me to love birds and beasts, and all created things – did think of his cold feet. She opened the window, and by-and-by he came in. He would have preferred the window left open, but being given to understand that this would interfere materially with family arrangements, he submitted to his semi-imprisonment with charming grace, and perched himself on top of a picture-frame, which became his resting-place when not busy picking up crumbs, or drinking water or milk, through all the livelong winter. We were all greatly pleased when one day he threw back his pert wee head and treated us to a song. And it was always while we were at dinner that he sang.

“‘I suppose,’ he seemed to say, ‘you won’t object to a little music, will you?’ Then he would strike up.

“But when the winter wore away he gave us to understand he had an appointment somewhere; and so he was allowed to go about his business.

“My next adventure with a robin happened thus. I, while still a little boy, did a very naughty thing. By reading sea-stories I got enamoured of a sea life, and determined to run away from my old uncle, with whom I was residing during the temporary absence of my parents on the Continent. The old gentleman was not over kind to me —that helped my determination, no doubt. I did not get very far away – I may mention this at once – but for two nights and days I stayed in the heart of a spruce-pine wood, living on bread-and-cheese and whortleberries. My bed was the branches of the pines, which I broke off and spread on the ground, and all day my constant companion was a robin. I think he hardly ever left me. I am, or was, in the belief that he slept on me. Be this as it may, he picked up the crumbs I scattered for him, and never forgot to reward me with a song. While singing he used to perch on a branch quite close overhead, and sang so very low, though sweetly, that I fully believed he sang for me alone. After you have read this you will readily believe, that there may have been a large foundation of truth in the beautiful tale of ‘The Babes in the Wood.’ Before nor since my childish escapade, I never knew a robin so curiously tame as the one I met in the spruce-pine wood.