CHAPTER XXIX
WE LOSE A FRIEND
Our beautiful October was marred by one day of black tragedy--the
day Paddy died. For Paddy, after seven years of as happy a life
as ever a cat lived, died suddenly--of poison, as was supposed.
Where he had wandered in the darkness to meet his doom we did not
know, but in the frosty dawnlight he dragged himself home to die.
We found him lying on the doorstep when we got up, and it did not
need Aunt Janet's curt announcement, or Uncle Blair's reluctant
shake of the head, to tell us that there was no chance of our pet
recovering this time. We felt that nothing could be done. Lard
and sulphur on his paws would be of no use, nor would any visit to
Peg Bowen avail. We stood around in mournful silence; the Story
Girl sat down on the step and took poor Paddy upon her lap.
"I s'pose there's no use even in praying now," said Cecily
desperately.
"It wouldn't do any harm to try," sobbed Felicity.
"You needn't waste your prayers," said Dan mournfully, "Pat is
beyond human aid. You can tell that by his eyes. Besides, I
don't believe it was the praying cured him last time."
"No, it was Peg Bowen," declared Peter, "but she couldn't have
bewitched him this time for she's been away for months, nobody
knows where."
"If he could only TELL us where he feels the worst!" said Cecily
piteously. "It's so dreadful to see him suffering and not be able
to do a single thing to help him!"
"I don't think he's suffering much now," I said comfortingly.
The Story Girl said nothing. She passed and repassed her long
brown hand gently over her pet's glossy fur. Pat lifted his head
and essayed to creep a little nearer to his beloved mistress. The
Story Girl drew his limp body close in her arms. There was a
plaintive little mew--a long quiver--and Paddy's friendly soul had
fared forth to wherever it is that good cats go.
"Well, he's gone," said Dan, turning his back abruptly to us.
"It doesn't seem as if it can be true," sobbed Cecily. "This time
yesterday morning he was full of life."
"He drank two full saucers of cream," moaned Felicity, "and I saw
him catch a mouse in the evening. Maybe it was the last one he
ever caught."
"He did for many a mouse in his day," said Peter, anxious to pay
his tribute to the departed.
"'He was a cat--take him for all in all. We shall not look upon
his like again,'" quoted Uncle Blair.
Felicity and Cecily and Sara Ray cried so much that Aunt Janet
lost patience completely and told them sharply that they would
have something to cry for some day--which did not seem to comfort
them much. The Story Girl shed no tears, though the look in her
eyes hurt more than weeping.
"After all, perhaps it's for the best," she said drearily. "I've
been feeling so badly over having to go away and leave Paddy. No
matter how kind you'd all be to him I know he'd miss me terribly.
He wasn't like most cats who don't care who comes and goes as long
as they get plenty to eat. Paddy wouldn't have been contented
without me."
"Oh, no-o-o, oh, no-o-o," wailed Sara Ray lugubriously.
Felix shot a disgusted glance at her.
"I don't see what YOU are making such a fuss about," he said
unfeelingly. "He wasn't your cat."
"But I l-l-oved him," sobbed Sara, "and I always feel bad when my
friends d-do."
"I wish we could believe that cats went to heaven, like people,"
sighed Cecily. "Do you really think it isn't possible?"
Uncle Blair shook his head.
"I'm afraid not. I'd like to think cats have a chance for heaven,
but I can't. There's nothing heavenly about cats, delightful
creatures though they are."
"Blair, I'm really surprised to hear the things you say to the
children," said Aunt Janet severely.
"Surely you wouldn't prefer me to tell them that cats DO go to
heaven," protested Uncle Blair.
"I think it's wicked to carry on about an animal as those children
do," answered Aunt Janet decidedly, "and you shouldn't encourage
them. Here now, children, stop making a fuss. Bury that cat and
get off to your apple picking."
We had to go to our work, but Paddy was not to be buried in any
such off-hand fashion as that. It was agreed that we should bury
him in the orchard at sunset that evening, and Sara Ray, who had
to go home, declared she would be back for it, and implored us to
wait for her if she didn't come exactly on time.
"I mayn't be able to get away till after milking," she sniffed,
"but I don't want to miss it. Even a cat's funeral is better than
none at all."
"Horrid thing!" said Felicity, barely waiting until Sara was
out of earshot.
We worked with heavy hearts that day; the girls cried bitterly
most of the time and we boys whistled defiantly. But as evening
drew on we began to feel a sneaking interest in the details of the
funeral. As Dan said, the thing should be done properly, since
Paddy was no common cat. The Story Girl selected the spot for the
grave, in a little corner behind the cherry copse, where early
violets enskied the grass in spring, and we boys dug the grave,
making it "soft and narrow," as the heroine of the old ballad
wanted hers made. Sara Ray, who managed to come in time after
all, and Felicity stood and watched us, but Cecily and the Story
Girl kept far aloof.
"This time last night you never thought you'd be digging Pat's
grave to-night," sighed Felicity.
"We little k-know what a day will bring forth," sobbed Sara.
"I've heard the minister say that and it is true."
"Of course it's true. It's in the Bible; but I don't think you
should repeat it in connection with a cat," said Felicity
dubiously.
When all was in readiness the Story Girl brought her pet through
the orchard where he had so often frisked and prowled. No useless
coffin enclosed his breast but he reposed in a neat cardboard box.
"I wonder if it would be right to say 'ashes to ashes and dust to
dust,'" said Peter.
"No, it wouldn't," averred Felicity. "It would be real wicked."
"I think we ought to sing a hymn, anyway," asseverated Sara Ray.
"Well, we might do that, if it isn't a very religious one,"
conceded Felicity.
"How would 'Pull for the shore, sailor, pull for the shore,' do?"
asked Cecily. "That never seemed to me a very religious hymn."
"But it doesn't seem very appropriate to a funeral occasion
either," said Felicity.
"I think 'Lead, kindly light,' would be ever so much more
suitable," suggested Sara Ray, "and it is kind of soothing and
melancholy too."
"We are not going to sing anything," said the Story Girl coldly.
"Do you want to make the affair ridiculous? We will just fill up
the grave quietly and put a flat stone over the top."
"It isn't much like my idea of a funeral," muttered Sara Ray
discontentedly.
"Never mind, we're going to have a real obituary about him in Our
Magazine," whispered Cecily consolingly.
"And Peter is going to cut his name on top of the stone," added
Felicity. "Only we mustn't let on to the grown-ups until it is
done, because they might say it wasn't right."
We left the orchard, a sober little band, with the wind of the
gray twilight blowing round us. Uncle Roger passed us at the
gate.
"So the last sad obsequies are over?" he remarked with a grin.
And we hated Uncle Roger. But we loved Uncle Blair because he
said quietly,
"And so you've buried your little comrade?"
So much may depend on the way a thing is said. But not even Uncle
Blair's sympathy could take the sting out of the fact that there
was no Paddy to get the froth that night at milking time.
Felicity cried bitterly all the time she was straining the milk.
Many human beings have gone to their graves unattended by as much
real regret as followed that one gray pussy cat to his.
