CHAPTER XII.
MALTA, THE CAT.
HE first time I had a good look at the Morris cat, I thought she was the queerest-looking animal I had ever seen. She was dark gray—just the color of a mouse. Her eyes were a yellowish-green, and for the first few days I was at the Morrises' they looked very unkindly at me. Then she got over her dislike, and we became very good friends. She was a beautiful cat, and so gentle and affectionate that the whole family loved her.
She was three years old, and she had come to Fairport in a vessel with some sailors, who had gotten her in a far-away place. Her name was Malta, and she was called a Maltese cat.
I have seen a great many cats, but I never saw one as kind as Malta. Once she had some little kittens and they all died. It almost broke her heart. She cried and cried about the house till it made one feel sad to hear her. Then she ran away to the woods. She came back with a little squirrel in her mouth, and putting it in her basket, she nursed it like a mother, till it grew old enough to run away from her.
She was a very knowing cat, and always came when she was called. Miss Laura used to wear a little silver whistle that she blew when she wanted any of her pets.
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