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Excerpted Inspirations #229

Linda Odhner, with photos by Liz Kufs
4 days ago
0 min read

The cat flashed up the steep, ladder-like stairs that led to the hay-loft. Betsy scrambled rapidly up, too. It was dark up there, compared to the gorgeous-colored October day outside, and for a moment she could not see Eleanor. Then she made her out, a dim little shape, picking her way over the hay, and she heard her talking. Yes, it was real talk, quite, quite different from the loud, imperious “miauw!” with which Eleanor asked for her milk. This was the softest, prettiest kind of conversation, all little murmurs and chirps and sing-songs. Why, Betsy could almost understand it! She could understand it, enough to know that it was love-talk, and then, breaking into this, came a sudden series of shrill, little, needle-like cries that fairly filled the hay-loft. Eleanor gave a bound forward and disappeared. Betsy, very much excited, scrambled and climbed up over the hay as fast as she could go.

It was all silent now – the piercing, funny little squalls had stopped as suddenly as they began. On the top in a little nest lay Eleanor, purring so loudly you could hear her all over the big mow, and so proud and happy that she could hardly contain herself. Her eyes glistened, she arched her back, rolled over and spread out her paws, disclosing to Betsy’s astounded, delighted eyes – no, she wasn’t dreaming – two dear little kittens, one all gray, just like its mother; one gray with a big bib on his chest.

Oh! How dear they were! How darling, and cuddly, and fuzzy! Betsy put her fingers very softly on the gray one’s head and thrilled to feel the warmth of the little living creature. “Oh, Eleanor!” she asked eagerly. “Can I pick one up?” She lifted the gray one gently and held it up to her cheek. The little thing nestled down in the warm hollow of her hand. The could feel its tiny, tiny little claws pricking softly into her palm. “Oh, you sweetness! You little, little baby thing!” she said over and over in a whisper.

Eleanor did not stop purring, and she looked up with friendly, trusting eyes as her little mistress made the acquaintance of her children, but Betsy could feel somehow that Eleanor was anxious about her kitten, was afraid that, although the little girl meant everything that was kind, her great, clumsy, awkward human hands weren’t clever enough to hold a baby-cat the proper way. “I don’t blame you a bit, Eleanor,” said Betsy. “I should feel just so in your place. There! I won’t touch it again!” She laid the kitten down carefully by its mother. Eleanor at once began to wash its face vigorously, knocking it over and over with her strong tongue. “My!” said Betsy, laughing. “You’d scratch my eyes out, if I were as rough as that!”

Dorothy Canfield, Understood Betsy (1916), pp. 186-188

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