ltese 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. It was a shrill whistle, and we could hear it a long
way from home. I have seen her standing at the back door whistling for
Malta, and the pretty creature's head would appear somewhere always high
up, for she was a great climber, and she would come running along the
top of the fence, saying, "Meow, meow," in a funny, short way.

Miss Laura would pet her, or give her something to eat, or walk around
the garden carrying her on her shoulder. Malta was a most affectionate
cat, and if Miss Laura would not let her lick her face, she licked her
hair with her little, rough tongue. Often Malta lay by the fire, licking
my coat or little Billy's, to show her affection for us.

Mary, the cook, was very fond of cats, and used to keep Malta in the
kitchen as much as she could, but nothing would make her stay down there
if there was any music going on upstairs. The Morris pets were all fond
of music. As soon as Miss Laura sat down to the piano to sing or play,
we came from all parts of the house. Malta cried to get upstairs,
Davy scampered through the hall, and Bella hurried after him. If I was
outdoors I ran in the house; and Jim got on a box and looked through the
window.

Davy's place was on Miss Laura's shoulder, his pink nose run in the
curls at the back of her neck. I sat under the piano beside Malta
and Bella, and we never stirred till the music was over; then we went
quietly away.

Malta was a beautiful cat there was no doubt about it. While I was with
Jenkins I thought cats were vermin, like rats, and I chased them every
chance I got. Mrs. Jenkins had a cat, a gaunt, long-legged, yellow
creature, that ran whenever we looked at it.

Malta had been so kindly treated that she never ran from any one, except
from strange dogs. She knew they would be likely to hurt her. If they
came upon her suddenly, she faced them, and she was a pretty good
fighter