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Anne of the Island-Part19_L.Maud Montgomery(1874-1942)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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"We must leave him here till morning," said Phil, replacing the stone.

"He hasn't mewed for five minutes. Perhaps the mews we heard were his



dying groan. Or perhaps we merely imagined them, under the strain of

our guilty consciences."



But, when the box was lifted in the morning, Rusty bounded at one gay

leap to Anne's shoulder where he began to lick her face affectionately.



Never was there a cat more decidedly alive.

"Here's a knot hole in the box," groaned Phil. "I never saw it.



That's why he didn't die. Now, we've got to do it all over again."

"No, we haven't," declared Anne suddenly. "Rusty isn't going to be



killed again. He's my cat -- and you've just got to make the best of it."

"Oh, well, if you'll settle with Aunt Jimsie and the Sarah-cat,"



said Stella, with the air of one washing her hands of the whole affair.

From that time Rusty was one of the family. He slept o'nights on the



scrubbing cushion in the back porch and lived on the fat of the land.

By the time Aunt Jamesina came he was plump and glossy and tolerably



respectable. But, like Kipling's cat, he "walked by himself."

His paw was against every cat, and every cat's paw against him.



One by one he vanquished the aristocratic felines of Spofford Avenue.

As for human beings, he loved Anne and Anne alone. Nobody else even



dared stroke him. An angry spit and something that sounded much like

very improper language greeted any one who did.



"The airs that cat puts on are perfectly intolerable," declared Stella.

"Him was a nice old pussens, him was," vowed Anne, cuddling her pet defiantly.



"Well, I don't know how he and the Sarah-cat will ever make out

to live together," said Stella pesimistically. "Cat-fights in



the orchard o'nights are bad enough. But cat-fights here in the

livingroom are unthinkable." In due time Aunt Jamesina arrived.



Anne and Priscilla and Phil had awaited her advent rather dubiously;

but when Aunt Jamesina was enthroned in the rocking chair before the



open fire they figuratively bowed down and worshipped her.

Aunt Jamesina was a tiny old woman with a little, softly-triangular face,



and large, soft blue eyes that were alight with unquenchable youth, and

as full of hopes as a girl's. She had pink cheeks and snow-white hair



which she wore in quaint little puffs over her ears.

"It's a very old-fashioned way," she said, knitting industriously



at something as dainty and pink as a sunset cloud. "But _I_ am old-fashioned.

My clothes are, and it stands to reason my opinions are, too. I don't say



they're any the better of that, mind you. In fact, I daresay they're a good

deal the worse. But they've worn nice and easy. New shoes are smarter than



old ones, but the old ones are more comfortable. I'm old enough to indulge

myself in the matter of shoes and opinions. I mean to take it real easy here.



I know you expect me to look after you and keep you proper, but I'm not going

to do it.



You're old enough to know how to behave if you're ever going to be.

So, as far as I am concerned," concluded Aunt Jamesina, with a twinkle



in her young eyes, "you can all go to destruction in your own way."

"Oh, will somebody separate those cats?" pleaded Stella, shudderingly.



Aunt Jamesina had brought with her not only the Sarah-cat but Joseph.

Joseph, she explained, had belonged to a dear friend of hers who had



gone to live in Vancouver.

"She couldn't take Joseph with her so she begged me to take him.



I really couldn't refuse. He's a beautiful cat -- that is, his

disposition is beautiful. She called him Joseph because his coat



is of many colors."

It certainly was. Joseph, as the disgusted Stella said, looked



like a walking rag-bag. It was impossible to say what his ground

color was. His legs were white with black spots on them.



His back was gray with a huge patch of yellow on one side and a

black patch on the other. His tail was yellow with a gray tip.



One ear was black and one yellow. A black patch over one eye gave

him a fearfully rakish look. In reality he was meek and inoffensive,



of a sociable disposition. In one respect, if in no other, Joseph

was like a lily of the field. He toiled not neither did he spin



or catch mice. Yet Solomon in all his glory slept not on softer

cushions, or feasted more fully on fat things.



Joseph and the Sarah-cat arrived by express in separate boxes.

After they had been released and fed, Joseph selected the cushion



and corner which appealed to him, and the Sarah-cat gravely sat

herself down before the fire and proceeded to wash her face. She



was a large, sleek, gray-and-white cat, with an enormous dignity

which was not at all impaired by any consciousness of her plebian






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