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37
Letters from a Cat
·
Helen Hunt Jackson
28
As
soon
as
he
saw
me,
he
set
the
lamp
down
on
the
cellar
bottom,
and
laughed
so
that
he
could
hardly
move.
I
thought
this
was
the
most
cruel
thing
I
ever
heard
of.
If
I
had
not
been,
as
it
were,
at
death's
door,
I
should
have
laughed
at
him,
too,
for
even
with
my
eyes
full
of
that
dreadful
stuff,
I
could
see
that
he
looked
very
funny
in
his
red
night-cap,
and
without
his
teeth.
He
called
out
to
Mary,
and
your
mother,
who
stood
at
the
head
of
the
stairs,
"Come
down,
come
down;
here's
the
cat
in
the
soft-soap
barrel!"
and
then
he
laughed
again,
and
they
both
came
down
the
stairs
laughing,
even
your
dear
kind
mother,
who
I
never
could
have
believed
would
laugh
at
any
one
in
such
trouble.
They
did
not
seem
to
know
what
to
do
at
first;
nobody
wanted
to
touch
me;
and
I
began
to
be
afraid
I
should
drown
while
they
stood
looking
at
me,
for
I
knew
much
better
than
they
could
how
weak
I
was
from
holding
on
to
the
edge
of
the
barrel
so
long.
At
last
your
grandfather
swore
that
oath
of
his,--you
know
the
one
I
mean,
the
one
he
always
swears
when
he
is
very
sorry
for
anybody,--and
lifted
me
out
by
the
nape
of
my
neck,
holding
me
as
far
off
from
him
as
he
could,
for
the
soft
soap
ran
off
my
legs
and
tail
in
streams.
He
carried
me
up
into
the
kitchen,
and
put
me
down
in
the
middle
of
the
floor,
and
then
they
all
stood
round
me,
and
laughed
again,
so
loud
that
they
waked
up
the
cook,
who
came
running
out
of
her
bedroom
with
her
tin
candlestick
and
a
chair
in
her
hand,
thinking
that
robbers
were
breaking
in.
At
last
your
dear
mother
said,
"Poor
pussy,
it
is
too
bad
to
laugh
at
you,
when
you
are
in
such
pain"
(I
had
been
thinking
so
for
some
time).
"Mary,
bring
the
small
washtub.
The
only
thing
we
can
do
is
to
wash
her."
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