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Letters from a Cat
·
Helen Hunt Jackson
6
It
was
a
long
time
before
her
fur
grew
out
again
after
that
terrible
fall
into
the
soft-soap
barrel.
However,
it
did
grow
out
at
last,
and
looked
as
well
as
ever.
Nobody
would
have
known
that
any
thing
had
been
the
matter
with
her,
except
that
her
eyes
were
always
weak.
The
edges
of
them
never
got
quite
well;
and
poor
Pussy
used
to
sit
and
wash
them
by
the
hour;
sometimes
mewing
and
looking
up
in
my
face,
with
each
stroke
of
her
paw
on
her
eyes,
as
much
as
to
say,
"Don't
you
see
how
sore
my
eyes
are?
Why
don't
you
do
something
for
me?"
She
was
never
good
for
any
thing
as
a
mouser
after
that
accident,
nor
for
very
much
to
play
with.
I
recollect
hearing
my
mother
say
one
day
to
somebody,--"Pussy
was
spoiled
by
her
experience
in
the
cradle.
She
would
like
to
be
rocked
the
rest
of
her
days,
I
do
believe;
and
it
is
too
funny
to
see
her
turn
up
her
nose
at
tough
beef.
It
was
a
pity
she
ever
got
a
taste
of
tenderloin!"
At
last,
what
with
good
feeding
and
very
little
exercise,
she
grew
so
fat
that
she
was
clumsy,
and
so
lazy
that
she
did
not
want
to
do
any
thing
but
lie
curled
up
on
a
soft
cushion.
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