She had the cat, Kit-Ki, in her arms. Kit-Ki,
divining nourishment, was purring loudly.
Josephine and Clemence, in pinafores and stickout skirts, sat wriggling,
with Winthrop between them; the five dogs sat in a row behind; Katie and
Bridget assumed the functions of Hibernian Hebes; and luncheon began
with a clatter of spoons.
It being also the children's dinner--supper and bed occurring from five
to six--meat figured on the card, and Kit-Ki's purring increased to an
ecstatic and wheezy squeal, and her rigid tail, as she stood up on
Drina's lap, was constantly brushing Selwyn's features.
"The cat is shedding, too," he remarked, as he dodged her caudal
appendage for the twentieth time; "it will go in with the next
spoonful, Drina, if you're not careful about opening your mouth."
"I love Kit-Ki," said Drina placidly. "I have written a poem to
her--where is it?--hand it to me, Bridget."
And, laying down her fork and crossing her bare legs under the table,
Drina took breath and read rapidly:
"LINES TO MY CAT
"Why
Do I love Kit-Ki
And run after
Her with laughter
And rub her fur
So she will purr?
Why do I know
That Kit-Ki loves me so?
I know it if
Her tail stands up stiff
And she beguiles
Me with smiles--"
"Huh!" said Billy, "cats don't smile!"
"They do.
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