Jack of Tabbyshire: And Other Grandfather Tales

Contents

PREFACE

DEDICATION

JACK OF TABBYSHIRE

A KNIGHT OF THE SHADY HOLLOW

GRANDPA AND THE KING OF THE MOLES

THE DOG GOES DIGGING FOR MOLES

THE DOG AND THE RED SQUIRREL

THE DOG AND THE DITCH

THE DOG AND THE LAWN MOWER

MOUNT CHENEY

GRANDPA GETS HIS CHRISTMAS PRESENT

MOOT POINT

SOME MISSING PAGES

A MATTER OF PRONUNCIATION

PREFACE 

Some of the stories in this collection have been shared with friends and associates by being printed in Mambrino’s Golden Helmet (MGH). MGH is distributed without charge to the members of the National Amateur Press Association (NAPA). NAPA was founded in 1876 to promote amateur journalism as a hobby. Members write, print, publish, and exchange journals by direct mail or through the association’s mailing bureau. For more information about NAPA visit their website at http://www.amateurpress.org.

DEDICATION 

By half-past-seven of a summer evening, all of the radio shows of interest—Jack Armstrong the All-American Boy, Little Orphan Annie, The Lone Ranger, and I Love A Mystery—were over, but daylight still lingered on Petrie Street in Little Falls, New York. It is perhaps 1937 or 1939 and a half-dozen children are gathered about the front stoop of Number 57 Petrie Street. In their midst stands a man of rather sight build. He still wears the vest from the suit that he had earlier worn at work.

My Father, Harold Cheney, Senior, is telling a story which he makes up as he goes along. This evening he continues the adventures of Ikey Noses. Ikey is a Tom Thumb size character who gets involved in adventures every bit as marvelous as those encountered by Jack Armstrong or Little Orphan Annie. And Ikey Noses has his pet purple alligator as a companion. Their airplane is running out of gasoline, but the ever-clever Ikey Noses overcomes that. He turns the airplane around and flies the plane backwards so that gasoline flows out of the engine and into the gas tanks, refilling them as they fly along.

Many years later I was to realize that many of the plot twists which my Father wove into his tales were ‘borrowed’ from classical literature. (Ikey ‘solves’ the riddle: What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three legs in the evening?)

My Father had graduated from High School with the class of 1922 (when he was twenty years old). I fully believe that this level of education put him on a par with that of most college graduates of the present time and our recent past. He could declaim endlessly from Shakespeare. He could recite Gray’s Elegy from start to finish. In a lighter mood he would start into one of the ballads of Robert Service—A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon....

Father was as handy with tools as he was with words. He made wooden swords for our gang. He fashioned, out of wood and metal, a car in which we coasted down to and into the town dump at the dead end of Petrie Street. He made elegant clothes-pin guns to fire the broad rubber bands we cut from an old tire inner tube.

Father and I fished together; picked berries together; hunted puffballs together. But it is his story telling that I remember the most from those otherwise dreary days of the Great Depression. When I became a Father, I attempted to continue on with the tradition of story telling. I am not an especially modest or humble person, but I know that I am not the in my Father’s class as a story teller. He set a standard. I aim for it. For this reason, these stories can only be dedicated to one person:

To my father, harold w. Cheney, sr. (1902-1969)

JACK OF TABBYSHIRE 

A tale of a Special Cat

I—TABBYSHIRE

Of all the Shires in this fair land, not a single one is at the one time both as beautiful and as unknown as the District of Tabbyshire in the Duchy of Pussydom. It is probable that the obscurity of this Duchy and Shire results from a strange fact. Namely, almost all of the populace are cats—cats and kittens. A few humans live there, but for the most part they are of a rather low class and are found in the more remote and border regions of the Shire.

This is a tale of one of the cats of Tabbyshire, specifically, Jack of Tabbyshire.

But we must go back before Jack to begin this story in the proper way.

The foremost family of Tabbyshire was, without question, the family of the Earl of Tabbyshire. The head of that family, as we begin our story, was Lord Wallingford. His Lordship was a fine looking cat—sleek tiger-striped fur and an elegant tail. Lady Wallingford was particularly dainty. Her Ladyship had quite exhausted her strength with her first and only litter. A dainty little girl kitten (whom cats of the Shire thought certain to take after her Mother) and a strikingly handsome boy kitten were the issue of that labor.

The young lady cat was named Teena. The young boy cat was named Jefferson. Now, my reader, you must understand that the cats in Pussydom and Tabbyshire named themselves with cat names. It would be far beyond my abilities to give even the most remote approximation of these names such that they would be meaningful to any human reader. Even the name of the Shire—Tabbyshire—is a designation used by the neighboring humans. So Teena and Jefferson are humanized names which I have devised to identify, as best I can, the litter of her Ladyship. And so it will be with names and titles throughout this tale.

Need I say that both of these kittens were spoiled in their rearing, almost beyond belief? A pity. Both had exceptional potential. They were bright and gracious to begin with. But by being held out as being so much above all of the other kittens in the Shire, they changed, as they grew, into self-centered and selfish young cats who lived only for their personal enjoyment and satisfaction.

Life for the two young cats was a continuing succession of social events. Kittens of their age, from the lesser families of the Shire, were brought in to play with them. Of course these other kittens were carefully instructed by their parents on how to behave when in the Great Manor house. Thus Teena and Jefferson came to accept that all other cats and kittens would defer to them—in fact that they existed only for the purpose of attending to their needs and whims.

II—A PROMISE MADE

Now it happened that in the Great Manor house one of the lowly maids—a scullery maid, in fact—had caught the eye of Jefferson. This young cat was named Patsy. Her parents had been humble tenants of one of the Squires of the Shire. They had fallen prey to a wandering dog from the neighboring Shire—a hunting dog from the humans who populated that Shire. When she had been orphaned in that way, her Squire felt a responsibility to see that she would be taken care of. The Squire had approached Lord Wallingford.

Well what is it this time, Squire Frisky? Another of your tenants caught out of the Shire?

Not quite, your Lordship. Two of my tenants were caught within this Shire by a huge vicious black dog from across the river. Lor’ what a mess. But that is done. My problem is with their orphaned daughter. She is barely a year old and needs some place to go.

"Let me see. I think that we can take on another maid in the scullery. Bring the lass around and I will have Hampton find a place for her.

Oh may the Great Cat bless you, m’lord. I knew that I could count on your kindness.

Squire Frisky went back to his manor and told Patsy—for that was her name—that he had secured a place at the Great Manor service for young Patsy.

The Squire had impressed on young Patsy how fortunate she was to be accepted into service in the Great Manor house. His Lordship has no real responsibility for you. I didn’t tell his Lordship, but you know very well that your Mum and Dad shouldn’t have been down by the river that night.

Patsy was troubled by the prospect but the Squire assured her that Lady Wallingford would ensure that she would be well taken care of in a kindly manner. Such was promised. Such was not to be.

Stevens will take you over to the Great Manor tomorrow. You will go right away to the housekeeper, Missus Hampton.

III—A PROMISE BROKEN

And so young Patsy entered service at the Great Manor. For some time she was buried in the scullery. Her natural graciousness soon led to her being used to fill in at the manorial table on special occasions. The natural result of this is that she was soon noticed by young Master Jefferson.

When young Jefferson espied her he turned to his lackey and issued a few brief instructions. I say, that new kitten is quite a charming piece. See that you arrange something for me with her.

Patsy found herself, that evening, on the back stairs on an errand to polish young Jefferson’s boots. She suddenly found herself in the clutches of young Master Jefferson and unable to escape. A few moments later she was sent back to the scullery and told to stay there and never show her face above stairs again.

Young Patsy soon had to confide to Missus Hampton that she would be blessed with a kitten or kittens. The Housekeeper questioned her without letup until she found out Master Jefferson’s role in this. The matter was brought before his Lordship. His Lordship gave instructions to his head groundskeeper to take Patsy away and make sure that she would never come near the manor house again.

Old Thom had broken teeth as yellow as his eyes. No one had ever known him to do a kindly thing in all his years as groundskeeper at the Great Manor. Patsy was alarmed when Missus Hampton took her to Old Thom’s shack and told her that she was to go with him. You know what you have to do, Thomas.

Yes.

Old Thom tied a leather thong about Patsy’s neck and led her off into the deep wood. They traveled all of the day and well into the night. In the depths of the wood young Patsy had no idea of where she was. Old Thom stopped. He turned to Patsy and she saw that he was holding a long and sharp knife. She shivered with fear—fear for herself and for the little one she carried within her.

Old Thom smiled. His yellowed teeth showed in a fearsome way. Take off your smock.

Patsy shivered, both from the cold and from fear, as she obeyed.

Hand it to me.

Patsy handed them over.

Young Patsy, I think you know what his Lordship means for me to do. But your Mum and your Da were as close with me in the old days as my own litter mates and I cannot do harm to one of theirs.

Old Thom reached out with his knife and cut the thong from around Patsy’s neck.

You get on with yourself and that kit you’re carrying. Keep going towards the rising of the morning sun. Never turn towards the setting sun. But do not go beyond the great river or you will be out of Tabbyshire. Do you understand?

Patsy nodded.

Old Thom went over to a brush pile and pulled out a snare that he had set there some days ago. A newly killed badger was caught in it. With a swift slash of his knife, old Thom spilled a gush of its blood onto Patsy’s smock.

That should make his Lordship happy, old Thom explained to Patsy. Now, get on with you and remember what I said.

IV—SUCCOR FROM AN UNEXPECTED SOURCE

And so it was, that some days later, Patsy found herself deep in the swampy bogs in the far depths of the Shire. She had no idea of where she was and where she was to go. She wandered about, at loss as to what to do.

In that rank and disease ridden swamp young Patsy gave birth to her single little kitten. Patsy had no help nor succor. She did all that a young and inexperienced Mother could do for her kitten. But so foul was the fetid place where her kitten was born that a severe infection took the sight from one of his tender little eyes, even before it had a chance to open. Of course Patsy thought that her kitten was beautiful.

She was right. He was a beautiful little kitten. Even as he huddled closely to Patsy, the pattern of stripes that marked his fur was a delight to see.

Patsy had been ill-fed for all the time she had spent since leaving the Great Manor. Now she was even more plagued by hunger. She needed to eat to provide the milk needed by her kitten. She would have to find help—but from where? She built a little nest of moss for her kitten. She wandered off, looking for whatever help she could find. Then, in the distance, she spotted a light glowing from the unshuttered window of a small hut.

Crying for help, hoping for help, she approached the door of the hut. The door opened. Patsy leapt forward, only to stop in terror.

Standing in the door was not a friendly cat. No. Standing in the door loomed the towering figure of a human! She turned to run but found that she had exhausted her strength. Patsy collapsed to the ground and lay there, trembling with fear.

What is it Grandpa? A voice called from within.

Why, it is a cat, Grandma. A very tired cat. It looks as if it cannot take another step. What should I do, Grandma?

A cat? What is a cat to us? They are all so snooty. They live so well and leave us to live in this swamp. I say let the cat go.

Patsy heard these cruel and harsh words of human tongue with dismay. She could not catch every word, but she could understand enough to catch the sense which they conveyed.

Please. Please, I need food and warmth for me and my kitten.

Now, of course—as you must understand—the old man and women could not understand a word of Patsy’s plea. They only heard an indistinguishable succession of meows. But the old man could not but help understand the desperation and misery in the cat’s plea.

This cat is not clothed—like the rest of them. This cat seems to want me to go someplace with it. It is trying to lead me away.

Well, be the old fool that you are and go. See if I care if you catch your death of cold out in the swamp. The last thing we need is a cat as a pet.

PET! When Patsy heard that word (and she did understand its meaning), weak as she was, she almost bolted into the underbrush. Nothing could compare with the disgrace that befell a cat that became the pet—she shuddered to even think of the word—the pet of humans.

But the reality of her situation held her fast. Disgrace was as nothing when it came to securing help for her new born kitten. Continuing to plead, she moved to lead the old man back to where she had left her kitten. The old man took after her as she led the way back into the brush. The two struggled through the mire.

The old man tired easily. Where are you leading me?

Patsy stopped. Exhausted. She could go no further. But she had led the old man to her mossy nest. She fell down beside her little kitten. The old man looked down.

The old man (and the old woman) had never cared for cats or kittens. But when the old man laid eyes on this little kitten, his heart warmed and he stooped down. His coarsened hands carefully and tenderly wrapped about the little furry body. He lifted the little creature close to his face. Oh mercy me! What a sweet little one you are. Come with me. You must be freezing.

Patsy took such heart from the way that the old man held her little kitten that she felt refreshened. Where did her strength come from? A Mother’s love revived her and she followed the old man back to the hut.

What is that? What are you carrying?

The cat has had a kitten. It cannot be more than a day old. Grandma, the mother cat must be hungry. Pour some milk for her.

Milk! Milk for a cat? How much milk do you think we have? When will we get more?

She can have mine, Grandma. Pour her my milk.

With a sigh of exasperation the old woman poured some milk into a small bowl and sat it on the floor. Patsy hesitated for a while but then, overcome with hunger and with the knowledge that she needed to feed her kitten, she stopped and began to lap up the proffered milk.

Good kitty.

Patsy detected a warmth in the voice of the old man, but, at the same time, she sensed a tone that said that she was seen by the old man as a pet. Should she run away? What of her kitten? She sighed with resignation. She had no choice. She must accept whatever