Gentle Julia | Page 9

a crystalline violet become
scented sugar, or a bit of fruit translucent in hardened sirup, she would
delicately set it on the way to that attractive dissolution hoped for it by
the wistful donor--and all without removing her shadowy eyes from the
little volume and its patient struggle for dignified rhymes with "Julia."
Florence was no longer in her beautiful relative's thoughts.
Florence was idly in the thoughts, however, of Mrs. Balche, the
next-door neighbour to the south. Happening to glance from a
bay-window, she negligently marked how the child walked to the front
gate, opened it, paused for a moment's meditation, then hurled the gate
to a vigorous closure, herself remaining within its protection. "Odd!"
Mrs. Balche murmured.
Having thus eloquently closed the gate, Florence slowly turned and
moved toward the rear of the house, quickening her steps as she went,
until at a run she disappeared from the scope of Mrs. Balche's gaze, cut
off by the intervening foliage of Mr. Atwater's small orchard. Mrs.
Balche felt no great interest; nevertheless, she paused at the sound of a
boy's voice, half husky, half shrill, in an early stage of change. "What
she say, Flor'nce? D'she say we could?" But there came a warning
"Hush up!" from Florence, and then, in a lowered tone, the boy's voice
said: "Look here; these are mighty funny-actin' cats. I think they're kind

of crazy or somep'n. Kitty Silver's fixed a washtub full o' suds for us."
Mrs. Balche was reminded of her own cat, and went to give it a little
cream. Mrs. Balche was a retired widow, without children, and too
timid to like dogs; but after a suitable interval, following the loss of her
husband, she accepted from a friend the gift of a white kitten, and
named it Violet. It may be said that Mrs. Balche, having few interests
in life, and being of a sequestering nature, lived for Violet, and that so
much devotion was not good for the latter's health. In his youth, after
having shown sufficient spirit to lose an eye during a sporting absence
of three nights and days, Violet was not again permitted enough
freedom of action to repeat this disloyalty; though, now, in his
advanced middle-age, he had been fed to such a state that he seldom
cared to move, other than by a slow, sneering wavement of the tail
when friendly words were addressed to him; and consequently, as he
seemed beyond all capacity or desire to run away, or to run at all, Mrs.
Balche allowed him complete liberty of action.
She found him asleep upon her "back porch," and placed beside him a
saucer of cream, the second since his luncheon. Then she watched him
affectionately as he opened his eye, turned toward the saucer his noble
Henry-the-Eighth head with its great furred jowls, and began the
process of rising for more food, which was all that ever seemed even
feebly to rouse his mind. When he had risen, there was little space
between him anywhere and the floor.
Violet took his cream without enthusiasm, pausing at times and turning
his head away. In fact, he persisted only out of an incorrigible
sensuality, and finally withdrew a pace or two, leaving creamy traces
still upon the saucer. With a multitude of fond words his kind mistress
drew his attention to these, whereupon, making a visible effort, he
returned and disposed of them.
"Dat's de 'itty darlin'," she said, stooping to stroke him. "Eat um all up
nice clean. Dood for ole sweet sin!" She continued to stroke him, and
Violet half closed his eye, but not with love or serenity, for he
simultaneously gestured with his tail, meaning to say: "Oh, do take
your hands off o' me!" Then he opened the eye and paid a little

attention to sounds from the neighbouring yard. A high fence,
shrubberies, and foliage concealed that yard from the view of Violet,
but the sounds were eloquent to him, since they were those made by
members of his own general species when threatening atrocities. The
accent may have been foreign, but Violet caught perfectly the sense of
what was being said, and instinctively he muttered reciprocal curses
within himself.
"What a matta, honey?" his companion inquired sympathetically. "Ess,
bad people f'ighten poor Violet!"
From beyond the fence came the murmurings of a boy and a girl in
hushed but urgent conversation; and with these sounds there mingled
watery agitations, splashings and the like, as well as those low
vocalizings that Violet had recognized; but suddenly there were
muffled explosions, like fireworks choked in feather beds; and the
human voices grew uncontrollably somewhat louder, so that their
import was distinguishable. "Ow!" "Hush up, can't you? You want to
bring the whole town to--ow!" "Hush up yourself!" "Oh,