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Updated: May 15, 2025
Her mistress was conversing in a very strange manner; and the strangest part of it was that she was looking straight into Poppy's own eyes. Poppy didn't know it, but her name was no longer Poppylinda. It was Fifine.
Baby really enjoyed it and Poppylinda as well, both of them blinking in placid appreciation. And as for Missy, the liquid sound of the metres rolling off her own lips, the phrases so beautiful and so "deep," seemed to lift a choking something right up into her throat until she could have wept with the sweet pain of it.
Physically and spiritually unable to keep still another second, she suddenly sat up. "Oh, Poppylinda!" she whispered. "I'm so happy so happy!" Everyone knows that is, everyone who knows kittens that kittens, like babies, listen with their eyes. To Missy's whispered confidence, Poppylinda, without stirring, opened her lids and blinked her yellow eyes. "Aren't you happy, too?
She said her prayers on her knees by the window, where she could keep open but unsacrilegious eyes on God's handiwork outside the divine miracle of everyday things transformed into shimmering glory. A soft brushing against her ankles told her that Poppylinda, her cat, had come to say good night. She lifted her pet up to the sill. "See the beautiful night, Poppy," she said.
She did, as a matter of fact, happy tears, about which her two auditors asked no embarrassing question. Baby merely gurgled, and Poppylinda essayed to climb the declaimer's skirts. "Sit down, sad Soul!" Missy's mood could no longer even attempt to mate with prose.
Missy, with Poppylinda purring beside her, found this mysterious, irradiant feeling flowing out of her heart almost as tangible as a third live being in her quaint little room. It seemed a sort of left-over, still vaguely attached, from the wonderful dream she had just been having.
The baby wasn't quite three, and it was delicious to see him, with mallet and ball before a wicket, trying to mimic the actions of his elders. Poppylinda, Missy's big black cat, wanted to play too, and succeeded in getting between the baby's legs and upsetting him. But the baby was under a charm; he only picked himself up and laughed. And Missy was sure that black Poppy also laughed.
But there were no vast swards nor pleasure-grounds nor Parks of antlered deer in Cherryvale. Then Poppylinda, the majestic black cat, trod up the steps of the porch and rubbed herself against her mistress's foot, as if saying, "Anyhow, I'm here!" Missy reached down and lifted Poppy to her lap. Airy fairy Lilian's pet was a Skye. It was named Fifine, and was very frisky.
Immediately after supper, followed by the inquisitive Poppylinda, Missy took her poem out to the comparative solitude of the back porch steps. It was very sweet and still out there, the sun sinking blood-red over the cherry trees. With no difficulty at all, she went on, inspired: Main Street? The gallant young Doctor in his motor so fleet!
For it was a replica of the one she had dreamed the night before. It was an omen of divine portent. No one could have doubted it. Missy, waking from its subtle glamour to the full sunlight streaming across her pillow, hugged Poppylinda, crooned over her and, though preparing to sacrifice that golden something whose prospect had gilded her life, sang her way through the duties of her toilet.
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