IT was Edwy himself who had named the cat Zephyr second. For one summer they had a cat visitor that he named Zephyr, but she had gone back to her home among the mountains and they had never seen her again. But for this little kitten that had come to them, so white, so pretty and engaging, a real snow-flake in color, so tiny and playful; Zephyr seemed such an appropriate name. He could not call it Zephyr alone, for that would have seemed like forgetting the former one, who was not so beautiful as this one, and had never leaped higher than one’s head like this one, but Zephyr second, or Zephyr II, would be quite the thing, and keep the former one in memory.
He was glad that this one had come to his Aunt Aida’s, for they would be a month longer in camp, and then Zephyr’s winter would not seem so long.
He seemed more and more appreciative of all the graceful pranks of his pet when she ran like a wild happy thing, leaping up as high as the fence posts after butterflies in the sunshine, running up to the very tops of the trees, and back again, but never catching the birds, oh no; she was too happy to lie in wait for them, and the best trick of all was, when she would sit on the bank and watch for a boat coming from the other camp, every time he and Willard were out of her sight. She would listen for the lapping of the oars, then leap to the bank, give a glad little cry, arch her back, and give her sweet, high-toned purr when they came near.
One evening before it was quite dark, when supper was just ready at their father’s camp on the hill, Aida and Mo-ma had come over to stay all night. They were to have their even-song, with the organ, violin, and guitar, and the sweet human sympathetic voices of all in unison. The songs which Edwy was sure “could be heard by the birds in their nests high up in the tall trees, that leaned over the camp roof.”
They had just heard Willard and his father, fastening their boat at the foot of the hill, and now they, “the truants,” were running quickly up the stone steps from the landing, when Willard, the first comer, opened the door and thrust some object inside.
It was none other than Zephyr!
“While we were passing your dock, we saw Zephyr waiting all alone on the bank. We called to her, and she came running down and we took her right into the boat with us, and here she is!”
“You precious darling,” said Edwy, stroking her.
As supper was now ready, he took her in his lap, and, contrary to all rules, he fed her, as the poet Maeterlinck used to do with his pet cat, talking to her in his happy voice in his own place at the table.
The evening had grown cool enough to have a fire of apple-tree wood, blazing before the broad hearth, so before they began their even-song, Willard had laid the moss-covered logs together and lighted them, removing first the dainty fender, which his own hands had made, with artistic deftness; having woven in the name of their camp among the interstices of the woven wire. Now, where the welcome fire-glow shone through it on the hearth-rug. Zephyr had taken her position, quite at home and happy; purring her “grey thrums,” louder than ever, in her contentment.