locked up in the back yard to prevent our shore and field wanderings,
we had to play away the comparatively dull time as best we could. One
of our amusements was hunting cats without seriously hurting them.
These sagacious animals knew, however, that, though not very
dangerous, boys were not to be trusted. One time in particular I
remember, when we began throwing stones at an experienced old Tom, not
wishing to hurt him much, though he was a tempting mark. He soon saw
what we were up to, fled to the stable, and climbed to the top of the
hay manger. He was still within range, however, and we kept the stones
flying faster and faster, but he just blinked and played possum
without wincing either at our best shots or at the noise we made. I
happened to strike him pretty hard with a good-sized pebble, but he
still blinked and sat still as if without feeling. "He must be
mortally wounded," I said, "and now we must kill him to put him out
of pain," the savage in us rapidly growing with indulgence. All took
heartily to this sort of cat mercy and began throwing the heaviest
stones we could manage, but that old fellow knew what characters we
were, and just as we imagined him mercifully dead he evidently thought
the play was becoming too serious and that it was time to retreat; for
suddenly with a wild whirr and gurr of energy he launched himself over
our heads, rushed across the yard in a blur of speed, climbed to the
roof of another building and over the garden wall, out of pain and bad
company, with all his lives wideawake and in good working order.

After we had thus learned that Tom had at least nine lives, we tried
to verify the common saying that no matter how far cats fell they
always landed on their feet unhurt. We caught one in our back yard,
not Tom but a smaller one of manageable size, and somehow got him
smuggled up to the top story of the house. I don't know how in the
world we managed to let go of him, for as soon as we opened the