Music Welcome to newscast, the podcast designed to help you fall asleep. Find us on snoozecast.com and follow us on Instagram at snoozecast to find behind the scenes content. If you enjoy our show, please write a review on the Apple Podcasts app. Please know that we read and appreciate every single one and that your review helps new listeners to discover us as well. This episode is dedicated to D-DRA and brought to you by Rose-Scentedid Soap Tonight. We'll read Cat Theme Stories written by English author and poet Edith Nesbet, published in 1899. Nesbet wrote or collaborated on more than 60 books of children's literature under the name E. Nesbet, along with being a political activist.

This particular collection of stories follows the lives of various cats and dogs and will appeal to all of our animal-loving listeners. Let's get cozy.

Close your eyes. Relax your body into the softness of your bed. Now, take a few deep breaths. Two clever by half. Tell us a story, mother. Said the youngest kitten, but three. You've heard all my stories, said the mother cat, sleepily turning over in the hay. Then make a new one, said the youngest kitten, so partly that Mrs. Buff raised her paw to give her a swat of the ears. But she laughed too. Did you ever hear a cat laugh? People say that cats often have occasion to do it. I do know one story, she said, but I'm not sure that it's true. Though it was told to me by a most respectable, brindled gentleman, a great friend of my dear mothers. He said he was a second cousin 29 times removed of Mrs. Tabby White, the lady the story is about. Oh, do tell it, said all the kittens, sitting up very straight and looking at their mother with green eyes. Very well, she said kindly, only if you interrupt I shall leave." So, there was silence in the barn, except for Mrs. Buff's voice, and the soft sound of pleased purring which the kittens made as they listened to the enchanting tale. This. Tabby White seems to have been as clever a cat as ever went rat catching in a pair of soft-souled shoes. She always knew just where a mouse would peep out of the Wayne's God, and she had her soft sharp paw on him before he had time to know that he was not alone in the room. She knew how to catch nice breakfast for herself and her children. A trick I will teach you, my dears, when the spring comes. He used to lie quite quietly among the ivy on the wall, and then take the baby birds out of the nest when the grown-up birds had gone to the grub shop. Mrs. Tabby White was very clever, as I said. So clever, that presently she was not satisfied with being at the very top of the cat profession. Cat people have more sense than human people, of course. She sent to herself. But still, there are some things one might learn from them. I must watch and see how they do things. So, next morning, when the cook gave Mrs. Tabby white her breakfast, she noticed that cook poured the milk out of a jug into a saucer. That afternoon, Tabby felt thirsty, but instead of putting her head into the jug and drinking in the usual way, you know. She tilted up the jug to pour the milk out as she had seen the cook-dough. But Kat's paws, though they are so strong to catch rats and mice and birds, are too weak to hold big brown jugs. The nasty deceitful jug fell off the dresser and broke itself.

Just to spite me, I do believe," said Mrs. Tabby, and the milk was all spilled. Now how on earth could that jug have been broken?" said Cook, when she came in. It must have been the cat," said the kitchen maid, and she was quite right, but nobody believed her. Then Mrs. Tabby White noticed that human people slept in big, soft, cushioned white beds instead of sleeping on the kitchen hearth-rug or in the barn like cat people. So she said to her children one evening, My dears, we are going to move into a new house, And the kittens were delighted, and they all went upstairs very quietly and crept into the very best human bed. But unfortunately, that bed had been got ready for a human uncle to sleep in, and when he found the cats there, he turned them out, not gently, and threw boots at them until they fled. And next morning, he told the mistress of the house that cats had been in his bed, and he found that he would never pass another night under a roof where such things were possible.

Mrs. Tabby White was very glad because no lady can wish for the visits of a person who throws boots at her. But the mistress of the house said sadly, Oh, Tabby, you've lost us a fortune. and Tubby, for all her cleverness, didn't understand what the mistress meant. But went on purring, proudly, and wondering what clever thing she could do next. And I don't know what it meant, either, so don't you interrupt with silly questions. I think we ought to wear shoes. What's the next thing Mrs. Tabby White said? But all the human shoes were too big for her. However, there was a nice pair of salmon-colored kid-choos, quite new, belonging to the human child's big doll, and Mrs. Tabby White put them on her eldest kiddin's little brownie feet. Now, Brindle, she said, he was named after the gentlemen who told me the story. You are grander than any kitten ever was before. And at first Brindle felt pleased. Then, he tried to feel pleased. Then he knew he wasn't pleased at all. Then the shoes began to make his feet horribly sore, so he meowed sadly, and Mrs. Tabby White swatted his ears softly, as mother cats too. You know how I mean. But when she was asleep, he took off the pink shoes and bit them to pieces. And Nurse yelled at him. Poor Mrs. Tabby White was miserable when she heard her son being yelled at. For it is one thing to box your son's ears softly as mother cats do, you know how I mean. And quite another to see another person yell, as is the way with nursemates. But the last and greatest effort Mrs. Tabby White made to imitate human manners was one Saturday night. She saw the human child have its bath before the nursery fire, with hot water, pink soap, dry towels, and much flushing, and she said to herself, Why should I waste hours every day in washing my children with my little white paws and my little pink tongue, when this human child can be made clean in ten minutes with this big bath? If I had more time, I could learn to be cleverer, and I should

end up being the most wonderful cat in all the world. So she sat and watched and waited. And the human child was in bed and asleep.

Nurse went down to her supper, leaving the bath to be cleared away later. For it was a hot supper of baked onions and toasted cheese, and if you don't go to that supper directly, and when it's ready, you may as well not go at all, for it won't be worth eating, at least, so I have heard the kitchen-made say. Mrs. Tabby White waited till she heard the last of nurses' steps on the stairs below, And then she put both her cat children into the tub, and washed them with rose-centred soap and a Turkish sponge. At first they thought it very good fun. But presently the soap got in their eyes, and they were frightened of the sponge, and they cried, meowing pitiously, to be taken out. I don't know how she could have done it. I couldn't have treated a kid in a mine like that. When she took them out, Mrs. Tabby tried to dry them with the soft towel, but somehow Cat's skin is not so easy to dry as child's skin, and the little cats began to shiver and moan. Oh, Mother, we were so nice and warm, and now we are so cold. Why is it? What have we done? Drat the cats, said Nurse, when she came up from supper, and found Mrs. Tabby White, trying to warm her kittens against her own, fur. If they haven't tumbled into the bath, cried the nurse. Nurse dried the poor dear kittens a little. Her hands were bigger than Mrs. Tabby's, so she could do it better, And put them in a basket with flannel. And next day, Tabby Kit was quite well, though looking rather ragged. But Brindle had taken a chill. Poor Mrs. Tabby was like a wild cat over it, and when it last, Brindle was well again. Mrs. Tabby White said to her children, my darlings, I was wrong, I was a silly old cat. No, perth the cat children, darling mother, you were always the best of cats.

Mrs. Tabby kissed them both. For of course, anyone would be pleased that her children should think her the best of cats. But in her heart, she knew well enough how silly she had been. Then she said about washing the kittens, not with pink soap and white towels this time, but with white paws and pink tongue in the good old-fashioned way. Thank you, mother, said all the kittens. What a nice horrible story. What is the moral as the youngest kitten but three? The moral, said Mrs. Buffie, is. There is such a thing as being too clever by half. I'm not sure about the story being true, but I know the moral is, why? It's nearly tea time. Come along children and get your tea. So they all crept quietly away to catch the necessary mice, and the youngest was so afraid of being too clever by half that she would never have caught a mouse at all. If her mother had not boxed her ears, softly as mother cats do, You know how I mean. The white Persian. I was a handsome, discreet, middle-aged, respectable, responsible, domesticated Tabbycat. I was humble. I knew my place and kept it. My place was the place nearest the fire in winter, or close to the sunny window in summer. There was nothing to trouble me, not so much as a fly in the cream, or an error in the leaving of the cat's meat, until some thoughtless person gave my master the white Persian cat. She was very beautiful in her soft, foolish, namby-pamby, blue-eyed way. Of course, she did not understand English. And when they called out to her, here kitty, kitty, she only ran under the sofa, where she thought they were teasing her. She was a mistress only of two languages, Persian and Cat Talk. My master did not think of this. He called her Puss. He called her Kitty. He called her Tidams. And a thousand endearments that had formerly been lavished on me were vainly showered on this unresponsive stranger, but when he found she was cold to all of them, my master sighed. Poor thing, he said, she is deaf. eyes sat by the bright fender and washed my face and sleeked my pretty paws and looked on. My master gave up taking very much notice of the new cat, but I had a fear that he might learn Persian or cat talk and make friends with her, So I resolved that the best thing for me would be a complete change in the Persian's behavior. Such a change as would make it impossible for her ever to be friends with him again. So I said to her, You wonder that our master looks coldly at you? Perhaps you don't know that in England, a white cat is supposed to meow twenty times longer and to per twenty times louder than a cat of any other color. Oh, thank you so much for telling me. She sat gratefully. I didn't know. As it happens, I have a very good voice. And the next time she wanted her milk, she meowed in a voice you could have heard twenty miles away. Poor Master was so astonished that he nearly dropped the saucer. When she had finished the milk, she jumped upon his knee and he began to stroke her. She nearly gave herself a fit in her efforts to purr loud enough to please him. At first he was pleased, but when the purring got louder and louder, the poor man put his hands to his ears and said, oh dear, oh dear, this is worse than a whole hive of bees. Still, he put her down gently, and I congratulated her on having done so well. She did better. She was an affectionate person, though foolish. And in her anxiety to do what was expected of a cat of her color in England, she practiced day and night. Her per was already the loudest I have heard from any cat. But she fancy she could improve her mowing. And she mowed in the garden. She mowed in the house. She mowed at meals. She mowed at prayers. She meowed when she was hungry to show that she wanted food, and she mowed when she had it to show her gratitude. Poor thing, said the master to a friend who had come to see him. She's so deaf she can't hear the noise she makes. Of course, I understood what he said, but she hadn't yet picked up a word of English. And if the master had begun to learn Persian, I don't suppose he had got much beyond the alphabet. The Persians Meow was rather feeble or that day because she had a cold. I don't think it's so bad, said his friend. If he really wanted to get rid of her, she's very handsome, she would take a prize anywhere. She's yours, said the master instantly, and the strange gentleman took her away in a basket. That evening it was I who sat on my master's knee. I who superintendent the writing of his letters on the green-covered writing table. I, who had all the milk that was left over from his tea. In a few days he had a letter. I read it when he laid it down, and if you don't believe the cats can read, I can only say that it is just as easy to read a letter like the Master's as it is to write a story like this. The letter begged my Master to take back the fair Persian. For howls, the letter went on, become worse and worse.

The poor creature is, as you say, too deaf to be tolerated. My master wrote back instantly to say that he would rather be condemned to keep a dog than have the fair Persian within his doors again. Then, by return of post, came a pitiful letter, begging for help and mercy, and the friend came again to tea. I trembled, less my foreign rival should come back to live with me, but she didn't. The next morning, my master took me on his knee, and stroking me gently, said, all tabbacans, no more Persians for us.

I have sent her to my defiant.

She will be delighted with her, a most handsome present, and as they are both deaf, the fair Persians' streaks will hurt nobody. But I will have no more prize cats," he said, pouring out some cream for me in his own saucer. You know how to behave. I will never have any cat but you. I do and he never has. A powerful friend. My mother was the best of cats. She washed us kittens all over every morning, and at odd times during the day she would wash little bits of us, say in ear, or a paw, or a tail tip, and she was very anxious about our education. I'm afraid I gave her a great deal of trouble, for I was rather stout and heavy and did not take a very active or greaseful part in the exercises which she thought could for us. Argymnasium was the kitchen hearth-rock. There was always a good fire in the grate, and it seemed to me so much better to go to sleep in front of it than to run round after my tail, or even my mother's, though, of course, that was a great honor. So much better to go to sleep in front of it, I thought. As for running after the reel of cotton when the cook dropped it, we're playing with the tassel of the curtain blinds, we're pretending that there were mice inside the paper bag which I knew to be empty. I confess that I had no heart or imagination for these diversions. Of course, you know best mother, I used to say, but it does seem to me a dreadful waste of time. might might be much better employed. How better employed? Ask my mother severely. Why? I answered. In eating or sleeping. At first, my mother used to box my ears and insist on my learning such little accomplishments as she thought necessary for my station in life. You see, she would say, all this playing with tales and reels and balls of cotton is a preparation for the real business of life. What is that? Asked my sister. Mouse catching said my mother very earnestly. There are no mouths here, I said, stretching myself. No, but you will not always be here, and if you practice the little tricks I show you now with the ball of cotton and the tips of our tails, then when the great hour comes. And a career is open to you. And you see before you the glorious prize, the mouse. You will be quick enough and clever enough to satisfy the highest needs of your nature. And supposing we don't play with our tails and the balls of cotton, I said, then, said my mother bitterly. You may as well lie down for the mice to run over you. Thus at first she used to try to show me how foolish it was to think of nothing but eating and sleeping. But after a while, she turned all her attention to teaching my brother and sister, and they were apt pupils. They did not mind making themselves ridiculous. A thing which has always been impossible for me. I have seen tabby, my sister, in the garden, playing with dead leaves as excited and pleased as though they had been the birds which she foolishly pretended that they were. I thought her very silly then, but I lived to wish that I had taken half as much trouble with my lessons as she did with hers. My mother was very pleased with her, especially after she caught the starlings. This was a piece of cleverness which my sister invented and carried through entirely out

of her own head.

But for me, I would rather just be eating or sleeping. Bang!