Boston University College of Practical Arts and Letters - Sivad Yearbook (Boston, MA)

Page 230 text:

And now we turn to the consideration of common physical resem- blances “among us cats”. Oftentimes on my way home, I amuse myself by attempting to catalogue my fellow travelers on the train—to catalogue them according to cat standards. You have no idea how diverting a game this is. Do you see, across the aisle, that tall, lean, saturnine fellow with a furtive expression in his eyes—a man neither young nor old? Do you know what he is? A common species of alley cat. Do you see the resem- blance? And that well-upholstered woman a few seats down the aisle? What is she? Why, she is an over-nourished, sit-by-the-fire tabby-cat. She has no pedigree, but she is comfortable and kind. She is too satisfied to be otherwise. You have seen, have you not, the “hobo cat”? He is quite lean and ner- vous; he is all energy, speculation, and has an inexhaustible curiosity about the world and life. I have seen many people like that. Their eyes are bright, shining; they move with the sure-footedness of the cat, and, like their green-eyed hobo friends, they are lithe and restless. They are young, eager tourists of the rails who have an all-absorbing curiosity about people and places. Also, like the hobo cat, as they grow older they grow unkempt and shiftless and their eyes are always searching, searching—for what, they know not. The wanderlust has had its way. What did you say? Oh, yes, to be sure—the tame cat. That tall, thin, young chap over there—do you see him? His hair and eyes are of a non- descript color and he has an indifferent smudge on his upper lip—I believe he calls it a moustache. To complete the impression, he wears on the top of his head a soft hat of the pancake variety. Yes, indeed, tame-cat is written all over him. And then, those big, red-faced, burly men who do more or less manual labor—these I have, in the main, labeled “‘tom-cats’”. They are rough and rugged, and can stand as much punishment as the tom-cat who serenades us at 2.30 A. M. and somehow still manages to survive. And, last of all, we have the loveliest and most charming—the aristo- crat. Such people are tall, gracefully slender; their features are delicately and exquisitely modeled, and their skin is smooth, creamy, and soft; they dress well and in excellent taste. They are Persian cats, the aristocrats in the land of felines. They are at once the most delightful and the most dan- gerous of all the cat tribe. I have no doubt that you will think, “What a catty, scratchy essay!” Quite true, but such is life ‘“‘among us cats”. fine Cc [ 222 ]

Page 229 text:

Among Us Cats || T seems to have been the customary quip, from time immem- | orial, to compare women to the inhabitants of catdom. But why only women? Why should we suppose men to be any different? Is there, I wonder, such a being as a man so mag- nanimous as not to possess and demonstrate some “catty” characteristics, once in a while? If there is, I would surely like to know about it. Probably the best reason why we generally like dogs and horses far more than cats is that, in cats, we see the reflection of our own traits. Unless a reflection tends to be flattering, that mirror of ourselves is con- temptuously rejected. And our pictured traits in cats are not always flat- tering. Far from it. No wonder we adore our dogs. The reason? They are not like us. We may regard cattiness in the human race from the point of view of characteristics and traits and from that of certain physical resemblances. The first point of view is the more common one, but the second is by far the more interesting. We will be systematic and discuss the first one now; the other will come later. Have you not heard people say (mostly women, I’ll have to admit), “Of course, she’s all right, but—”? Do you not get all ready to feel the claws scratch and hear the ‘‘meows” rend the air? I do. Every time J hear such a sentence, or its equivalent, I have a vision of a group of cats, perched precariously on the ridge of the alley fence and complaining loudly, in a melancholy tone, to the moon. And then, have you not noticed that cats are first of all concerned with their own comforts? How different from a dog, who thinks first of nis adored master and last of himself! Which of these two do we humans resemble, I wonder? Is it not perfectly obvious that we are “human cats”? We are extremely self-satisfied and, like a cat, we purr when well-fed and physically comfortable. We are not so pleasant when hungry. Intel- lectually we seem to be partially dormant. Then, just rub our fur the wrong way. Just try it! If you have never felt the searing scratch of a claw, you certainly will now. Also, we hate to give up our vantage point. And how about our brothers, the cats? When I have tried to cajole or to move by force His Majesty, I have tried in vain. It just cannot be done. And just such are we—cats, immovable, blinking at the light. [ 221 ]

Page 231 text:

g a fo cones ie | | es] rey, Su Ball Costume DON’T know what I’m going to do with you, Dick.” Exasper- ated, Katherine Merrill faced her brother. ‘All that’s the matter with you is an inferiority complex. You can dance as well as any boy I know.” Dick reached over and shut off the record that was cheer- fully wailing Broken Hearted. Abrupt silence. Then, from Dick, “Too bad, isn’t it?” “It certainly is! Think of all the fun you’re missing. You won’t go near a party just because you don’t want to dance, and you don’t want to dance because you think you can’t. I’m telling you you can. Seventeen years old and never been to a real party! It’s a crime.” Dick absently cranked the phonograph as he listened. ‘I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Then be a sport and make me a promise.” “Don’t believe in promises.” Kitty persisted. ‘Promise me that you’ll accept the next party invita- tion that you receive. ‘‘Wait!’”’ as she saw signs of rising revolt. “If you don’t have a good time, you needn’t ever go to another party as long as you live.” “But I don’t want. ..aw.. . well, if you want to take the responsi- bility, I’ll do it,” sputtered Dick. A whistle shrilled outside the window. “There’s Joe now! I gotta go.” And he was out of the house before Kitty could reply. At half past nine the following Saturday morning, Dick was still snor- ing peacefully under the bed clothes, one ear unconsciously cocked toward the alarm clock. The clock did not ring according to expectations, but the telephone did, and it served the same purpose: z-z-z-zing! as persistently as Big Ben himself. “Aw-w, shut up!’ mumbled Dick sleepily, and opened one eye. Z-2z-z-zing ! “Keep still, I told ya! Aw-w!” The other eye opened. Z-2-Z-zing !!! “Good night!” Dick sat up on the edge of the bed and stared in the direction of the telephone. ‘It’s you, is it? I might have known. Who the deuce is calling me at this time 0’ day? Can’t let a fellow sleep in peace . . Hello?” “Hello, Dick!” Dick blinked and said nothing. The nerve of anyone to sound as crisp and wide awake as that at nine-thirty on a Saturday morning. “This is Dick, isn’t it?” The voice was persistent. SQh--ulh-—vesmanv ois. this 1 “Betty Douglas speaking. I’ve a favor to ask of you, Dick. Will you do it for me?” [ 2238 ]