Why, she flew about to that degree, that I got frightened of her, for at last she came at me, tore at my legs, and then was over my shoulder in an instant, while feeling quite scared, I just saw her dash up the chimney, and she was gone. "But you won't stop there, my lady," I says, and I was right, for next moment the brute came scrambling down, and we went at it again: she cutting about, and me hitting at her till I got savage, for I never touched her once. Now I hit the table; now it was something off the dresser; now she'd dodge behind the saucepans and kettles, on the black pot-board under the dresser; and now there'd be such a clatter and rattle, that Polly gave quite a scream, for she was wide enough awake then, I can tell you; but the jolly a bit could I touch that precious cat; and at last she stood in one corner of the kitchen, and I stood in the other looking at her, with her tail like a bottle-brush, her fur all up, and her back set up like an arch, and then I thought I'd try coaxing. "Pussy, pussy, pussy," I says, but she only swore and spit at me. "Poor pussy; come then," I says; but she wouldn't come near me, and then I turned so savage that I threw the copper-stick at her, but only hit the tea-tray as stood on a little side-table. "Bang, clang, jangle," down it come on to the floor, and then there was a rush, and a smash, and a scream from Polly; and I stood skretching my head, and looking at the broken kitchen-window--for the beauty had shot right through it when the tea-tray fell down, and now there was nothing to do but pick up the pieces, and go and ask the glazier to come and put in the broken square. "Oh, what a kitchen," says Polly, as she came in, and really it did look a bit upset, and then seeing as she was put out, and going to make a fuss, I says-- "Bad job; ain't it, my gal; but it warn't me; _it was the cats_!" "Drat the cats!" says Polly; and she looked so scornful and cross, that I give up all thoughts on the instant of ever getting a skin rug; but if there is any one mortal thing as I do hate, it's a cat. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. AN AUSTRALIAN CHRISTMAS.