“Oh, I just stuck out my claws, and miaoued a little. _Any_ cat would, and then she said, ‘There’s that everlasting kitten!’ and shooed me out of the door, and I got all wet before I could run in again.” “Poor kitty!” said the little girl, patting him. “To-night is Hallowe’en,” went on Impty, “and people used to believe that witches and cats could go where they pleased on that night. They can’t, really. I wish they could, for then I’d sail off through the air with Miss Jane’s furs, and never, never bring them back! Or, perhaps, I’d bite her boa in two like ‘The Cat and the Pudding-Bag String.’ But it does seem a little odd that, long, long years ago on this very Eve of All Hallows, Dick Whittington heard the Bow Bells calling to him, ‘Turn, turn again, Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of London!’ Do you know the tale of Dick Whittington and his wonderful Cat? If not, I’m going to tell it to you to-night.” [Illustration: Dick Whittington And His Wonderful Cat. ] A long, long time ago there lived in England a little country lad, Dick Whittington by name. Now Dick’s father was a poor man, a farm-laborer, working early and late in the fields that his family might be able to live on even the simplest fare. Sometimes there was very little of this, and at last Dick made up his mind to go to London and win a fortune for the whole family. There, so he had heard, the streets were paved with gold, and any one might become rich for the asking. So one night, when every one else was fast asleep in his bed, Dick tied his Sunday clothes together in a bundle and ran away on the wide high-road that led to London-Town. Many a weary mile he walked; and, when he was very hungry, and it seemed as if his tired feet could not take another step, he cheered himself up by thinking of those streets of gold. At last he came to London, and what was his disappointment to see only rough cobble-stones, looking just like those in the market-square near his own home. As he was wandering up and down, footsore and not knowing where to go, he caught sight of a little golden-haired girl. It was the only gold he had seen since he came to London. She stared from the window above at the little ragged fellow, and then, as if she suddenly thought that he might be hungry, she ran down and begged the porter to let Dick in. Now this little girl was Alice Fitzgerald, the daughter of a rich merchant, his only child, and petted and loved by all who knew her. Even the cook, crabbed and cross to every one else, could deny her nothing; and because she asked him so prettily to feed the hungry boy, he took Dick in, gave him some supper, and, the next day, made him his scullion.