Rival Poet

Yes. Dumpishness has come upon me.

Today I walked to the stable, and greeted the horses with “What newes?” For horses go hither and yon, and hear much that you may coax them into telling. If you have patience.

“Say now,” one arrkst me. “Do we know when your friends will next meet at the Cats’ Field?”

“When the moon is fat and the night fair,” I answered. “Unless we are summoned to hear hot newes.”

“Do we know when a fat moon may be?” arrkst another.

“Nay,” sayt the first, “we do not know.”

The other sayt, “Then how may we know what befell that poor cat whose ship was set afire?”

“Yea,” sayt a third. “From one great moon to the next is a long time to be swimming.”

They was talking of Nero’s tale of the Spanish Main. Some fool cat has been by and told it to them.

And they believed Nero and his friends were even now in the sea, making for the shore of Darien [Panama].

A portrait of a dappled cat, white and blue-grey. — Gib, the young Earl of Southampton’s Cat. And Poet.

“Now hear me,” sayt I. “That cat did not drown. He’s here now.”

“Where?” they arrkst.

“In his master’s house, about his business.”

“Say now, how know we that?”

I did not endeavour to explain. Instead, I offered them a different tale.

“Nay,” they sayt. “We have but room enough in our heads for one.”

“That I can believe.”

“Yea,” they answered. “All fear for that poor cat. And we know that if he does not drown he may be ate.”

I arrkst if they knew of the hero cats Purrsa and Purrsie, or Teasel Puss.

After more talk, too tedious to recount here, they wished to know if those cats were like to drown or be ate too.

Portrait of a black cat - Nero — Sea Cat Nero, the Rival Poet.

How is it the horses know Nero’s tale but none of mine?

Have the stable cats been so carried away by the prideful sail of Nero’s great verse that he is all they can speak of?

No, because Nero told the first part of his newest tale plain. (Certes, he was so hot to leap up after Linkin the Law Cat gave newes, he had not time to prepare his rhyme.)

Then do the stable cats love his unquenchable spirit? A spirit well-fuelled, I might add, by the spirits his old captain and his pot-companions [drinking buddies] consume by night.

Then it come to me that Nero hisself had been by. And for why?

To advance his reputation at the expense of mine.

First he creeps about the stable. Soon he will approach the house. He desires my place as the young Earl’s poet.

Portrait of William Cecil, Lord Burghley — Lord Purrlie, better known as Lord Burghley

How glad I am that my young lord is kept beneath Lord Purrlie’s heavy paws and safe at college in Cambridge. Nero cannot woo him there.

But why has my young lord not sent for me? I may avenge myself by making his family the matter of my next tale.

The wicked cats here will not complain if I spread slander.

And I’ll punish Nero by keeping away from our next Field Day. If pressed to go I’ll say I am in pain. I can learn the finish of his tale from my sister or the kitchen cat. (If I so choose.)

I set my mark against the stable walls. A little here, a little there.

That will serve to warn all cats who come by. And I care not what the stable cats may think.