Chinchilla had finished those three little catkins, they were as fresh
and sweet, and shiny and clean, and kissable and huggable, as any baby
just out of a bath-tub.

One morning, just after the little kits had had their scrub in the
sunny bay-window, they felt, all at once, old enough to play; and so
they began to scramble over each other, and run about between the
great colored glass jars, and even to chase and bite the ends of their
own tails. They had not known that they had any tails before that
morning, and of course it was a charming surprise. Mrs. Chinchilla
looked on lazily and gravely. It had been a good while since she had
had time or had felt young and gay enough to chase her tail, but she
was very glad to see the kittens enjoy themselves harmlessly.

Now, while this was going on, some one came up to the window and
looked in. It was the Boy who lived across the street. Mrs. Chinchilla
disliked nearly all boys, but she was afraid of this one. He had
golden curls and a Fauntleroy collar, and the sweetest lips that ever
said prayers, and clean dimpled hands that looked as if they had been
made to stroke cats and make them purr. But instead of stroking them
he rubbed their fur the wrong way, and hung tin kettles to their
tails, and tied handkerchiefs over their heads. When Mrs. Chinchilla
saw the Boy she humped her back, so that it looked like a gray
mountain, and said, "Sftt!" three times. When the Boy found that she
was looking at him, and lashing her tail, and yawning so as to show
him her sharp white teeth, he suddenly disappeared from sight. So Mrs.
Chinchilla gave the kittens their breakfast, and they cuddled
themselves into a round ball, and went fast asleep. They were first
rolled so tightly, and then so tied up with their tails, that you
couldn't have told whether they were three or six little catkins. When