Laura Richards - Three Minute Stories

“N-no!” said Tommy.

“Then you must stop being a horrid boy!” said the New Year. “Take your leaves!” and he held out a packet of what looked like copy-book leaves, all sparkling white, like his own clothes.

“Turn over one of these every day,” he said, “and soon you will be a good boy instead of a horrid one.”

Tommy took the leaves and looked at them. On each leaf a few words were written. On one it said, “Help your mother!” On another, “Don’t pull the cat’s tail!” On another, “Don’t eat so much!” And on still another, “Don’t fight Billy Jenkins!”

“Oh!” cried Tommy. “I have to fight Billy Jenkins! He said – ”

“Good-by!” said the New Year. “I shall come again when I am old to see whether you have been a good boy or a horrid one. Remember,

He turned away and opened the window. A cold wind blew in and swept the leaves out of Tommy’s hand. “Stop! stop!” he cried. “Tell me – ” But the New Year was gone, and Tommy, staring after him, saw only his mother coming into the room. “Dear child!” she said. “Why, the wind is blowing everything about.”

“My leaves! My leaves!” cried Tommy; and jumping out of bed he looked all over the room, but he could not find one.

“Never mind,” said Tommy. “I can turn them just the same, and I mean to. I will not grow into a Horrid Man.” And he didn’t.

“Why are you crying, Little Cat?” asked Little Dog.

“Because my paws are so cold!” said Little Cat. “I have been digging in the snow and I cannot find one.”

“One what?” asked Little Dog.

“One new leaf.”

“What do you want of a new leaf?”

“I want to turn it over, but there just aren’t any to turn.”

“Of course there aren’t!” said Little Dog. “It is winter.”

“But Little Girl is going to find one,” said Little Cat. “I heard her mother say to her, ‘You really must turn over a new leaf!’ and she said, ‘I truthfully will, Mamma!’ and when Little Girl says she truthfully will she always does. Then her mother kissed her, and said everybody had to turn over new leaves now, and she had some of her own to turn, so she knew just how it was. The door shut then – on the tip of my tail, too – and I heard no more; but what do you suppose it means?”

Little Dog shook his head. “We must ask somebody,” he said. “Let me see! Great Old Dog is out for a walk, and Crosspatch Parrot bit me the last time I asked her a question.”

“I know,” said Little Cat. “We will ask Old Cat in the Barn. She knows a good many things, and if she isn’t catching rats – but she generally is – she will tell us.”

They found Old Cat in the Barn sitting on a truss of hay, washing herself. She listened to Little Cat’s story, and her green eyes twinkled.

“So you have been looking for new leaves under the snow!” she said.

“Yes,” said Little Cat. “First I looked on the trees, and there weren’t any there; so I thought it must be leaves of plants and things, so I scratched and dug till my poor paws were almost quite frozen, but not one single scrap of a leaf could I find.”

“Fffff!” said Old Cat in the Barn. “This barn is full of ’em!”

“Full of leaves!” cried Little Cat and Little Dog together. “What can you mean, Old Cat? We don’t call hay leaves!”

“How many rats have you caught this week?” asked Old Cat, turning to Little Dog.

“None!” said Little Dog. “The last rat I caught bit me horridly; besides, they are odious, vulgar beasts, and I don’t care to have anything to do with them.”

“Fffff!” said Old Cat. “Little Cat, how many mice have you caught in the kitchen this week?”

Little Cat hung her head. “I haven’t caught any,” she said. “I don’t care for mice, the flavor is too strong; I like cream better.”

“Ffffff! grrrr-yow!” said Old Cat; her green eyes shot out sparks, and her fur began to stand up. “Now, you two, listen to me! Why do you think the Big People keep you? Because you are soft and pretty and foolish? Not at all! They keep you because you are supposed to be useful. Your mother, Little Cat, was a hard-working, self-respecting mouser, who caught her daily mouse as regularly as she ate her daily bread and milk. Your father, Little Dog, hunted rats with me in this barn as long as he had legs to stand upon, and between us we kept the place in tolerable order. Great Old Dog cannot be expected to hunt at his age, and besides, he is too big; one might as well hunt with an ox. But since your parents died you two lazy children have done next to nothing, and what is the consequence? I am worked to skin and bone, and the mice are all over the house; I heard Cook say so. Mind what I say; no creature, with four legs or two, is worth his salt unless he earns it, in one way or another. Now, what have you to say for yourselves?”