my dear helen:

i do wish that you and your father would turn around directly, wherever you are, when you get this letter, and come home as fast as you can. if you do not come soon there will be no home left for you to come into. i am so frightened and excited, that my paws tremble, and i have upset the ink twice, and spilled so much that there is only a little left in the bottom of the cup, and it is as thick as hasty pudding; so you must excuse the looks of this letter, and i will tell you as quickly as i can about the dreadful state of things here. not more than an hour after i finished my letter to you, yesterday, i heard a great noise in the parlor, and ran in to see what was the matter. there was mary with her worst blue handkerchief tied over her head, her washing-day gown on, and a big hammer in her hand. as soon as she saw me, she said, "there's that cat! always in my way," and threw a cricket at me, and then shut the parlor door with a great slam. so i ran out and listened under the front windows, for i felt sure she was in some bad business she did not want to have known. such a noise i never heard: all the things were being moved; and in a few minutes, what do you think--out came the whole carpet right on my head! i was nearly stifled with dust, and felt as if every bone in my body must be broken; but i managed to creep out from under it, and heard mary say, "if there isn't that torment of a cat again! i wish to goodness helen had taken her along!" then i felt surer than ever that some mischief was on foot: and ran out into the garden, and climbed up the old apple-tree at the foot of the steps, and crawled out on a branch, from which i could look directly into the parlor windows. oh! my dear helen, you can fancy how i felt, to see all the chairs and tables and bookshelves in a pile in the middle of the floor, the books all packed in big baskets, and mary taking out window after window as fast as she could. i forgot to tell you that your mother went away last night. i think she has gone to hadley to make a visit, and it looks to me very much as if mary meant to run away with every thing which could be moved, before she comes back. after awhile that ugly irishwoman, who lives in mr. slater's house, came into the back gate: you know the one i mean,--the one that threw cold water on me last spring. when i saw her coming i felt sure that she and mary meant to kill me, while you were all away; so i jumped down out of the tree, and split my best claw in my hurry, and ran off into baker's grove, and stayed there all the rest of the day, in dreadful misery from cold and hunger. there was some snow in the hollows, and i wet my feet, which always makes me feel wretchedly; and i could not find any thing to eat except a thin dried-up old mole. they are never good in the spring. really, nobody does know what hard lives we cats lead, even the luckiest of us! after dark, i went home; but mary had fastened up every door, even the little one into the back shed. so i had to jump into the cellar window, which is a thing i never like to do since i got that bad sprain in my shoulder from coming down on the edge of a milk-pan. i crept up to the head of the kitchen stairs, as still as a mouse, if i'm any judge, and listened there for a long time, to try and make out, from mary's talk with the irishwoman, what they were planning to do. but i never could understand irish, and although i listened till i had cramps in all my legs, from being so long in one position, i was no wiser. even the things mary said i could not understand, and i usually understand her very easily. i passed a very uncomfortable night in the carrot bin. as soon as i heard mary coming down the cellar stairs, this morning, i hid in the arch, and while she was skimming the milk, i slipped upstairs, and ran into the sitting-room. every thing there is in the same confusion; the carpet is gone; and the windows too, and i think some of the chairs have been carried away. all the china is in great baskets on the pantry floor; and your father and mother's clothes are all taken out of the nursery closet, and laid on chairs. it is very dreadful to have to stand and see all this, and not be able to do any thing. i don't think i ever fully realized before the disadvantage of being only a cat. i have just been across the street, and talked it all over with the judge's cat, but she is very old and stupid, and so taken up with her six kittens (who are the ugliest i ever saw), that she does not take the least interest in her neighbors' affairs. mrs. hitchcock walked by the house this morning, and i ran out to her, and took her dress in my teeth and pulled it, and did all i could to make her come in, but she said, "no, no, pussy, i'm not coming in to-day; your mistress is not at home." i declare i could have cried. i sat down in the middle of the path, and never stirred for half an hour.

i heard your friend, hannah dorrance, say yesterday, that she was going to write to you to-day, so i shall run up the hill now and carry my letter to her. i think she will be astonished when she sees me, for i am very sure that no other cat in town knows how to write. do come home as soon as possible.

your affectionate pussy.

p. s. two men have just driven up to the front gate in a great cart, and they are putting all the carpets into it. oh dear, oh dear, if i only knew what to do! and i just heard mary say to them, "be as quick as you can, for i want to get through with this business before the folks come back."