After we had thus learned that Tom had at least nine lives, we tried
to verify the common saying that no matter how far cats fell they
always landed on their feet unhurt. We caught one in our back yard,
not Tom but a smaller one of manageable size, and somehow got him
smuggled up to the top story of the house. I don't know how in the
world we managed to let go of him, for as soon as we opened the
window and held him over the sill he knew his danger and made violent
efforts to scratch and bite his way back into the room; but we
determined to carry the thing through, and at last managed to drop
him. I can remember to this day how the poor creature in danger of his
life strained and balanced as he was falling and managed to alight on
his feet. This was a cruel thing for even wild boys to do, and we
never tried the experiment again, for we sincerely pitied the poor
fellow when we saw him creeping slowly away, stunned and frightened,
with a swollen black and blue chin.
Again--showing the natural savagery of boys--we delighted in
dog-fights, and even in the horrid red work of slaughter-houses, often
running long distances and climbing over walls and roofs to see a pig
killed, as soon as we heard the desperately earnest squealing.
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