Her name was Malta, and she was called a maltese cat.
I have seen a great many cats, but I never saw one as kind as Malta.
Once she had some little kittens and they all died.

It almost broke her heart.

She cried and cried about the house till it made one feel sad to hear her.

Then she ran away to the woods.

She came back with a little squirrel in her mouth, and putting it in her basket, she nursed it like a mother, till it grew old enough to run away from her.
She was a very knowing cat, and always came when she was called.