I was about five at the time, and distinctly remember sitting on the farmhouse kitchen floor with my two sisters. Our legs were spread out in a three-pointed star to keep the two kittens within reach as we attmepted to make the impossible decision whether to take home the black female with a tiny white star under her chin, or the grey, brown, and black tabby male. (Unfortunately, at the moment I can't find most of our pictures of them.) Mom and Dad had pity on us and finally allowed us to bring both home.
Shasta was the only living thing in the house that Mom would permit to whine for any length of time. She was even know to croon a response to his wails, to the high amusement of us girls. He outlived his sister by many years and lived to the old age of about 18.