of her repose. To watch an ordinary cat move
imperceptibly and with a rhythmic waving of her tail through a
doorway (while we are patiently holding open the door), is like
looking at a procession. With just such deliberate dignity, in just
such solemn state, the priests of Ra filed between the endless rows
of pillars into the sunlit temple court.

The cat is a freebooter. She draws no nice distinctions between a
mouse in the wainscot, and a canary swinging in its gilded cage. Her
traducers, indeed, have been wont to intimate that her preference
is for the forbidden quarry; but this is one of many libellous
accusations. The cat, though she has little sympathy with our vapid
sentiment, can be taught that a canary is a privileged nuisance,
immune from molestation. The bird's shrill notes jar her sensitive
nerves. She abhors noise, and a canary's pipe is the most piercing
and persistent of noises, welcome to that large majority of mankind
which prefers sound of any kind to silence. Moreover, a cage presents
just the degree of hindrance to tempt a cat's agility. That Puss
habitually refrains from ridding the household of canaries is proof
of her innate reasonableness, of her readiness to submit her finer
judgment and more delicate instincts to the common caprices of
humanity.

As for wild birds, the robins and wrens and thrushes which are
predestined prey, there is only one way to save them, the way which
Archibald Douglas took to save the honour of Scotland,--"bell the
cat." A good-sized sleigh-bell, if she be strong enough to bear it,
a bunch of little bells, if she be small and slight,--and the
pleasures of the chase are over. One little bell is of no avail, for
she learns to move with such infinite precaution that it does not
ring until she springs, and then it rings too late. There is an
element of cruelty in depriving the cat of sport, but from the bird's
point of view the scheme works to perfection. Of course rats and mice
are as safe as birds from the claws of a belled cat, but, if we are
really humane, we will not regret their immunity.

The boasted benevolence of man is, however, a purely superficial
emotion. What am I to think of a friend who anathematizes the family
cat for devouring a nest of young robins, and then tells me exultingly
that the same cat has killed twelve moles in a fortnight. To a pitiful
heart, the life of a little mole is as sacred as the life of a little
robin. To an artistic eye, the mole