dark
cats are in pain. Of course cats are not human, though they are endowed
with certain human instincts, such as staying out nights, and following
other cats.

Sitting on the sharp edge of a board fence for hours, gazing at a
neighboring cat, and occasionally purmowing, may be likened by the
student of nature, to human beings who sit for hours on a cast iron seat
in the park, with arms around each other; but it is far different. We
have yet to hear of instances where quantities of hair have been found
on the ground in the parks, and no young man or young woman, after an
evening in the park, comes to his place of business in the morning, with
eyes clawed out, ears chewed, or so stiff as to be unable to get up from
under the stove without being kicked. Weighing this matter carefully and
in an unbiased manner, we must give the chromo for good conduct, correct
deportment, and good citizenship, to the human beings who frequent the
parks at night, over the cats who picnic under our gooseberry bustes,
and play Copenhagen on our area fences, when those who have brought them
up from innocent kittenhood think they are abed and asleep.

So it is plain that the humane society has got work to do. We, as a
people, have got tired of seeing a Thomas cat that never paid any taxes,
get upon a pile of wood, swell his tail up to the size of a rolling pin,
bid defiance to all laws, spit on his hands and say in ribald language
to a Mariar cat, of a modest and retiring disposition, "Lay on, Mac
Duff, and blanked be he who first cries purmeow." This thing has got to
cease. The humane society will soon be on the track of the enemy.

We know that the war is about to commence, because Mr. Holton has
resigned the presidency of the society. But there are bold men in the
society that are not so tender-hearted as Brother Holton, and they will
fight this cat question to the bitter end.

We can almost see Mr. Oliver, with his trusty shot gun, going through
back alleys at midnight, his white plume always to be found where cat
hair is the thickest. John Woodhull will meet him, after the enemy is
driven over the fence in disorder, and taken refuge under the shrubbery,
and they will compare notes and cats. Good Mr. Spencer sees the
handwriting on the wall, and his voice will be still for cats. Winfield
Smith and Chas. Ray will go out in the pale moonlight with stuffed clubs
and sell cats short, while Prof. McAllister and Chaplain Gordon, of the
Ligh