tter of the homing instinct, a magnet would have no more
influence than a bit of straw.

CHAPTER 5. THE STORY OF MY CATS.

If this swinging-process fails entirely when its object is to make the
insect lose its bearings, what influence can it have upon the Cat? Is
the method of whirling the animal round in a bag, to prevent its return,
worthy of confidence? I believed in it at first, so close-allied was it
to the hopeful idea suggested by the great Darwin. But my faith is now
shaken: my experience with the insect makes me doubtful of the Cat. If
the former returns after being whirled, why should not the latter? I
therefore embark upon fresh experiments.

And, first of all, to what extent does the Cat deserve his reputation of
being able to return to the beloved home, to the scenes of his amorous
exploits on the tiles and in the hay-lofts? The most curious facts are
told of his instinct; children's books on natural history abound with
feats that do the greatest credit to his prowess as a pilgrim. I do
not attach much importance to these stories: they come from casual
observers, uncritical folk given to exaggeration. It is not everybody
who can talk about animals correctly. When some one not of the craft
gets on the subject and says to me, 'Such or such an animal is black,' I
begin by finding out if it does not happen to be white; and many a time
the truth is discovered in the converse proposition. Men come to me and
sing the praises of the Cat as a travelling-expert. Well and good: we
will now look upon the Cat as a poor traveller. And that would be the
extent of my knowledge if I had only the evidence of books and of people
unaccustomed to the scruples of scientific examination. Fortunately,
I am acquainted with a few incidents that will stand the test of my
incredulity. The Cat really deserves his reputation as a discerning
pilgrim. Let us relate these incidents.

One day--it was at Avignon--there appeared upon the garden-wall a
wretched-looking Cat, with matted coat and protruding ribs, so thin
that his back was a mere jagged ridge. He was mewing with hunger. My
children, at that time very young, took pity on his misery. Bread
soaked in milk was offered him at the end of a reed. He took it. And the
mouthfuls succeeded one another to such good purpose that he was
sated and went off, heedless of the 'Puss! Puss!' of his compassionate
friends. Hunger returned; and the starveling reappeared in his wall-top
refector