yellow cat is an evil beast. Continually when I step into the garden I catch, out of the corner of my eye, a glimpse of its tawny hinderlands vanishing over the wall. It fears me because I throw stones at it, though Heaven knows it need have no fear. I am not dexterous with pebbles. But I always throw them in the yellow cat's direction, because I am a man and have a right to throw stones at cats, and this cat is the only evil thing in Willows. It wakes me, sweating, out of sweet sleep. Its colours clash. And it eats birds. I have every reason to detest it. Moreover I do.
I vowed therefore that the yellow cat should not eat this little braggart that hopped, high-piping, among our feet. Conceit is of youth. It would be poor behaviour to condemn the small misery to the yellow cat, because it had thought too highly of itself. Here was an adventurer, an explorer, a sort of fledgling Lieutenant Shackleton. Conceit is also of enterprise. Without it no one would innovate anything. One has to have a pretty good opinion of oneself before one steps off the beaten track. The very action is a self-confident one. But we do not think Lieutenant Shackleton conceited. We call him a fine fellow and stand him dinner.
I decided to stand the fledgling dinner, ay! and bed and breakfast, till his sprouting wings should
