HERE was, once upon a time, in an island of the East, an incomparable Princess, gifted with all the perfections of heart and mind. Her graces were celebrated a hundred leagues round; her kingdom was flourishing, her subjects respectful, her ministers capable. She lived in the time of the fairies. More than a thousand suitors, all kings or sons of kings, aspired to her hand; but the Ailla showed no favour to any of them, the only preference she had ever exhibited having been concentrated on white Velvetpaw, her favourite cat.
Velvetpaw was a charming little playful animal, with large irised eyes, tufts at the ends of its shapely ears, and a coat so soft, silky, and abundant that the Princess's hands disappeared when she caressed it.
In imitation of the sovereign, all the great people in the kingdom possessed at least one favourite cat, which they petted and nursed incessantly. They were seen with jewels in their ears, bracelets on their paws, or with collars inconceivably magnificent; they slept on down and satin, ate out of golden or silver dishes, and had servants to themselves.
Those of the middle class had to content themselves with silver jewellery and with eating out of porcelain dishes; but, more philosophic than men, they ate with no less appetite. This island was, at that time, truly the paradise of cats: their lives, protected by special laws, had nothing to fear, either from traps or from the river, which, amongst us, makes so many victims. They increased and multiplied at leisure, and their wishes were carefully respected. So it was that no country had ever cats so beautiful or so numerous.
When the shades of evening closed in, the inhabitants went forth into their streets without lanterns, their path illuminated by thousands of flaming eyes, beaming from the house-tops to the cellar-gratings, sparkling from the shadows of every bush, from the tree-branches above their heads, from the hollows between the stones at their feet, flying, climbing, crossing through space, like a flight of disordered stars.
Then it was a strange concert, a discordant symphony, in which the mewing of all ages and conditions mingled without confounding each other; at first, a mere confused rumour, which speedily grew into a tumult, filling the shades of night with alarms, augmenting, hissing, growling, to burst into a deafening fracas, in which the affrighted ear might imagine it was listening, in the midst of inhuman roaring, to the agonising cries of a child being put to death.
But, with the coming of day, flames and battling dispersed, order returned, and the mutineers of the night once again became
