never for an instant is her vigilance relaxed. She is the inheritor of ancient animosity and of ancient wrongs.
Another and equally admirable view of plebeian cathood is presented in a picture by Claus Meyer, which is one of the gems of the modern gallery in Dresden. Three women sit gossiping in the bare grey sacristy of a church or convent, and three young cats sit near them on the floor;—gutter cats these, rough-coated, scrawny, suspicious from infancy of a dubious world. A shallow dish of milk has been set forth for their refreshment; but only one ventures hesitatingly, and, with her gaze fixed on her companions, to lap a very little. The other two eye each other cautiously from a safe distance. The smallest and raggedest of the group is a mere kitten, all ears and neck after the fashion of its kind, owlish in aspect, and wise with uncanny wisdom. Little
"Cat-gossips full of Canterbury tales,"
and only waiting for matured acquaintance to exchange confidences that will put mere human scandal to the blush, they are all three adorable in their hideousness. To the true lover of the race, shining fur and rounded limbs are not the only charms.
"He that loves a rosy cheek,"
or its feline equivalent, may lose much in the char-
