phere in which Puss is born to reign. Warm fires by which to purr and drowse; a bountiful tea-table amply provided with cream; the swirling of autumn leaves around the garden paths if a little brisk exercise was desired; a comfortable supply of over-fed mice when conscience suggested work; eight pairs of tame pigeons when Satan prompted mischief. There were, to be sure, other pets; too many of them, by far, from a cat's point of view;—gold-finches, canaries, and a caged linnet, all jealously guarded from hostility; the spaniel Beau, a foolish squirrel, two imbecile guinea-pigs, and the ever-famous hares, "canonized pets of literature," with surly tempers that brooked no liberties. "One evening," writes Lady Hesketh, "the cat giving one of the hares a sound box on the ear, the hare ran after her, and punished her by drumming on her back with two feet as hard as drumsticks, till the poor creature would actually have been killed, had not Mrs. Unwin rescued her."
This was worse than encountering vipers, or being shut up in a drawer. The tranquil home at Olney was not without its dangers and alarms, and Cowper did his cat the honour of immortalizing two of her adventures. In that "delightful 'lusus poeticus,'" as Mr. Austin Dobson has kindly christened "The Colubriad," he narrates her rescue, at his own hands, from the snake which she was softly patting with
