What intenseness of desire
In her upward eye of fire!
With a tiger leap half way,
Now she meets the coming prey,
Lets it go as fast, and then
Has it in her power again.
Now she works with three or four,
Like an Indian conjurer;
Quick as he in feats of art,
Far beyond in joy of heart.
Were her antics played in the eye
Of a thousand standers-by,
Clapping hands with shout and stare,
What would little Tabby care
For the plaudits of the crowd?
Over happy to be proud;
Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure."
Little Tabby was an arrant hussy to so shamelessly deceive a great poet; but when any living creature contrives to look as supernaturally innocent as a kitten, we had best remember "L'Ecole des Femmes," and be sure qu'elle fait l' Agnès.
For Pussy at her very best, we must still turn to homely hearths where her place is held sacred, where her labours warrant her welcome, where her sleepy ease suggests comfort, and her beauty gives an indescribable touch of distinction to all her plain surroundings. It is in such a humdrum song as that of Auld Bawthren in the chimney-corner that we see the domestic sweetness of the cat.
