that she had picked up in the garden and on the roof. The shadow of her thoughts passed over her changing eyes, and we could plainly read in them the conclusion to which her scrutiny led: 'Decidedly this is a green chicken.'
"Having determined so much, Madame Théophile leaped from the table whence she had made her observations, and crouched flat on the ground, in the attitude of Gérôme's panther, watching the gazelles as they come down to drink. The parrot followed every motion with feverish anxiety. He ruffled his feathers, rattled his chain, lifted his feet nervously, and rubbed his beak against the side of his trough. Instinct told him that the cat was an enemy, and meant mischief. Madame Théophile's eyes were now fixed upon the bird with terrible intensity, and they said in language which the poor parrot distinctly understood: 'This chicken ought to be good to eat, although it is green.' We watched the little drama breathlessly, ready to interfere at need. The cat crept slowly, almost imperceptibly, nearer and nearer. Her pink nose quivered, her eyes were half closed, her claws moved in and out of their velvet sheaths, slight thrills of pleasure shivered along her spine at the thought of the repast that awaited her. Such novel and exotic food tempted her appetite. "Suddenly her back bent like a bow, and with
