tained her sprightliness and charm until the end; and left behind her nothing but cheerful memories upon which it is a pleasure to dwell. She was the last of the Black Dynasty. In her corner of Elysium she plays forever with the other pussies of her royal race; and perhaps her urbane little shade was the first to greet and welcome two cats,—two fortunate and famous cats who died in France not very long ago; Moumoutte Blanche and Moumoutte Chinoise, immortalized by M. Loti's facile pen.
No one familiar with the "Vies de Deux Chattes," can hope to rival these short and exquisite biographies. Their perfection is at once the delight and the despair of other toilers in the field. Written, says the author, "for my son, Samuel, when he knows how to read," they have recompensed many of us for the sad labour of the alphabet; for the double labour of two alphabets, if we chance to be Saxon born. People to whom a primrose is a primrose, and a cat a cat, may be liberally educated by a sympathetic study of these delicate and discriminating memoirs. Less playful and amusing than M. Gautier's chronicles, they show a deeper insight into feline character; they are more close and accurate in their descriptions, more touching in their pathos, more clear-sighted in their generalizations. Gautier's cats have, each and all, a charming individuality. We feel their beauty, we acknowledge their
