by close captivity, and grateful possibly for a little notice.
Such exceptional cases, however, count for little in the history of the cat. If disposed to be social, she will accord her good-will to any animal she fancies; if disposed to be motherly, she will adopt and rear a puppy, a rat, or a young pigeon; but as a rule she is sufficient to herself, is never bored by her own company, and preserves an immaculate freedom from enthusiasm, sympathy, or benevolence. She can be taught to live in amity with both birds and beasts, and even to tolerate indecent liberties of the "Happy Family" order,—sparrows hopping on her head, and white mice frisking foolishly at her feet. She can also be taught to ride a wheel, and jump through hoops of fire. These things denote the nadir of her degradation; and happily she lends herself with such ill grace to exhibitions of this order, that, notwithstanding our base relish for all that is out of nature, they are not of very common occurrence.
Some amiable naturalists would have us believe that there is no especial hostility between cat and dog,—only a trifling jealousy, fostered by man. They quote instances of marked affection, and tell pretty stories about big Newfoundlands that protect small kittens, and wise old tabbies that rear and educate foolish and motherless puppies. As
