s
helped so much in the past."

Jimmie stared. "Consistency--" he muttered.

"What's that you said, Jimmie? Are you ill?" inquired Jennie, anxiously.

"No!" replied Jimmie, "it's you women! I can't understand you at all!"

"You're not supposed to, Jimmie, dear," answered Jennie sweetly.

Somebody's Cat

By Ida R. Fargo

I never thought I should come to like cats. But I have. Perhaps it is
because, as my Aunt Amanda used to say, we change every seven years,
sort of start over again, as it were; and find we have new thoughts,
different ideas, unexpected tastes, strange attractions, and shifting
doubts. Or, it may be, we merely come to a new milestone from which,
looking back, we are able to regard our own personality from a hitherto
unknown angle. We discover ourselves anew, and delight in the
experiment.

Or, it may all be, as my husband stolidly affirms, just the logical
result of meeting Sir Christopher Columbus, a carnivorous quadruped of
the family _Felidae_, much domesticated, in this case, white with
markings as black and shiny as a crow's wing, so named because he
voyaged about our village, not in search of a new world, but in search
of a new home. He came to us. It is flattering to be chosen. He stayed.
But who could resist Sir Christopher?

My husband and my Aunt Amanda may both be right. I strongly suspect they
are. I also strongly suspect that Sir Christopher himself has much to do
with my change of mental attitude: He is well-mannered, good to look
upon, quite adorable, independent and patient. (Indeed, if people were
half as patient as my cat this would be a different world to live in.)
More: He has taught me many things, he talks without making too much
noise; in fact, I have read whole sermons in his soft purrings. And I
verily believe that many people might learn much from the family cat,
except for the fact that we humans are such poor translators. We know
only our own language. More's the pity.

Had I known Sir Christopher as a kitten, doubtless he might have added
still more to my education. But I did not. He was quite full grown when
I first laid my eyes upon him. He was sitting in the sun, on top of a
rail fence, blinking at me consideringly. The fence skirted a little
trail that led from my back yard down to Calapooia Creek. It seemed
trying to push back a fringe of scrubby underbrush which ran down a
hillside; a fringe which was, in truth, but a feeler from the great
forest of