Douglas fir which one saw marching, file upon file, row upon
row, back and back to the snows of the high Cascades.

And the white of Sir Christopher's vest and snowy gauntlets was just as
gleamingly clean as the icy frosting over the hills. Sir Christopher,
even a cat, believed firmly in sartorial pulchritude. I admired him for
that, even from the first glance; and, afterward, I put me up three new
mirrors: I did not mean to be outdone by my cat, I intended to look tidy
every minute, and there is nothing like mirrors to tell the truth.
Credit for the initial impulse, however, belongs to Christopher C.

But that first morning, I merely glanced at him, sitting so comfortably
on the top rail of the fence, blinking in the sun.

"Somebody's cat," said I, and went on down to the creek to see if
Curlylocks had tumbled in.

Coming back, the cat was still there. Doubtless he had taken a nap
between times. But he might have been carved of stone, so still he lay,
till my youngest, tugging at my hand, coaxed:

"Kitty--kitty--kitty. Muvver, see my 'ittle kitty?"

And I declare, if Sir Christopher (my husband and ten-year-old Ted named
him that very evening) didn't look at me and wink. Then he jumped down
and followed, very dignified, very discreet.

I attempted to shoo him back. But he wouldn't shoo. He merely stopped
and seemed to consider matters. Or serenely remained far enough off to
"play safe."

Meanwhile, my youngest continued to reiterate: "Kitty--kitty--kitty!
_My_ 'ittle kitty!"

"No, Curlylocks," said I, "it isn't your little kitty. It is somebody's
cat."

Which merely shows that I knew not whereof I spoke. Sir Christopher
proceeded to teach me.

Of course, at first I thought his stay with us was merely a temporary
matter; like some folk, he had decided to go on a visit and stay over
night. But when Sir Christopher continued to tarry, I enquired, I looked
about, I advertised--and I assured the children that some one,
somewhere, must surely be mourning the loss of a precious pet; some one,
sometime, would come to claim him.

But no one came.

Days slid away, weeks slipped into months, winter walked our way, and
spring, and summer again. Sir Christopher C. had deliberately adopted
us, for he made no move toward finding another abiding place. He was no
longer Somebody's cat, he was our cat; for, indeed, is not possession
nine points of the law?

Then one day when heat shimmered over the valley, when the dan