om my mother at a very early age, and sent out into
the world alone, long before I had had time to learn to say "please" and
"thank you," and to shut the door after me, and little things like that.
One of the things I had not learned to understand was the difference
between milk in a saucer on the floor, and milk in a jug on the table.
Other cats tell me there is a difference, but I can't see it. The
difference is not in the taste of the milk--that is precisely the same.

It is not so easy to get the milk out of a jug, and I should have
thought some credit would attach to a cat who performed so clever a
feat. The world, my dear, thinks otherwise. This difference of opinion
has, through life, been a fruitful source of sorrow to me. I cannot tell
you how much I have suffered for it. The first occasion I remember was a
beautiful day in June, when the sun shone, and all the world looked
fair. I was destined to remember that day.

The fishmonger (talk of statues to heroes! I would raise one to that
noble man!)--the fishmonger, I say, brought his usual little present to
_me_. I let the cook take it and prepare it for my eating. I am always
generous enough to permit the family to be served first--and then I have
my dinner quietly at the back door.

Well, he had brought the salmon, and I followed the cook in, to see
that it wasn't put where those dogs could get it; and then, the
dining-room door being opened, I walked in. The breakfast things were
lying littered about, and on the tea-tray was a jug.

Of course, I walked across the table, and looked into the jug; there was
milk in it.

It was a sensible, wide-mouthed jug, and I should have been quite able
to make a comfortable breakfast, if some clumsy, careless servant hadn't
rushed into the room, crying "Shoo! scat!"

This startled me, of course. I am very sensitive. I started, the jug
went over, and the milk ran on to the cloth, and down on the new carpet.
You will hardly believe it, but that servant, to conceal her own
carelessness, beat me with a feather brush, and threw me out of the back
door; and cook, who was always a heartless person, though stout, gave
me no dinner. Ah! if my fishmonger had only known that I never tasted
his beautiful present, after all!

But though I admired him so much, I could not talk to him. I never, from
a kitten, could speak any foreign language fluently. So he never knew.

My next misadventure was on an afternoon when the family expect