it pleases my household.
From an economic point of view, Lux is not worth her salt. Huxley's
cat, be it remembered, was never known to attack anything larger and
fiercer than a butterfly. "I doubt whether he has the heart to kill
a mouse," wrote the proud possessor of this prodigy; "but I saw him
catch and eat the first butterfly of the season, and I trust that
the germ of courage thus manifested may develop with years into
efficient mousing."

Even Huxley was disposed to take a utilitarian view of cathood. Even
Cowper, who owed to the frolics of his kitten a few hours' respite
from melancholy, had no conception that his adult cat could do better
service than slay rats. "I have a kitten, my dear," he wrote to Lady
Hesketh, "the drollest of all creatures that ever wore a cat's skin.
Her gambols are incredible, and not to be described. She tumbles head
over heels several times together. She lays her cheek to the ground,
and humps her back at you with an air of most supreme disdain. From
this posture she rises to dance on her hind feet, an exercise which
she performs with all the grace imaginable; and she closes these
various exhibitions with a loud smack of her lips, which, for want
of greater propriety of expression, we call spitting. But, though
all cats spit, no cat ever produced such a sound as she does. In point
of size, she is likely to be a kitten always, being extremely small
for her age; but time, that spoils all things, will, I suppose, make
her also a cat. You will see her, I hope, before that melancholy
period shall arrive; for no wisdom that she may gain by experience
and reflection hereafter will compensate for the loss of her present
hilarity. She is dressed in a tortoiseshell suit, and I know that
you will delight in her."

Had Cowper been permitted to live more with kittens, and less with
evangelical clergymen, his hours of gayety might have outnumbered
his hours of gloom. Cats have been known to retain in extreme old
age the "hilarity" which the sad poet prized. Nature has thoughtfully
provided them with one permanent plaything; and Mr. Frederick Locker
vouches for a light-hearted old Tom who, at the close of a long and
ill-spent life, actually squandered his last breath in the pursuit
of his own elusive tail. But there are few of us who would care to
see the monumental calm of our fireside sphinx degenerate into senile
sportiveness. Better far the measured slowness of her pace, the
superb immobility