f his cat. "In the year 1552," he writes
with becoming gravity, "having left in the house a little cat of
placid and domestic habits, she jumped upon my table, and tore at
my public lectures; yet my Book of Fate she touched not, though it
was the more exposed to her attacks. I gave up my chair, nor returned
to it for eight years." Oh, wise physician, to discern so clearly
that "placid and domestic habits" were but a cloak for mysteries too
deep to fathom, for warnings too pregnant to be disregarded.

The vanity of man revolts from the serene indifference of the cat.
He is forever lauding the dog, not only for its fidelity, which is
a beautiful thing, but for its attitude of humility and abasement.
A distinguished American prelate has written some verses on his dog,
in which he assumes that, to the animal's eyes, he is as God,--a being
whose word is law, and from whose sovereign hand flow all life's
countless benefactions. Another complacent enthusiast describes
_his_ dog as sitting motionless in his presence, "at once tranquil
and attentive, as a saint should be in the presence of God. He is
happy with the happiness which we perhaps shall never know, since
it springs from the smile and the approval of a life incomparably
higher than his own."

Of course, if we are going to wallow in idolatry like this, we do
well to choose the dog, and not the cat, to play the worshipper's
part. I am not without a suspicion that the dog is far from feeling
the rapture and the reverence which we so delightedly ascribe to him.
What is there about any one of us to awaken such sentiments in the
breast of an intelligent animal? We have taught him our vices, and
he fools us to the top of our bent. The cat, however, is equally free
from illusions and from hypocrisy. If we aspire to a petty
omnipotence, she, for one, will pay no homage at our shrine.
Therefore has her latest and greatest defamer, Maeterlinck, branded
her as ungrateful and perfidious. The cat of "The Blue Bird" fawns
and flatters, which is something no real cat was ever known to do.
When and where did M. Maeterlinck encounter an obsequious cat? That
the wise little beast should resent Tyltyl's intrusion into the
ancient realms of night, is conceivable, and that, unlike the dog,
she should see nothing godlike in a masterful human boy, is hardly
a matter for regret; but the most subtle of dramatists should better
understand the most subtle of animals, and forbear to rank her as