e
labyrinthian heart of you?... She knows a great deal certainly, but not
as much as a Cat.

That thick tear on the log represents the anguish of a very old
fir-tree, killed by the assiduous ivy. Just a short time ago I saw it
struck down, lying on the grass, its foliage looking like a beautiful
head of reddish hair. I saw the axe that felled it, too. Its trunk weeps
tears of resin, which trail along in drivel, then change to heavy,
creeping flame. But the dry red locks break into lines of living fire,
whistle and shoot innumerable jets of many colors underneath a broad
gold wave that rolls voluptuously....

Ah, love ... hunting ... fighting.... It's your light, Fire, that
discovers these passions in the depths of my being. It's time the little
winged creatures searching withered berries came near. I'll have them
soon! I'll watch, motionless in the brushwood, wildly wishing that the
earth itself might hide me, the muscles of my legs twitching with desire
to make the spring, my chin trembling.... Then, if I don't betray my
hiding-place by an irrepressible quavering, frightening them away in one
great commotion of wings and rustling branches!... But no, I'm master of
myself. One bound at exactly the right moment and my feeble prey is
panting under me. Oh, the ridiculous effort of a weak animal--its tiny
ineffectual claws and pointed wings beating against my face! My jaws
will open to the splitting point and my perfect nose wrinkle
ferociously, for the joy of holding a living, terrified body. I'll know
the intoxication of battle! I'll prance victoriously, shaking my head to
torment the bird a little, for it faints away too soon between my teeth!
Terrible to see I'll gallop towards the house, singing in a strangled
voice, without loosening my grip, for He must stop his scratching to
admire me, and She must give chase with distracted cries: "Wicked,
savage cat! Drop that bird! drop that bird!! Oh, I beg of you! It hurts
me so...." Ha! She never can have hunted....

I intend to astonish the world, Fire, during Winter's reign. The Cat
that lives at the farm (She says the farmer's cat, while we say the
Cat's farmer), the fellow that's so badly dressed, disfigured by the
nose of a weasel, and seems to walk on stilts, his legs are so
long--well, he sharpens his claws and regards me the while. Patience!
He's strong, brutal, irresolute, and utterly lacks distinction. The
slamming of a door terrifies him; he puts back his ears an