dear fellow
did his best, and hit out bravely, till he was dragged into the deep
snow where he could not fight, and there so cruelly maltreated that he
would have been murdered outright, if I had not gone to the rescue.

Catching up a broom, I belabored the dog so energetically that he was
forced to turn from the poor Czar to me. What would have become of me I
don't know, for the dog was in a rage, and evidently meditating a grab
at my ankles, when his master appeared and ordered him off.

Never was a boy better scolded than that one, for I poured forth vials
of wrath upon his head as I took up my bleeding pet, and pointed to his
wounds as indignantly as Antony did to Caesar's.

The boy fled affrighted, and I bore my poor Czar in to die. All day he
lay on his cushion, patient and quiet, with his torn neck tied up in a
soft bandage, a saucer of cream close by, and an afflicted mistress to
tend and stroke him with tender lamentations.

We had company in the evening, and my interesting patient was put into
another room. Once, in the midst of conversation, I thought I heard a
plaintive mew, but could not go to see, and soon forgot all about it;
but when the guests left, my heart was rent by finding Czar stretched
out before the door quite dead.

Feeling death approach, he had crept to say good-by, and with a farewell
mew had died before the closed door, a brave and faithful cat to the
end.

He was buried with great pomp, and before his grave was green, little
Blot came to take his place, though she never filled it. Blot's career
was a sad and brief one. Misfortune marked her for its own, and life was
one too many for her.

I saw some boys pelting a wretched object with mud. I delivered a
lecture on cruelty to animals, confiscated the victim, and, wrapping
her in a newspaper, bore the muddy little beast away in triumph. Being
washed and dried, she turned out a thin black kit, with dirty blue bows
tied in her ears. As I don't approve of ear-rings, I took hers out, and
tried to fatten her up, for she was a forlorn creature at first.

But Blot would not grow plump. Her early wrongs preyed upon her, and she
remained a thin, timid, melancholy little cat all her days. I could not
win her confidence. She had lost her faith in mankind, and I don't blame
her. She always hid in corners, quaked when I touched her, took her food
by stealth, and sat in a forlorn bunch in cold nooks, down cellar or
behind the gate, mewing despon