MY SUMMER J7V A GARDEN. 49 



south so soft and treacherous ! A thrush 

 sang in the woods so deceitfully ! All 

 Nature seemed fair. But who was to 

 give me back my peas ? The fowls of 

 the air have peas ; but what has man ? 



I went into the house. I called Cal 

 vin. (That is the name of our cat, 

 given him on account of his gravity, 

 morality, and uprightness. We never 

 familiarly call him John.) I petted 

 Calvin. I lavished upon him an enthu 

 siastic fondness. I told him that he 

 had no fault ; that the one action that 

 I had called a vice was an heroic exhi 

 bition of regard for my interests. I 

 bade him go and do likewise con 

 tinually. I now saw how much better 

 instinct is than mere unguided reason. 

 Calvin knew. If he had put his opinion 

 into English (instead of his native cat 

 alogue), it would have been : &quot; You 

 need not teach your grandmother to 



