34 THE FIRESIDE SPHINX 



circle, he cut off its paw with his knife. Upon this 

 they all fled howling into the night ; and the next 

 morning the miller saw with joy his mill standing 

 unharmed, and the great wheel turning merrily in 

 the water. But the miller s wife was ill in bed ; 

 and, when the tailor bade her good-by, she gave 

 him her left hand, hiding beneath the bedclothes 

 the right arm s bleeding stump. 



There is also a Scandinavian version of the ever 

 famous story which Sir Walter Scott told to Wash 

 ington Irving, which &quot; Monk &quot; Lewis told to Shel 

 ley, and which, in one form or another, we find 

 embodied in the folk-lore of every land, the story 

 of the traveller who saw within a ruined abbey a 

 procession of cats lowering into its grave a little 

 coffin with a crown upon it. Filled with horror, he 

 hastened from the spot ; but when he reached his 

 destination, he could not forbear relating to a friend 

 the wonder he had seen. Scarcely had the tale 

 been told, when his friend s cat, who lay curled up 

 tranquilly by the fire, sprang to its feet, cried out, 

 &quot; Then I am the King of the Cats ! &quot; and disap 

 peared in a flash up the chimney. 



In the Norwegian tale, which lacks the subtle 

 suggestiveness of the German, the cat is a young 

 Troll, who, hiding from the jealous wrath of Knur- 

 remurre, lived for three years as a peaceful pussy in 

 the house of a Jutland peasant. One day this man, 



