i;o THE FIRESIDE SPHINX 



&quot; Mither got fushionless, auld, an blin, 

 The bluid in Her veins was cauld an thin, 

 Her claws were blunt, an she couldna rin, 

 An t her forbears was sune gathered in. 



&quot; Now I sit hurklin aye in the ase, 



The queen I am o that cozey place ; 



As wi ilka paw I dicht my face, 



I sing an purr wi mickle grace, 



Three threeds an a thrum, 

 Three threeds an a thrum.&quot; 



There was one hearth, humble enough for the 

 most part, where the cat led but a chequered and 

 comfortless career ; there was one great writer 

 whose supremely irritable soul she might have 

 soothed into serenity, had she been granted fuller 

 and sweeter sway. Carlyle should always have had 

 a cat at his elbow. It was the influence he needed 

 most, and which he vaguely welcomed, without 

 understanding its tranquillizing power. The wis 

 dom of the centuries is embodied in the contempla 

 tive self-sufficiency of the cat. Her superb repose 

 modifies the restless fidgeting of men, and Carlyle 

 fidgeted more than is permissible, even for a man. 

 Unhappily, his incomparable wife surpassed him on 

 this score, and it was she, alas ! who made Pussy s 

 post untenable. Her letters show as constant a 

 succession of cats as of servants. Each new ani 

 mal, like each new domestic, was received with 

 enthusiasm ; and each was found, after a trial, to 



