SOME CATS OF FRANCE 199 



&quot; Je vois avcc etonnement 

 Le feu de ses prunelles pales, 

 Clairs fanaux, vivantes opales, 

 Qui me contemplent fixement.&quot; 



&quot;The boast of our age,&quot; says a modern cynic, 

 &quot;is the reverse of simplicity ; &quot; but then the cat is 

 not a simple animal. When poets have chosen to 

 write simply about a creature so curiously complex, 

 they have succeeded merely in portraying a single 

 trait or aspect ; something easily compassed by 

 even a limited understanding, as Wordsworth de 

 scribed the gambols of the kitten on the wall. 

 Nevertheless, there is a sweeter, homelier side to 

 man s tenderness for any animal ; there is affection 

 distinct from infatuation. It does not inspire the 

 poet, how should it ! but it warms our hearts, 

 as nothing save kindness and the knowledge of 

 kindness can ever warm them in a world chilled by 

 indifference to pain. Madame Michelet, the clever 

 wife and collaboratrice of the historian, has told us 

 in &quot; L Oiseau &quot; a plain pathetic little story, which 

 contains all the elements of tragedy and of consola 

 tion that go to make up life. 



&quot; My father,&quot; she writes, &quot;had a strong sympathy 

 for cats. This was the result of early experience. 

 He and his brother, knocked pitilessly about in 

 their childhood between the harshness of home and 

 the cruelty of school, had, for solace and alleviation, 



