OUR SENTIMENTAL GARDEN 

 savage rites. Have you ever watched a cat with regard 

 turned inwards, meditating? Its body sways, but the 

 spirit bubbles softly as if it were seething in content over a 

 mystic fire. It does not want you to join it in its rapture, 

 like your dog. It has no desire to admit you into its 



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* comradeship. It is as self-contained and self- 

 absorbed as the highest grade Mahatma. 

 Kitty-Wee, the Lovely, is chief of our three cats. 

 She is a Persian lady with a wonderful robe of 

 silver grey, faintly blue, and orange eyes inherited from 

 that most beautiful, most evil monster, Tittums the Bold- 

 and-Bad, her father, who spent his adorable tkittenhood 

 and his stormy youth under our London roof, until his 

 habit of lying in wait for the servants at odd corners and 

 jumping at their elbows, made it imperative for us to part 

 with him. He was then adopted by a gentle parson's 

 daughter, in the freedom of whose country dwelling it 

 was hoped that he might sow his wild oats and settle 

 down into respectability. But alas! the day dawned, 

 when lying on the rector's cassock in the dining-room, 

 he was so incensed at the reverend gentleman's polite 

 request to move, that he chased him round and round 

 the room, ran him down in the hall and bit him. The 

 churchman was not an unreasonable being and had made 

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