THE CAT 



There is no word of Shakespeare's to which the 

 cat-lover may turn with delight, as the hunter turns 

 to the gallant lines of Theseus : 



" My hounds are hred out of the Spartan kind, 

 So flew'd, so sanded; and their heads are hung 

 With ears that sweep away the morning dew." 



As a matter of fact, all the earliest notices of 

 the cat are peevish outcries against her freebooting 

 instincts, her spirit of stubborn independence. 

 She was centuries winning a foothold in society 

 even as the 



" harmless necessary cat/' 



that rid the household of mice, and any deviation 

 from duty's path brought down upon her graceful 

 head a torrent of abuse. 



" These vylanous false cattes 

 Were made for mice and rattes, 

 And not for byrdes small/' 



writes John Skelton, with unwarranted confidence 

 in the discrimination of nature's laws. 



" Grimalkin, the foul Fiend's cat, 

 Grimalkin, the witche's brat," 



runs an old rhyme, expressing the popular preju- 

 dice of its day. 



xiv 



