=THE CAT 



Moumoutte Chinoise 



I remember the day when the Chinese cat and I 

 established friendly relations. It was a melan- 

 choly afternoon in September. The first fogs of 

 autumn were brooding over the cold, unquiet 

 waters. We were sailing eastward, and the ship 

 creaked plaintively as she slid into the hollows of 

 the sea. I sat writing in the obscurity of my cabin, 

 which grew darker and darker as the green waves 

 washed over my closed port-hole. 



Suddenly a little form came stealing out of the 

 shadows. It drew nearer, stealthily and hesita- 

 tingly. There was an oriental grace in its fashion 

 of holding one paw suspended in air, as though 

 uncertain where to place it next. It looked at me 

 with anxious interrogation. 



" What does the cat want ? " I said to myself. 

 She has had her dinner. She is not hungry. 

 What is it she is after? " 



As though to answer me, la Chinoise crept closer 

 and closer, until she was at my feet. Then sitting 

 upright, and curling her tail about her, she uttered 

 a gentle little cry, looking straight into my eyes 

 which seemed to hold some message she could read. 

 She understood that I was a thinking creature, 

 capable of pity, accessible to a mute prayer, and 



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