THE CAT 



An Outcast 



My father had a strong sympathy for cats. 

 This was the result of early experience. He and 

 his brother, knocked pitilessly about in their child- 

 hood between the harshness of home and the cruelty 

 of school, had, for solace and alleviation, two well- 

 loved cats. Affection for these animals became a 

 family trait. When we were young, each of us 

 had a kitten. We gathered round the fire at night, 

 and our sleek, well-fed pets sat at our feet, basking 

 in the grateful warmth. 



There was one cat, however, that never joined 

 the circle. He was a poor ugly thing, and so con- 

 scious of his defects that he held aloof with invinci- 

 ble shyness and reserve. He was the butt, the 

 souffre douleur of our little society ; and the inborn 

 malignity of our natures found expression in the 

 ridicule with which we pelted him. His name was 

 Moquo. He was thin and weak, his coat was 

 scanty, he needed the warm fireside more than the 

 other cats; but the children frightened him, and 

 his comrades, wrapped snugly in their furry robes, 

 disdained to take any notice of his presence. Only 

 my father would go to the dim, cold corner where he 

 cowered, pick him up, carry him to the hearth, and 

 tuck him safely out of sight under a fold of his own 



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