WINTER 55 



the morning, like a dog, and runs up my 

 trousers and coat to my shoulder. When 

 a boot is shied toward him along the 

 floor, he shoots straight into the air, like a 

 bucking bronco, and as high. I know two 

 kittens of the same family: one a seraphic- 

 looking youngster with a pretty face, soft 

 fur, and contemptible disposition ; the other 

 a vagrom brute with coarse gray hair 

 streaked with black, a vulgar countenance, 

 and marked courtesy and consideration. 

 The tramp will accept a bone thankfully, 

 and in teasing for more will pat you softly 

 to draw your attention, while the seraph 

 spits at everything before eating it, and 

 once, when I offered my ringer coated with 

 gravy for him to clean, he bit it instead. 



It is pleasant to find that most people 

 esteem animals, even when they are hunters 

 and gourmets and wearers of ornamented 

 bonnets, and prefer them dead. Thoreau 

 says he likes the brutes because they never 

 talk nonsense, are never foolish, vain, pom- 

 pous, or stupid. How about a parrot, an 

 ostrich, a peacock, a horse, a hen ? They 

 make capital companions, when they con- 



