116 
call will generally bring them scampering home; 
and if their names prove inefficient, one enuncia- 
tion of “‘Cat’s-meat!” acts like a spell. 
It is curious to contrast the mild, and, if I may 
use the expression, the affable faces of cats which 
are noticed—perhaps playfully talked to—with 
the fierce and moody countenances of those 
neglected creatures which, in London and else- | 
where, grow half or wholly wild, among gardens, 
yards, and outhouses, picking up their living as 
they can. The two classes seem to belony to 
different species. The well-kept and well-treated 
house-cat seems rather civilised than tamed; the 
neglected and too often persecuted brute ovtside 
the window has relapsed into a skulking savage. 
You never see the two consort together, and the 
natural playfulness of the species seems in the 
outcast to have almost entirely vanished. Now, 
is all this poor, ragged, beaten, pelted, and un- 
sheltered pussy’s fault? Far from it. It is too 
often the fault of her accusers. They do not give 
her sufficient food. She steals it, gets beaten and 
driven out ; and perhaps in a month or two acquires 
that horribly stealthy crawl, and that misgiving, 
hungry eye—both of which are quite unnatural, 
and speak a creature under the influence of | 
constant want, and the fear of tyrant man. 
Well said, this. It nicely illustrates all 
we have ever advanced. Starve children, 
and see if they will not steal to satisfy the 
appetite. Beat them, and watch the effects 
of that beating. Should we expect more 
from a cat than we would from a child? 
Here follows. a nice distinction between 
the parlor cat and the kitchen cat. It is 
sketched by a masterly hand:— 
A not uncommon phrase in households is that 
of a “‘ parlor cat” and a “kitchen cat;” and I 
believe it to be an undoubted fact that there are 
differences in the character of the creatures, which 
somehow prompt the one to seek the cheerful light 
and talk of a sitting-room, and the other rather to 
brood and nestle in the gloomier and the warmer 
regions below. ‘The one is always seen conspi- 
cuous on the rug, or stretched upon the footstool ; 
the other makes casual appearances upon the | 
stairs, and flies like a spectre at the approach of 
anybody but the cook. The one creature seems ' 
to have a sort of aristocracy in its nature, and it 
is all but uniformly the handsomest cat of the 
twain ; the other is, most probably, a vulgar, squat 
present in it. 
Of my three cats, two I reckon as parlor cats, 
par sang; and the third has been, by kind usage 
and encouragement, coaxed into a degree of the 
same familiarity. Still, however, the natural 
timidity seems unconquerable. 
rapid motion towards the creature, she bounds 
away like a wild thing. Her two comrades, on 
the contrary, are frightened at nothing. The 
room, the occupants, the whole locale, seem their 
own special sphere and natural dwelling-place ; 
and the only period of the day when the three ap- 
pear to be merged into a common character, is as 
the hour for the visit of the “ cat’s-meat-man”’ ap- 
proaches; when they are sure to be in waiting at 
the door, and to set up their sweet voices as soon 
as they hear that of the vendor of the food. 

If you make a | 

_KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 

It is to be remarked, that they take not the 
slightest notice of the daily cry of a rival prac- 
titioner who perambulates the street at nearly the 
same time ; and that on Sundays, when no pran- 
dial visit takes place, they never appear to expect 
the week-day ceremony, but are perfectly aware 
of a double quantity of good things being stowed 
away in a certain cupboard, round which they 
_ cluster with arching backs and waving tails. 
| 
| 

We conclude with a few very sensible 
remarks about juvenile and adult cats :— 
People not unfrequently cry out that kittens 
are pretty, playful things, but that they lose the 
gentillesse and piquant prettiness of their youth 
| when they degenerate into stupid cats! _ The 
complaint is unreasonable enough. The infantine 
Johnny Tomkins, who kicked, and crowed, and 
_lisped funny imperfect words, and made big eyes 
at his mother, can hardly be expected to repeat 
‘the performance some half-century after, when he 
‘is Tomkins & Co.—perbaps the mayor of the 
| town, and a churchwarden of the parish to boot. 
Why then should sedate ten-years-old puss, who 
| 1s getting rather stiff in the joints, and likes better 
and better the summer’s bask, and the winter’s 
warm, be expected to tumble over a ball of cotton, 
or to lie on his back kicking at nothing at all, 
like his own son and heir, whom he gravely ob- 
serves at these amusements, and sometimes tips 
over with his paw? Mr.’Tomkins is not blamed for 
his matured dignity, why then should Mr. Puss ? 
But the fact is, that the playfulness of kitten- 
dom can be partially, particularly with healthy 
and good-tempered cats, kept up, by a little en- 
couragement, even when they have grown into 
“potent, grave, and reverend seigneurs ;” and 
that grim old grimalkins, who have drunk their 
morning’s milk for a dozen of years, can be in- 
duced to skip and roll and tumble in the most 
absurdly awkward mimicry of the small fry, which 
are still indebted for the lacteal fluid to their 
mothers. 
Just so. . And is it not the same with us? 
Why, WE are as active now, and as playful 
as ever we were; and as full of fun too— 
provided, always, we are in the company of 
those we love. 
Treat us well, good people; and we, like 
the veteran cats, will ‘skip, and roll, and 
tumble” down any hill that the youngest of 
: Beare ae ; you dare to descend! 
plebeian, with its original shyness still strongly | 

Try us when you will. 
THE HOLINESS OF NIGHT. 
BY J.S. BIGG. 

Ir is the hour when Earth, our mother, claims 
Companionship and sisterhood with stars ; 
When, throwing off the trammelage of Day, 
She bounds into the infinite and sings 
With all the galaxies the ancient songs 
Of all the ages and of all the suns; 
The hour when the Eternal One steps from 
His starry throne, and whispers in the ear 
Of Universal Nature, the great truths 
That have to shine upon the golden front 
Of the To-morrow, to win back man’s soul 
Unto its purest self and to its God. 
Ah! Night is holy, like her sister Death. 


