GRIMALKIN THE CAT 179 
larch on which the storm-cock chanted to the 
celandines. 
The sunrise was pale and watery, fitful gusts 
shook the bushes. Grimalkin's thoughts ran on 
rabbits the rabbits always come out on the Long 
Bank first of all. He squatted under a briar brake, 
tucked his paws away cosily before him, and 
watched. 
A rustle among the brambles, a stir on the dead 
leaves. Grimalkin's muscles stiffened, and his 
whiskers twitched. He crouched flat, then slid 
forward sinuously, paw after paw. Never yet had 
he failed in his spring on a March rabbit. His eye 
dilated and his muscles swelled with the thought 
of victory. Then came the rub. The quarry, 
nervously nibbling at the open grass, was outside 
striking distance. A young cat might have risked 
a spring and failure. Grimalkin was too old a 
hunter, and sat down to wait. 
Again the grasses stirred, and green eyes, keen 
and deadly, were framed hi the waving stems. The 
hunter knew them well. A reproduction of his own, 
they belonged to his great-grandson, a worthy 
whose well-groomed face betrayed all feline vices. 
The newcomer licked his lips, his face took a smug 
