THAT GREAT MYSTERY, THE COMMON TABBY.
There Must Be Something Esoteric About
the Cat, to Judge from Her
Astounding Performances.
However cozily she may sleep upon the rug, however certain her knowledge of the quickest route to the milkpans on the closet shelf, the cat is ever but a guest in the house. Though occasionally she permits herself to be stroked, it is only when a stroking accords with her own desires. She never makes concessions as the dog does; she is selfish and independent; so canny in her policies as to be almost uncanny; aloof, full of indirections.
The late Professor Shaler spoke of "the almost human dog"; and surely we are able to trace the associational processes of mind by which Fido has drawn close to his master. We are convinced that Fido does not know that he is a dog. He does what his master pleases. But Tabby does what she herself pleases.
If any animal approximates human consciousness, it is the common Tabby. Perhaps she embodies some force unknown to, or misunderstood by, mankind. The Chicago Inter-Ocean argues that she does, for we read:
There is never any telling what a cat will do. Everybody who has kept house, or who is keeping house, or who is an inmate of a house that is kept, as all well-regulated houses are, for the partial convenience of the cat, will agree to this proposition.
The cat, to all appearances, as far as any member of the family is able to see, has been put out for the night, and yet she is found to be in at 4 a.m. as usual, pleading with all the inmates, individually and collectively, to have the door opened for her so that she may go out.
On the other hand, she is safely locked in, as far as anybody can see. Witnesses are always willing to testify that they have seen her locked in. Nevertheless, at about 4.30 a.m., she is heard outside under the bedroom windows, pleading as usual to be let in.
Again, the cat has been taken to the river in a flour-sack, and comfortably drowned. The small boy of the family, accompanied by one of the boarders, who has given the small boy a quarter, has seen the bag, with the cat inside of it, sink below the surface.
The news is somehow rumored about the house, and all the boarders go to bed early that night, feeling that there is really more in life than they had any right to hope for. Yet in the morning the voice of that cat is heard on the front door-step, and the cat herself comes in when Mr. Johnson reaches out for his morning paper.
And, again, a terrible noise is heard in the dining-room. It sounds as if the contents of the sideboard had been emptied on the floor. When sufficient time is given for the burglars to escape, the procession comes down-stairs, headed by Mrs. Johnson.
There is not a single thing disturbed in the dining-room or elsewhere, and the cat is sleeping snugly on the best rug. It is always a mystery how the cat makes that kind of noise.
The days of superstition are long since passed. Few are superstitious now, and these are generally the ignorant. But there are very many people in every community who do not understand many things about the cat.
It is not going too far to say that many millions of people who pass for intelligent believe that every cat has two personalities—one that is just an ordinary cat and the other an intangible something that can penetrate solid matter like the X-ray.
This theory would account for the fact that a cat which you have seen run down by an automobile will be found next morning chasing squirrels across the lawn, and for the fact that the cat which you expressed, charges prepaid, to your brother's wife in Trenton, New Jersey, is heard running over the piano-keys in your own house a few nights later.
We are far from knowing everything that is worth while about the cat, much as we may boast of our advancement in general education.
DEFINITIONS OF "HOME."
The golden setting in which the brightest jewel is "mother."
A world of strife shut out, a world of love shut in.
An arbor which shades when the sunshine of prosperity becomes too dazzling; a harbor where the human bark finds shelter in time of storm.
Home is the blossom of which heaven is the fruit.
Home is a person's estate obtained without injustice, kept without disquietude; a place where time is spent without repentance, and which is ruled by justice, mercy, and love.
A hive in which, like the industrious bee, youth garners the sweets and memories of life for age to meditate and feed upon.
The best place for a married man after business hours.
Home is the coziest, kindliest, sweetest place in all the world, the scene of our purest earthly joys and deepest sorrows.
The place where the great are sometimes small, and the small often great.
The father's kingdom, the children's paradise, the mother's world.
The jewel casket containing the most precious of all jewels—domestic happiness.
Where you are treated best and grumble most.
The center of our affections, around which our heart's best wishes twine.
A popular but paradoxical institution, in which woman works in the absence of man, and man rests in the presence of woman.
A working model of heaven, with real angels in the form of mothers and wives.
Having offered a prize for the best definition of "Home," London Tit-Bits recently received more than five thousand answers.
Among those which were adjudged the best were the definitions printed above.
RECESSIONAL.
In 1897 the British Empire celebrated the Diamond Jubilee, as it was called, of Victoria's accession to the throne. She had been queen for sixty years, and in that time the dominion of the flag of Britain had been extended over lands which, at her coronation, were scarcely known except by name. The celebration culminated in a splendid and stately ceremonial which made London appear to be the capital city of the entire world. From out all the length and breadth of the empire came princes, chiefs, nobles, and statesmen of every race, all united under British rule, and vying with each other in homage to their sovereign. So overwhelming were this display and the significance of its splendor that it roused in many minds a feeling of awe bordering almost upon apprehension. Was this greatness not too great? Might it not breed that overweening pride of power which goes before destruction?
This thought sank deep into the impressionable mind of Rudyard Kipling. His genius sought to express in words the idea which came to him—the wish to deprecate that divine disfavor which men have always feared as the punishment of too great prosperity. It was the feeling which made the Greeks and Romans dread the power of Nemesis, the jealousy of the gods. Kipling wrote five stanzas which he entitled "Recessional."
The lines at once were cabled to all parts of the English-speaking world, and they took their place with the classic poems of the English tongue. "Recessional" is indeed a majestic and noble poem—a prayer in verse. Its solemnity and religious fervor are Hebraic. Its mastery of phrase is almost unrivaled. Through it there runs a tone of proud humility which marks the English character, touched with haughtiness even in its supplication. Such a phrase as that which speaks of the "lesser breeds without the Law" contains even a touch of scorn which would be discordant were it not so characteristic of the great conquering race of which to-day Kipling himself has become the unofficial laureate. It is not extravagant to say that no poem written in the last quarter of a century is so sure of immortality.
By RUDYARD KIPLING.
God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle line,
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart;
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
Far-called, our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire;
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe—
Such boasting as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard—
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding, calls not Thee to guard—
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord!
FROM THE LIPS OF ANANIAS.
While Kipling Makes the Merits of "Unwreckable" and "Impeccable" Lies the Subject
of Song, Others Continue to Prefer the Medium of Story.