'A little of it, Fox. They don't read it in our schoolroom. They say it is not moral; but I have heard pieces of it. I hope it is not all quite true.'
'Pack of stuff! it is the only true book that ever was written. If it is not, it ought to be. Why, that book is the law of the world—la carrière aux talents—and writing it was the honestest thing ever done by a man. That fellow knew a thing or two, and wasn't ashamed of himself when he did know. They are all like him, too, if they would only say so. There never was one of them yet who wasn't more ashamed of being called ugly than of being called a rogue, and of being called stupid than of being called naughty.'
'It has a roughish end, this life of yours, if you keep clear of the hounds, Fox,' said the Cat.
'What! a rope in the yard! Well, it must end some day; and when the farmer catches me I shall be getting old, and my brains will be taking leave of me; so the sooner I go the better, that I may disgrace myself the less. Better be jolly while it lasts, than sit mewing out your life and grumbling at it as a bore.'
'Well,' said the Cat, 'I am very much obliged to you. I suppose I may even get home again. I shall not find a wiser friend than you, and perhaps I shall not find another good-natured enough to give me so good a dinner. But it is very sad.'
'Think of what I have said,' answered the Fox. 'I'll call at your house some night; you will take me a walk round the yard, and then I'll show you.'
'Not quite,' thought the Cat, as she trotted off; 'one good turn deserves another, that is true; and you have given me a dinner. But they have given me many at home, and I mean to take a few more of them; so I think you mustn't go round our yard.'
PART IV.
The next morning, when the Dog came down to breakfast, he found his old friend sitting in her usual place on the hearth-rug.
'Oh! so you have come back,' said he. 'How d'ye do? You don't look as if you had had a very pleasant journey.'