"a ribband to stick in his coat."
As cats are by nature the most aristocratic of animals, this one took his new honours with the air of one who was used to them, though he caused some criticism by switching his tail in an unknightly fashion. Seated high on a sofa cushion, he purred contentedly and received the homage of his loyal retainers. He closed his eyes, bristled up his whiskers and smiled like a Cheshire cat. Even Sir Jingo McBore could not have given him any pointers on noble and knightly conduct. I am afraid that if he receives much more homage of this kind he will become too haughty to associate with the other cats and will pose as "the cat that walks alone." Still his nature may not be changed entirely by his new-found honours. I noticed that once in a while he would stretch out a paw in a sleepy way and spread his claws as if he were dreaming of mice, for he has been a famous mouser. I hate to think that he may become a social butterfly on account of his title, but a stanza from Calverly haunts my memory. As nearly as I can remember it runs like this:
"In vain they set the cream jug out
And cull the choice sardine,
I fear he never more will be
The cat that he has been."
[LII.—A Spring Orgy]
Yesterday the children called me to see an amusing exhibition that breathes the spirit of spring. The house cat, fat and lazy, had found a little patch of catnip that had started showing signs of growth. He was biting at it as if he were going to eat grass like an ox. After he managed to get some fragments of leaves into his mouth and had swallowed them he lay down and began to roll over. He kicked his legs into the air, rolled around, wallowed and otherwise acted foolishly. The catnip seemed to fill him with a spring madness that induced all kinds of foolish excesses. Finally he jumped into the air with the playfulness of a kitten and rushed around the corner of the house, switching his tail and acting as if he had renewed his youth. By the way, I may as well record an observation about this cat while I am at it. He is inclined to be pampered in the matter of food, for he is always around begging when any one is eating, but in spite of this fact he is a famous mouser. Hardly a day passes that I do not see him coming out of the orchard with a mouse, and some days he gets two or three. I have heard it said that only well-fed cats are good mousers, and I think there may be something in it. They go mousing just as a well-fed sportsman goes hunting.