“Dr. Johnson and Southey were fond of cats,” said Mr. Graham. “Southey declared that no house was properly furnished without a child rising three years and a kitten rising three weeks. Lord Chesterfield left a sum of money for the support of his favorite cat, Prince Krapotkine, like other famous captives, has a prison pet—a cat,—which has been a jail bird almost from its birth, and has grown to be a great favorite with the Prince. Like Sir Walter Scott's cat, this cat can do everything but talk.”
Mr. Graham then read the following from Prince Krapotkine's story of his prison life:—
“When the cat wants my door opened, it does not mew, it stretches itself to its full length and shakes the latch with its paw. If the door had another kind of fastening, it would certainly open it by raising the latch. It knows perfectly well the meaning of all the bells which ring in the prison—that to bid the inmates to rise in the morning, that which sounds before soup is served. Its dictionary is very limited, but it understands perfectly the meaning of the words it knows. Thus, in the evening when I walk in my room, it performs all sorts of gambols, and by making certain special sounds, endeavors to make me play with it at hide and seek—it plays this game exactly as children do, and insists that each party should hide in his turn—or to draw a string along for it to run after. If, in reply to its invitation to play, I say to it, 'What do you want? Food? Drink?' it is displeased, and goes with a sulky air to sit behind my little stove. But when I say, 'the string?' it replies immediately by two sounds, concerning the affirmative tone of which there can be no doubt. I could relate other instances of sagacity, but I do not wish to impose upon the credulity of your readers.
