W

HEN a child, my father took me to see some feats performed by some traveling cats. They were called “the bell-ringers,” and were respectively named Jet, Blanche, Tom, Mop, and Tib.

Five bells were hung at regular intervals on a round hoop erected on a sort of stage. A rope was attached to each bell after the manner of church bells. At a given signal from their master, they all sprang to their feet, and at a second signal, each advanced to the ropes, and standing on their hind feet, stuck their front claws firmly into the ropes, which were in that part covered with worsted, or something of the kind, so as to give the claws a firmer hold. There was a moment's pause—then No. 1 pulled his or her rope, and so sounded the largest bell; No. 2 followed, then No. 3, and so on, till a regular peal was rung with almost as much precision and spirit as though it were human hands instead of cats' claws that effected it.