We find, upon looking closely and impartially into our natural gifts, that it is memory that fails and proves treacherous to us more frequently than any other faculty, and as we go on with life, the fact becomes more and more apparent. With the Cat, memory never fails her. The dog may fail to find his way home, particularly the little dog, but the Cat, never.

No more conclusive testimony concerning the memory and intelligence of the Cat can be given to a doubting world than that contained in the following story from the columns of the New York Press. It is also illustrative of the love of persons as well as places, by the feline. It is recited in a straightforward manner, and I have no doubt of its truthfulness. At any rate, if the reader has his doubts, he can readily, at the cost of a few cents, paid to Uncle Sam in postage stamps, satisfy himself concerning the story, for names are given and the address is plain. "Fritz Heath," says the narrator, "is the noble son of a worthy mother, and lives in Syracuse, N.Y. Fritz is a large gray and white tomcat. Fritz and his mother are the proteges of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Heath. Mr. Heath is a telegraph operator in the employ of the New York Central Railroad. Both Fritz and Gyp are cats of unusual size and beauty. Fritz will roll over, jump through a hoop and turn somersaults at command. He also has the habit of jumping up to catch the smooth top of the dining-table with his paws and swinging suspended, while he surveys the prospects of his coming dinner. Two years ago there was mourning in the home of Heath. Fritz had suddenly disappeared. At night Gyp came into the house, sniffed at the basket, which she and Fritz had occupied together since the latter's kittenhood, and walked disconsolately away. The Heath family searched diligently, but Fritz could not be found.

"When two years had passed by, all but Gyp had nearly forgotten the missing member of the household. She could not be induced to go near her basket, which was still kept beside the fire, and persistently refused to be comforted. One night recently Gyp jumped into her basket and, nestling down, began to purr contentedly. A few days afterward the Heaths, returning from an evening call, saw a cat which, in the darkness, they supposed to be Gyp, lying on the doorstep. When the door was opened the cat ran into the hallway and out again as quickly. A short time later Mrs. Heath heard the crying at the door and went down to bring in the homeless cat and give it something to eat. As soon as she opened the door the cat darted inside. When it came to the lighted apartments, Mrs. Heath exclaimed, 'Why, Tom, that's Fritz!' Hearing his name, the overjoyed Fritz bounded into Mrs. Heath's lap, from hers to her husband's, turned somersaults, rolled over and performed all the tricks he had been taught, as if to thoroughly establish his identity or express his pleasure at getting home.

"'It surely is Fritz,' thought the Heaths, and they examined the cat's right ear. It was split. There was little doubt now, but to make assurance doubly sure, a small stick was thrown down the stairs, into the dark hallway.

"'Go get it, Fritz,' said Mr. Heath, and the cat darted down stairs, returned triumphantly with the stick balanced in its mouth, a trick, by the way, common enough with retrievers, but which few cats have ever been taught to perform. After a good supper, the reclaimed Fritz went straight to his basket behind the stove and cuddled down contented.

"Gyp at first gave the intruder a sharp rap with her paw, but at once recognized her prodigal son, fell on his neck and kissed him. Fritz now stays very closely at home, for his two years' absence seems to have given him an increased regard for the family roof-tree."

This wonderful power of memory in the Cat has seldom been surpassed by any other attribute in the feline, but there came under my personal observation the following astonishing proof of the intelligence and motherly love of the Cat for her young, the relation of which will undoubtedly find an echo in the memories of many of my readers.

While residing on Lexington avenue near Twenty-fourth street, New York, I had a Pussy who presented the world with a litter of three as pretty kittens as ever were seen. Their beauty, however, did not compensate for their burden upon the household, because there was no yard to the house. I kept the little ones until they were a month old and had grown to be attractive, and offered them to friends and neighbors, all of whom admired, but regretted that they had neither use nor room for them. So, one day I tied about the neck of each cunning little kitten a bright ribbon, to improve their appearance, and having secured the mother cat in the kitchen, I took her babies in my overcoat pockets and carried them to the Twenty-first street side of Gramercy Park, where I deposited two of them inside the enclosure. I then went around to the other side of the great iron fence and placed the other baby in the park and returned to the house. The day was a cold one in Winter, and the avenue is a very busy one during the day, being well traveled by pedestrians and vehicles, and the park a considerable distance from my residence. Within an hour the mother, who was supposed to be securely imprisoned in the kitchen, was heard by the servant crying in the front area, and upon opening the basement door, I discovered the Cat with her three beautiful kittens, all safe and sound, returned and claiming my protection. How the Cat released herself from her imprisonment in the kitchen, and by what wonderful power she found the kittens, whom she must have brought through the street, at the risk of her life, one by one, is more than I could surmise, and there they were. My admiration of her was such that I took in the brood and continued to care for them a month longer, all the while endeavoring to find homes for the little ones, but with no success. Finally, recognizing the necessity of getting rid of the kittens, I carried out the babies, once more, in my pockets, and deposited them in an area of a house, ten blocks away, in a busy part of the city, near Fourth avenue. This time I made sure of the mother by locking her in a room, but, on returning to the house, two hours later, I found the three kittens there, and the mother looking at me appealingly. Although much disgusted at the determination of the mother, I kept her kittens until I had induced some friends to take them, after telling the story and persuading them that the children of such a mother must necessarily become wonderful Cats.

Illustrative also of the intelligence, as well as the praiseworthy liberality and charitableness of the Cat, is the story in the Sun of Baltimore, Md., of June 22d, 1892, as follows:

"Mr. James Forwood of Darlington, Hartford County, has a cat which has developed an interesting trait. Being kittenless, she adopted as her own a brood of motherless young chickens, which come to her when she purrs, and follow her around wherever she goes. When any of the brood stray into a neighbor's premises the cat follows, and, picking up each chick carefully by the back of its neck, as if it were a kitten, and in the same manner in which she had been carried when a kitten herself, deposits it safely upon its own premises. Calling the chicks to her, the cat lies down and hovers over them as tenderly and as carefully as their feathered mother would have done. The chicks appear to accept the situation and are thriving."