I never thought I should come to like cats. But I have. Perhaps it is because, as my Aunt Amanda used to say, we change every seven years, sort of start over again, as it were; and find we have new thoughts, different ideas, unexpected tastes, strange attractions, and shifting doubts. Or, it may be, we merely come to a new milestone from which, looking back, we are able to regard our own personality from a hitherto unknown angle. We discover ourselves anew, and delight in the experiment.

Or, it may all be, as my husband stolidly affirms, just the logical result of meeting Sir Christopher Columbus, a carnivorous quadruped of the family FelidÆ, much domesticated, in this case, white with markings as black and shiny as a crow's wing, so named because he voyaged about our village, not in search of a new world, but in search of a new home. He came to us. It is flattering to be chosen. He stayed. But who could resist Sir Christopher?

My husband and my Aunt Amanda may both be right. I strongly suspect they are. I also strongly suspect that Sir Christopher himself has much to do with my change of mental attitude: He is well-mannered, good to look upon, quite adorable, independent and patient. (Indeed, if people were half as patient as my cat this would be a different world to live in.) More: He has taught me many things, he talks without making too much noise; in fact, I have read whole sermons in his soft purrings. And I verily believe that many people might learn much from the family cat, except for the fact that we humans are such poor translators. We know only our own language. More's the pity.

Had I known Sir Christopher as a kitten, doubtless he might have added still more to my education. But I did not. He was quite full grown when I first laid my eyes upon him. He was sitting in the sun, on top of a rail fence, blinking at me consideringly. The fence skirted a little trail that led from my back yard down to Calapooia Creek. It seemed trying to push back a fringe of scrubby underbrush which ran down a hillside; a fringe which was, in truth, but a feeler from the great forest of Douglas fir which one saw marching, file upon file, row upon row, back and back to the snows of the high Cascades.

And the white of Sir Christopher's vest and snowy gauntlets was just as gleamingly clean as the icy frosting over the hills. Sir Christopher, even a cat, believed firmly in sartorial pulchritude. I admired him for that, even from the first glance; and, afterward, I put me up three new mirrors: I did not mean to be outdone by my cat, I intended to look tidy every minute, and there is nothing like mirrors to tell the truth. Credit for the initial impulse, however, belongs to Christopher C.

But that first morning, I merely glanced at him, sitting so comfortably on the top rail of the fence, blinking in the sun.

"Somebody's cat," said I, and went on down to the creek to see if Curlylocks had tumbled in.

Coming back, the cat was still there. Doubtless he had taken a nap between times. But he might have been carved of stone, so still he lay, till my youngest, tugging at my hand, coaxed:

"Kitty—kitty—kitty. Muvver, see my 'ittle kitty?"

And I declare, if Sir Christopher (my husband and ten-year-old Ted named him that very evening) didn't look at me and wink. Then he jumped down and followed, very dignified, very discreet.

I attempted to shoo him back. But he wouldn't shoo. He merely stopped and seemed to consider matters. Or serenely remained far enough off to "play safe."

Meanwhile, my youngest continued to reiterate: "Kitty—kitty—kitty! My 'ittle kitty!"

"No, Curlylocks," said I, "it isn't your little kitty. It is somebody's cat."

Which merely shows that I knew not whereof I spoke. Sir Christopher proceeded to teach me.

Of course, at first I thought his stay with us was merely a temporary matter; like some folk, he had decided to go on a visit and stay over night. But when Sir Christopher continued to tarry, I enquired, I looked about, I advertised—and I assured the children that some one, somewhere, must surely be mourning the loss of a precious pet; some one, sometime, would come to claim him.

But no one came.

Days slid away, weeks slipped into months, winter walked our way, and spring, and summer again. Sir Christopher C. had deliberately adopted us, for he made no move toward finding another abiding place. He was no longer Somebody's cat, he was our cat; for, indeed, is not possession nine points of the law?

Then one day when heat shimmered over the valley, when the dandelions had seeded and the thistles had bloomed, when the corn stood heavy and the cricket tuned his evening fiddle, when spots in the lawn turned brown, where the sprinkler missed, when the baby waked and fretted, and swearing, sweating men turned to the west and wondered what had held up the sea breeze—Sir Christopher missed his supper. He vanished as completely as if he had been kidnapped by the Air Patrol. Three weeks went by and we gave him up for lost, although the children still prowled about looking over strange premises, peeping through back gates, trailing down unaccustomed lanes and along Calapooia Creek, for "We might find him," they insisted. Truly, "Hope springs eternal."

"Perhaps, he has gone back where he came from," said Daddy. "Perhaps, he has grown tired of us."

But My Man's voice was a little too matter-of-factly gruff—indeed, he had grown very fond of Sir Christopher—and as for the children, they would accept no such explanation.

It was Curlylocks who found Sir Christopher—or did Sir Chris find Curlylocks? Anyway, they came walking through the gate, my youngest declaiming, "Kitty—kitty—kitty! My 'ittle kitty!"

And since that time, every summer, Sir Christopher takes a vacation. He comes back so sleek and proud and happy that he can hardly contain himself. He rubs against each of us in turn, purring the most satisfied purr—if we could but fully understand the dialect he speaks!—as if he would impart to us something truly important.

"I declare," said Daddy, one day, "I believe that cat goes up in the hills and hunts."

"Camps out and has a good time," added daughter.

"And fishes," suggested Ted. "Cats do catch fish. Sometimes. I've read about it."

Daddy nodded. "Seems to agree with him, whatever he does."

"Vacations agree with anybody," asserted my oldest. And then, "I don't see why we can't go along with Sir Chris. At least we might go the same time he does."

"Mother, couldn't we?"—it was a question that gathered weight and momentum like a snowball rolling down hill, for I had always insisted that, with a big family like mine, I could never bother to go camping. I wanted to be where things were handy: running water from a faucet, bathtubs and gas and linoleum, a smoothly cut lawn and a morning postman. Go camping with a family like mine? Never.

But the thought once set going would not down. Perhaps, after all, Sir Christopher was right and I was wrong. For people did go camping, most people, even groups to the number of nine (the right count for our family), and they seemed to enjoy it. They fought with mosquitoes, and fell into creeks; they were blotched with poison oak, black from exposure, lame from undue exercise, and looked worse than vagrant gipsies—but they came home happy. Even those who spent days in bed to rest up from their rest (I have known such) seemed happy. And every one sighs and says, "We had such a good time! We're planning to go back again next summer."

So at last I gave up—or gave in. We went to the mountains, following up the trail along Calapooia Creek; we camped and hunted and fished to the hearts' content. We learned to cook hotcakes out-of-doors, and how to make sourdough biscuit, and to frizzle bacon before a bonfire, and to bake ham in a bread pan, such as our mothers fitted five loaves of bread in; we learned to love hash, and like potatoes boiled in their jackets, and coffee with the cream left out. We went three miles to borrow a match; we divided salt with the stranger who had forgotten his; we learned that fish is good on other days than Friday and that trout crisps beautifully in bacon grease; we found eleventeen uses for empty lard pails and discovered the difference between an owl and a tree toad. We gained a speaking acquaintance with the Great Dipper, and learned where to look for the north star, why fires must be put out and what chipmunks do for a living. We learned—

Last night we came home.

"Now, mother, aren't you really glad you went?" quizzed Daddy.

"Yes-s," said I, slowly, "I'm glad I went. It has been a new experience. I feel like I'd gained a degree at the State University."

My understanding mate merely chuckled—and went on unpacking the tinware. But Ted spoke up:

"Gee! Bet I make good in English III this year. Got all sorts of ideas for themes. This trip's been bully."

"We'll go again, won't we, Mother?" asked my oldest.

"I think we'll always go again," answered I—some sober thinking I was doing, as I folded away the blankets.

"Let me get supper"—it was Laura, my middle girl, speaking—"surely I can cook on gas, if I can over a campfire." And Laura had never wanted to cook! Strange tendencies develop when one lives out in the open a space of time.

But Curlylocks was undisturbed. "Kitty—kitty—kitty! My 'ittle kitty!" he reiterated. And truly, so my neighbor told me, Sir Christopher had beat us home by a scant twenty-four hours. He rubbed about us in turns, happily purring.

"He's telling us all what a good time he had," said I, understanding at last, "but he is adding, I think, that the best part of going away is getting home again."

"But if we didn't go we couldn't get home again," said Somebody.

And somebody's cat purred his approval. Perhaps, after all, he finds us a teachable family. Or perhaps he knows that once caught by the lure of the hills, once having tasted the tang of mountainous ozone, we will always go back—he has rare intuitions, has Sir Christopher. For, already, I find myself figuring to fashion a detachable long handle for the frying pan: Yes, next time, we shall plan to conserve both fingers and face. Next time! That is the beauty of vacation days: We think of them when the frost comes, when the snow drifts deep, when the arbutus blooms again—and we plan, plan, plan! And are very happy—because of memory, and anticipation. We have opened barred windows, and widened our life's horizon. Does Sir Christopher guess? Wise old Sir Chris!