[See Note J, Addenda.]

NOMADISM IN CATS.

There are few, if any cats, that can withstand the temptation to occasionally roam abroad, and lead for a while the life of a gipsy puss. Perhaps pussy thinks she has as much right to her holiday, as master or mistress. Home life must at times grow monotonous and irksome, and a change no doubt highly desirable. Besides, cats are of a more social disposition among their species than dogs are. They like to meet and exchange ideas with their fellow cats. Night is the season almost invariably chosen for these social rÉunions. There is then more seclusion, and less likelihood of their being disturbed. They know that dogs stick closely at home after dark, and that little boys are sound asleep. By night, moreover, the voices of the gentlemen who give addresses are more easily heard. Everything else being so still, each inflection and intonation of voice is beautifully distinct. It matters not that the nervous lady in No. 5. is kept awake till the close of the meeting, and can’t sleep a wink after that; that No. 3. can’t get her baby to sleep; or that No. 2. is writing a letter to the Times, and can’t follow out any single idea;—the concert in the back-garden of No. 4. goes on all the same. How sweetly that old tabby cat imitates the harmonies of a bass violin! How grandly that black Tom’s voice rises and swells, floats and soars, on the night breeze! How beautifully those five cats in the corner, are imitating the dulcet strains of the great highland bag-pipe! Three of them are told of as drones, the other two do the lilting, and the effect is quite startling. So at least thinks that old bachelor wretch in the two-pair back, who now throws open the window, and rains curses and cold water on the influential meeting, momentarily interrupting the flow of harmony. Only momentarily however.

“Move on a garden or two,” suggests black Tom; “that old beast has no soul.”

STRIPED, or BROWN TABBY.
First Prize—Owned by Miss M. E. Moore.

RED TABBY.
First Prize—Owned by Miss Forshall.

And the concert goes on as before.

Cats are republicans of the rubiest red. Communism is rampant in their ranks; and indeed, they seem to thrive on it. In our day, we hope communism will always be confined to the cats. There is no respect of persons shown among cats. One cat is as good as another; and the sharpest claw and the strongest arm rules supreme for the time. Beauty, rank, and breeding are alike despised. At pussy’s balls and assemblies, there is no such officer as master of ceremonies. Any gentleman may introduce himself to any lady, he chooses, provided always she does not spit in his face, and box his ears; for, in this way, the lady never hesitates to express disapprobation of her partner. In so outspoken a community, boredom is thus practically done away with, and there is a freedom from all affectation which is highly refreshing. There you may see my Lord Tom-noddy, whose noble form rests by day on a tiger-skin mat by a sea-coal fire, whispering, nay, rather howling, soft nothings in the ears of Miss Pussy Black-leg, whose mistress keeps a marine store, at Wapping Old-stairs, and sits up nightly to “wait for Jack.” Yet no one can doubt the genuineness of his lordship’s proposals, who marks his earnest manner, or listens to the impassioned tones of his voice as he beseeches her to

Fly, fil-ly with him now, ne-ow-w.

The young and beautiful Lady Lovelace, with fur so long and white, and softer than eider-down, with eyes of himmel-blue, who sleeps all day on a cushion of scarlet, and sips her creamy milk from a china saucer, is yonder in a corner, flirting with the coal-heaver’s Bob. Bob’s ears are rent in ribbons, his face is seamed with bloody scars, he is lame, his fur nearly all singed off, and he has only one eye and half a tail; but his voice, that is what has won the heart of the young beauty; and when the ball is over he will convey her home in the moonlight to her splendid mansion in Belgravia—he himself will be content with an hour’s nod in the coal cellar. The pretty pussy’s mistress is anxiously waiting for her darling, and will not sleep till she comes. But witness this lady-cat’s slyness; she kisses Bob fondly on the top of the conservatory, then with bushy tail and fur erect, she springs to the bedroom window, and enters growling, and casting frightened glances behind her, and her doating mistress caresses her gently, and tries to calm her fears. “And did the nasty Tom-cat follow my litsy prettsy darling, then? And was it nearly frightened out of its bootiful, tootiful lifie? Ah! pussy, now, then, now.”

Sly, sly puss. Is slyness confined to the cat creation, or is it ever found among females of a higher persuasion—female women to wit?

Cats are remarkably fond of comfort, and when the usages of society compel her to be up all night at a ball or concert, she goes to bed immediately after breakfast, and sleeps off every vestige of fatigue.

I knew a cat that used to travel over six miles every other day to visit and have a gossip with another cat for which she had contracted a violent fancy. They were both lady-cats; but, strange to say, I never saw the other cat return the visit.Cats will often make almost incredibly long journeys, and endure fatigue and hardships innumerable in order to find a lost master or mistress.

One cat I know travelled nearly a hundred miles into Wales, in search of her master, who had gone and left her. She had been three weeks on the journey, and when success at last crowned her efforts, she was so weak and emaciated, that she tumbled down with a fond cry at her master’s feet.

The difficulty of “wandering” cats is well known. You may “wander” a dog easily; but not pussy, for if so inclined, she will assuredly find her way back somehow at some time.

You may shut her up in a basket or bag and take her for miles through the most intricate streets, or over a covered country; but in all probability she will be back in a day or two, if indeed you do not find her on the door step on your return.

A gentleman in the neighbourhood of London, before going to reside in the city gave his cat away to a friend. Two years after she turned up at his city residence; and although very thin and impoverished, manifested great joy on seeing her old master. Whether or not the party to whom the cat had been presented had come to live in London, and brought the cat with him, I do not know; but the story is a fact. Moreover, the cat could not have been taken back on purpose, as she came by the tiles.

There can be no longer any doubt, that pussy possesses some power or instinct which enables her to find her way back, ever so far, to the place where she has once resided, and that too unerringly. We cannot pretend to understand this, any more than we can the principle that guides the carrier pigeon; but true it is, “there are more things in heaven and earth than we dream of in our philosophy.”