As for wild birds, the robins and wrens and thrushes which are predestined prey, there is only one way to save them, the way which Archibald Douglas took to save the honour of Scotland,—­“bell the cat.”  A good-sized sleigh-bell, if she be strong enough to bear it, a bunch of little bells, if she be small and slight,—­and the pleasures of the chase are over.  One little bell is of no avail, for she learns to move with such infinite precaution that it does not ring until she springs, and then it rings too late.  There is an element of cruelty in depriving the cat of sport, but from the bird’s point of view the scheme works to perfection.  Of course rats and mice are as safe as birds from the claws of a belled cat, but, if we are really humane, we will not regret their immunity.

The boasted benevolence of man is, however, a purely superficial emotion.  What am I to think of a friend who anathematizes the family cat for devouring a nest of young robins, and then tells me exultingly that the same cat has killed twelve moles in a fortnight.  To a pitiful heart, the life of a little mole is as sacred as the life of a little robin.  To an artistic eye, the mole in his velvet coat is handsomer than the robin, which is at best a bouncing, bourgeois sort of bird, a true suburbanite, with all the defects of his class.  But my friend has no mercy on the mole because he destroys her garden,—­her garden which she despoils every morning, gathering its fairest blossoms to droop and wither in her crowded rooms.  To wax compassionate over a bird, and remain hard as flint to a beast, is possible only to humanity.  The cat, following her predatory instincts, is at once more logical and less ruthless, because the question of property does not distort her vision.  She has none of the vices of civilization.

   “Cats I scorn, who, sleek and fat,
    Shiver at a Norway rat. 
    Rough and hardy, bold and free,
    Be the cat that’s made for me;
    He whose nervous paw can take
    My lady’s lapdog by the neck,
    With furious hiss attack the hen,
    And snatch a chicken from the pen.”

So sang Dr. Erasmus Darwin’s intrepid pussy (a better poet than her master) to the cat of Miss Anna Seward, surely the last lady in all England to have encouraged such lawlessness on the part of a—­presumably—­domestic animal.

For the cat’s domesticity is at best only a presumption.  It is one of life’s ironical adjustments that the creature who fits so harmoniously into the family group should be alien to its influences, and independent of its cramping conditions.  She seems made for the fireside she adorns, and where she has played her part for centuries.  Lamb, delightedly recording his “observations on cats,” sees only their homely qualities.  “Put ’em on a rug before the fire, they wink their eyes up, and listen to the kettle, and then purr, which is their music.”  The hymns which Shelley loved were sung by the roaring wind, the hissing