There are only one or two, and how they got there is a marvel indeed.  But now—­If there was not dry land between Africa and South America, how did the cats get into America?  For they cannot swim.

Cats?  People might have brought them over.

Jaguars and Pumas, which you read of in Captain Mayne Reid’s books, are cats, and so are the Ocelots or tiger cats.

Oh, I saw them at the Zoological Gardens.

But no one would bring them over, I should think, except to put them in the Zoo.

Not unless they were very foolish.

And much stronger and cleverer than the savages of South America.  No, those jaguars and pumus have been in America for ages:  and there are those who will tell you—­and I think they have some reason on their side—­that the jaguar, with his round patches of spots, was once very much the same as the African and Indian leopard, who can climb trees well.  So when he got into the tropic forests of America, he took to the trees, and lived among the branches, feeding on sloths and monkeys, and never coming to the ground for weeks, till he grew fatter and stronger and far more terrible than his forefathers.  And they will tell you, too, that the puma was, perhaps—­I only say perhaps—­something like the lion, who (you know) has no spots.  But when he got into the forests, he found very little food under the trees, only a very few deer; and so he was starved, and dwindled down to the poor little sheep-stealing rogue he is now, of whom nobody is afraid.

Oh, yes!  I remember now A. said he and his men killed six in one day.  But do you think it is all true about the pumas and jaguars?

My child, I don’t say that it is true:  but only that it is likely to be true.  In science we must be cautious and modest, and ready to alter our minds whenever we learn fresh facts; only keeping sure of one thing, that the truth, when we find it out, will be far more wonderful than any notions of ours.  See!  As we have been talking we have got nearly home:  and luncheon must be ready.

* * * * *

Why are you opening your eyes at me like the dog when he wants to go out walking?

Because I want to go out.  But I don’t want to go out walking.  I want to go in the yacht.

In the yacht?  It does not belong to me.

Oh, that is only fun.  I know everybody is going out in it to see such a beautiful island full of ferns, and have a picnic on the rocks; and I know you are going.

Then you know more than I do myself.

But I heard them say you were going.

Then they know more than I do myself.

But would you not like to go?

I might like to go very much indeed; but as I have been knocked about at sea a good deal, and perhaps more than I intend to be again, it is no novelty to me, and there might be other things which I liked still better:  for instance, spending the afternoon with you.