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 per times for physic or nutriment, and if the nurse still slept "Pret" would mew, and, failing to wake her in that way, would give her a gentle bite on the nose. A notable point is that there was no striking clock in the house, so that "Pret" could not have been aided so in her remarkable reckoning of time.

"Pret," like many another cat, preferred birds to mice in the way of sport, and of all birds she especially hunted sparrows, being apparently irritated by their incessant chirp. What is well-nigh incredible, however, even to those who have the greatest belief in the intelligence of cats, "Pret" (so says "Pret's" mistress) used to sit under a bush and decoy the sparrows within striking distance by imitating their chirp! The more reasonable explanation is that "Pret" had that eager manner much pronounced which almost all cats have in lying in wait for birds; they twitter or chatter their teeth and emit a little sound which, emphasised, might easily be taken for the chirp of a bird.

There are countless stories of the intelligence and artfulness of the cat, but it is possible here to recount only one or two of the most remarkable. It must be a very oppressed and stupid cat that cannot lift a latch, where latches can be lifted. But he is a clever cat who, failing the latch, has wit enough to pull the bell. One of the best stories of a cat and a bell is that told concerning a Carthusian monastery in Paris. The monks possessed and petted a fine cat of the Angora breed. This astute animal discovered that, when a certain bell rang, the cook left the kitchen to answer it, leaving the monks' dinners, portioned out in plates, on the kitchen table. Therefore, he devised a plan (it is impossible to avoid saying "devised") by which he could often secure a portion without the cook's knowledge. He rang the bell, the handle of which hung outside the kitchen window, and then, when the cook had disappeared in answer to the summons, he leaped through the window and out again with his stolen food.

It was some time before pussy's trick was discovered, while several innocent persons were suspected of the repeated thefts; and when it was discovered, the monks, instead of punishing him, let him continue his nefarious career and charged visitors a small fee to see the trick performed—a condoning of crime which cannot have improved that cat's morals. Some writers assert that cats of thievish propensity can readily be told by the length of their nose and their fashion of seizing greedily what food is offered them, but there is little to bear that theory out. The most delicate, gently nurtured cats will sometimes steal—cats that would