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"Mither got fushionless, auld, an' blin,

The bluid in her veins was cauld an' thin,

Her claws were blunt, an' she couldna rin,

An' t' her forbears was sune gathered in.

"Now I sit hurklin' aye in the ase.

The queen I am o' that cozey place;

As wi' ilka paw I dicht my face,

I sing an' purr wi' mickle grace,

Three threeds an' a thrum,

Three threeds an' a thrum."

There was one hearth, humble enough for the most part, where the cat led but a chequered and comfortless career; there was one great writer whose supremely irritable soul she might have soothed into serenity, had she been granted fuller and sweeter sway. Carlyle should always have had a cat at his elbow. It was the influence he needed most, and which he vaguely welcomed, without understanding its tranquillizing power. The wisdom of the centuries is embodied in the contemplative self-sufficiency of the cat. Her superb repose modifies the restless fidgeting of men, and Carlyle fidgeted more than is permissible, even for a man. Unhappily, his incomparable wife surpassed him on this score, and it was she, alas! who made Pussy's post untenable. Her letters show as constant a succession of cats as of servants. Each new animal, like each new domestic, was received with enthusiasm; and each was found, after a trial, to