Chapter VII: Part 7

But he remembered to have read in various books concerning elves and fairies, that though they are a very interesting part of creation, they are in some respects inferior to mankind, and that they are a kind of being existing entirely and for ever in their present condition, with no soul and with no such future as that for which Christian men and women hope. Therefore, according to this view, his sister's condition would be materially changed for the worse if she remained an elf, and it was his duty, if possible, to prevent it. Moreover, his father and mother had some claim to be considered; and he could not help thinking that if Evelyn was a free agent and could say what she thought, felt, and wished, she would not only promptly recognise that claim, but would long to rejoin the parents of whom she was so devotedly fond. He thought, perhaps, also of the mutual affection which had so long existed between his sister and himself; but I will do him the justice to say that I do not think he would have wished her back if he had been satisfied that it would be best for her own happiness that she should stay where she was.

All these thoughts flashed through Philip's mind during the fairy's speech, and by the time it was ended he had quite made up his mind what to do. He looked firmly--though not unkindly--at the little lady, and then, turning to his sister, he said in a loud, clear, steady voice,--

"Evelyn, I wish you to come to me and we will go home together."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, a long, low wailing sound arose on all sides of him, as if the little beings of the glade were bemoaning an affliction which they saw preparing for them and had no power to prevent. It hung in the air for a few seconds, and then died away in mournful cadence among the trees.

Meanwhile the effect of Philip's words upon his sister were immediate and wonderful. She threw back her head, rubbed her eyes again, looked first to the right and then to the left, and then stepped straight forward for a couple of yards, and stopped, just as if somebody was trying to hold her back. I suppose that she was too big to be held back by the little elves, since she had resumed her old mortal form at the first summons of her brother; but I also suppose from this circumstance that they tried to keep her, and she always said afterwards, that soft musical voices were in her ears, telling her of the joys of fairy-land and the happiness of the little elves, and begging her not to leave their merry party who had loved her so well.

Philip, observing her apparent hesitation, deemed it quite necessary to take forthwith another and a more decided step. Elevating his voice a little, and speaking in a very firm tone, he said:

"Come along, Evelyn dear, pray do not dawdle any longer. I wish you would come directly. By jingo, we shall hardly be in time for tea!"

The words were scarcely spoken, when the same mournful sound arose, even more piteous than before, and rang through the evening stillness with a melancholy cadence which might have melted the hardest heart, so much did it convey of real sorrow. But at the same moment all attempts to retain Evelyn ceased--her natural look, colour, and manner seemed suddenly to have returned, and she bounded into the magic circle, and ran into her brother's arms.

"Oh, Philip dear!" she cried. "Where _have_ you been? I haven't seen you for _such_ a time! How nice it is to have you at home again!"

The brother returned her affectionate caresses, and reminding her of the lateness of the hour, said that they must return home at once. He purposely forebore to say anything of what had recently occurred, not knowing what the consequences might be, either to his sister or himself, and putting his arm tenderly round her waist, began to leave the glade, calling Pincher to follow him. They had not moved many yards forward, however, before low strains of sweet music were heard behind them, and turning round, they saw the form of the fairy queen, who was gazing after them with a look of mingled tenderness and regret. She gracefully waved her hand to them as they retreated, and in her own sweet voice thus addressed them:

"Farewell! ye mortal children twain,
Perchance we ne'er may meet again;
Yet, should we ever chance to meet,
My elves the twain will kindly greet.
And ye, in prose or minstrel lays,
When ye shall read of woodland fays,
Have friendly feeling for the elves
Who love you as they love themselves.
No more amid our glade to roam--
The brother leads his sister home.
From Fairy-land the twain depart,
To gladden soon a mother's heart,
And make a saddened home, to-night,
Once more enraptured with delight.
True brother! thou hast brought thine aid
To rob us of our captured maid;
Yet wast thou right, and for the same
'Tis not for fairy lips to blame.
And thou, sweet Eve, who thus has left
Thy elf companions all bereft,
Since thou with us no more wilt dwell,
We wish thee, lovingly, farewell."

Then the fairy stepped lightly and gracefully back, still waving her hand; the music grew fainter and fainter, and ere long both the sound and the fairy form melted away from the sight and hearing of the brother and sister, though the last lingering word, Farewell, once and again repeated, still seemed to fall softly on their ears as they left the glade.

They hastened home as fast as they could, and you may imagine the excitement with which their arrival was greeted. Evelyn and her mother devoured each other with kisses, and the father had such share of them as was left for him. Philip was at once restored to favour, and not only was his former silence forgiven, but every amends was made to him, in the way of diet, for his fasting upon the previous day.

Mrs. Trimmer was so rejoiced at the happy conclusion of the adventure, that she did not scold Evelyn for a month, in consequence of which her progress in French and German was visibly slower than for some time past.

Everybody in the house was glad to get the child back, and the only provoking part of it was that, even after her extraordinary adventures, disbelief in fairies still existed even in that well-informed household. One gave one explanation of Evelyn's absence, and one another; one laid it to the gipsies, another said she had run away and hid in a hollow tree, but nobody seemed to be entirely satisfied with the plain, unvarnished truth as I have told it to you.

But so it is in this wicked world. Invent a perfectly untrue story, but make it seem a little probable, and everybody will believe you, and not throw the slightest doubt upon your veracity. On the other hand, let an extraordinary thing really happen, and if it falls to your lot to tell it, you are generally considered a "story-teller" in the worst sense of the word.

This makes me so cross sometimes, that I think I will give up writing about fairies altogether, and only write about grave and serious subjects. But if I do that, I am afraid that nobody except members of parliament and diplomatists, politicians and teetotalers, and all those silly sort of people, will read what I write, and so I think I will go on for a little while longer in my old style.

_I_ know that elves and fairies exist, and if all the rest of the world believes differently, it does not cause me the slightest inconvenience; _they_ can go their way, and I can go mine; and if they don't see any fairies, it is probably their own fault, as it is, I am sure, their own loss.

I have no more to tell you of Philip and Evelyn now, except that they both grew up and prospered, and that Evelyn often tells _her_ little girls the story of her adventure with the fairies; and if anyone who reads this story would like to know more particulars, she is so good-natured that I am quite sure she will tell them all about it if they will only take the trouble to ask her when she does not happen to be particularly engaged.

CAT AND DOG.

To "live like cat and dog" has long been proverbial as a description of a state of life in which quarrels and bickerings are of frequent occurrence. No one, however, as far as I am aware, has ever followed to its sources the proverb which is so familiar to us all; nor has anyone attempted to explain the reason of the antagonistic spirit which undoubtedly prevails between these domestic animals. Its prevalence is certain, its consequences not seldom unfortunate, and many a once happy household has been rendered miserable by its existence.

Animated by a sincere desire to acquire information, which might be at once interesting to myself, and instructive as well as beneficial to my fellow creatures, I have spared no pains to discover the truth upon this all-important subject; and if I can succeed in placing that truth clearly and dispassionately before the world, I shall feel--and I think I may cherish the feeling without exposing myself to the charge of presumption,--that I have not lived in vain.

Whatever rumours may, in a less enlightened age, have prevailed upon the subject, I believe that there is no doubt as to the origin of the unfortunate difference which first caused hostility to become deeply rooted in the breasts of the canine and feline races. Some have supposed it to have sprung from certain acts of favouritism displayed by the human race towards one or other of the two species of animals; others have come to the conclusion that in-bred and natural wickedness gave rise to the evil, whilst others again have started different, but equally unsound theories.

The true reason--the real beginning--the cause and foundation of the whole thing, is to be found in the words of the old song, so familiar to nursery people:

"Hey diddle, diddle; the cat and the fiddle;
The cow jumped over the moon:
The little dog laughed to see such sport,
And the dish ran away with the spoon."

The author of this ballad is unknown, but it has always been vastly popular with the race of cats, who see in it at once a tribute to the musical genius of their people, as being identified with the violin (vulgarly herein called fiddle) and a recognition of their supremacy and superiority over other animals, inasmuch as "the cat" is mentioned first, before either cow or dog, fiddle or moon, and is evidently pointed out as the chief personage celebrated by the rhyme.

On the other hand, dogs have never liked the verse. They directly and positively object to the precedence given to the cat; they dispute altogether the statement about the cow and the moon, as being improbable, if not palpably false; and they further say that, if the laughter of the little dog is intended to refer to this occurrence, it is a reflection upon the gravity and decorum of the dog race, whilst, if it is to be referred to the last line of the verse, it displays their representative as treating with unworthy levity that which, as far as the dish is concerned, was either an unlawful elopement or a pitiful theft.

At one time, when there was still a hope that the enmity of the two races might be appeased, and a better state of things brought about, a joint committee of dogs and cats sat upon the question, in order to submit a report to the great council of animals, which might form the basis of an amicable settlement. A lengthy and acrimonious discussion ensued. The cats claimed precedence, and advanced many arguments to prove their superiority over their opponents. They boldly purred out their declaration to the effect that nature, custom, and all the evidence at command was clearly in their favour. They cited the opinions of mankind, as given in many books, speeches, wise proverbs, and witty sayings. They called to mind how that, in the case of heavy rain, men always remarked that "it rained cats and dogs;" placing, as they averred, the superior animal of the two first, when it was necessary to mention both, and the inferior one last. Moreover, many other things in the history of mankind denoted the prevalence and undoubted predominance of the same opinion. One of their favourite names for their daughters was Kate--spelt commonly with a C when given in full, Catherine--and evidently a name adopted from that of cat, and affording another implied recognition of the general superiority of the feline race.

Then, said they, look at the way in which dogs are habitually spoken of with contempt, and their name used as a reproach. If one man call another a "dog," it is held to be an insult. Tell anyone that such and such a person has a "hang-dog" look about him, and it is known you intend to convey the idea of his being a rascal only fit to be strung up at once. If a man is tiresome in argument, his companions term him "dogmatic;" if he is of an obstinate temper and sullen disposition, he is frequently called dog-ged; whilst on crossing the channel a person who suffers from the malady of the sea is said to be "as sick as a dog;" and when mankind desire to express the failure in life, the ruin, the abject and miserable condition of one of their own race, there is no more common or proverbial expression than that he has "gone to the dogs."

All these, and many other instances, they quoted, as bearing upon the great question of the superiority of cats to dogs, and in fact, establishing the same beyond any reasonable doubt.

The dogs, having listened to these observations and arguments with an attention which was only equalled by their indignation, advanced their counter-arguments with great force, and evinced much learning and erudition. They took a preliminary objection to the evidence founded upon the manners and habits of human beings; avowing that even if they admitted every instance which had been adduced, they might appeal to the general practice of man, and the greater trust and reliance which he habitually placed in the dog, as utterly negativing the supposition that he had ever intended to imply the superiority of the feline tribe by any casual proverb or familiar saying. When was a cat employed to tend sheep? What keeper would trust a cat to do the office of a retriever, and to watch the young birds? To what cat was ever committed the custody of a house, or when was a kennel provided for a cat, to serve the purpose for which only a mastiff, or some similar specimen of the noble breed of dogs, was fit? All this forbad the supposition that men preferred cats before dogs, or esteemed them at all equally, either as useful or ornamental animals. But if they considered the arguments brought forward by the cats, one by one, with logical acuteness, they would not find a single argument which was not susceptible of an entirely different construction from that put upon it by the cat orators.

For instance, the expression that "it rained cats and dogs" clearly signified (if taken for more than a colloquial expression to convey the meaning that it rained hard) that the heavens from which the rain came desired to get rid of the inferior animals first, and that it was only when the cats had been got rid of that a possible superfluity of dogs was taken into consideration. The name Kate (which, by the way, was the abbreviation of Katharine, and had really nothing to do with the name Catherine) was not derived from anything to do with cats or kittens either; and it was much the same as if the dogs on their part were to claim affinity with the ancient Doges of Venice, or to pretend to unwonted holiness because most of the good books of the early church were written or translated by the monks into Dog Latin.

Again, as to one man insulting another by calling him a dog, that was not exactly the case. Dogs did not speak with human tongues, and therefore, when a man was called a "dumb dog," it was only implied that he was as dumb as a dog as far as the human tongue was concerned; dogs, moreover, did not pretend to universal goodness--there were good dogs and bad dogs, mad dogs and sad dogs. When men wished to bestow praise upon one of themselves, they constantly called him a "jolly dog;" and if they sometimes called one of their own kind a "cur," they alluded to an inferior species of dog, and in fact acknowledged the superiority of the canine race by the very fact that they selected it as the race with which alone they could fairly compare one of themselves.

The "hang-dog" argument also told directly against, instead of for, the cats. What did it mean? Why, that any man who was a villain and a rascal looked as if he would actually be ready to hang a dog; and such a crime would, in fact, constitute him both rascal and villain at once. What better proof could be afforded of the high estimation in which dogs were held by men?

The dogs further said that the cats had attributed a bad meaning to the word "dog-matic," but that it was also susceptible of a good interpretation, being derived from a Greek word, dogma, a settled opinion, and signifying one who, knowing the truth, and having confidence in the opinion at which he had duly arrived, had the courage of his convictions and stuck to them gallantly, which was certainly no reproach either to dog or man. The word "dogged" also might of course be taken to mean "sullen" or "sulky," but its primary signification was rather "pertinacious;" and it really meant that steadiness with which an honest dog pursued his course through life, yielding neither to bribes nor temptations, from whatever quarter they might chance to come.

With regard to the expression, "sick as a dog," they stated that it was scarcely more commonly used among men than the equivalent expression, "sick as a cat;" and they forbore, out of delicacy, to advance arguments upon so disagreeable a point. It bore but little upon the question, and they might as well say that men hated cats, because they were subjected to catalepsy; or that they evinced their dislike to the feline portion of creation by calling a misfortune a "cat-astrophe," a bad cough a "cat-arrh," and a disease in the eye, a "cataract." The last allusion of the cats, namely, that to a man spoken of as having "gone to the dogs," was the subject of a long and able argument on the part of the latter; who principally contended that the real meaning of the phrase, duly considered and wisely interpreted, was quite different from that which their adversaries supposed; inasmuch as no man, being ruined and miserable, would go to persons or beings who were held in contempt or were in disgrace. What was really meant was, that, when a man had really failed in everything, and, being penniless and wretched, found neither support, sympathy, nor consolation from those of his own species, he went where kindness, good faith, honesty, and charity were ever to be found, and sought among the true-hearted and friendly race of dogs that kindly welcome and reception which had been denied to him by his own people. It was a tribute, indeed, paid to dog-nature by mankind; and nothing of the sort had ever been said with regard to cats, who were well-known to be much more likely to scratch, than to comfort, the unfortunate.

The arguments so forcibly advanced by the dogs made very little impression on the cats who were upon the joint committee. There was a good deal of purring, setting up of backs, miawing, and I fear a little spitting; but they listened with tolerable attention, and then replied in the same style as before.

They mentioned a bad, useless fish--which was called the dog-fish, on account, they said, of its bad qualities; the dog-days--so called because hotter and more unbearable than any other days in the summer: they drew attention to the fact that loose, bad rhyme was said to be "doggerel," and that an inferior kind of flower was termed "dog-rose."

The dogs rejoined, with spirit, that men called a depository for dead bodies a "cat-acomb," a disagreeable insect a "cat-apillar," and that anyone who was made use of by another to obtain his own ends was contemptuously designated a "cat's-paw."

A debate carried on in this spirit could clearly lead to no satisfactory result, and the end of the matter was that the committee separated without having been able to agree to any report. The consequence naturally was, that each race continued to regard the other with suspicion and aversion; and that the relations between the two became, and seemed likely to remain, exceedingly unpleasant.

This version of the matter was given me by an animal whose veracity is above suspicion, being none other than old Jenny, the donkey. She was a most learned antiquarian, and had lived to a very advanced age before she had finally settled her opinion upon the merits of the question. But, being an ass of well-balanced mind, and entirely impartial between the two races, I believe that she fairly stated the arguments on both sides, and that her accuracy may be thoroughly relied on.

She went on to relate to me chronicles of the past, which I found most interesting; and it is with a view to the better understanding, by those who care to read them, of those chronicles, that I have ventured to give the above preliminary facts upon the authority of this venerable quadruped.

There was a time, she said, when dogs and cats were certainly upon better terms than at the present day. It was a happier time for both, she had no doubt; but still, being but a donkey, and very humble, she did not wish to put forward her opinion as by any means conclusive upon that or any other point. She could not recollect the time when the two races were positively upon friendly terms, but she believed such a time to have existed, and that within the memory of ravens, if not of asses.

There was a curious legend which had been told her by a tinker's donkey, who had been a great traveller, and knew more than most of his kind, though there was, as a rule, much more knowledge among donkeys than men supposed. This particular donkey, however, had seen and learned in his travels a great deal more than many men; who, when they travel abroad, only seem to try how far they can go, and when they arrive at a city, live with their own fellow-countrymen as much as they can, import their own method of life into foreign countries, instead of living as the people of the country do; and come home again with a very small addition to the knowledge with which they started.

The tinker's donkey, being of a very different cast of character, and much given to careful and attentive observation of all he saw in the various places he visited, always brought home a vast deal of useful information, with which he never refused to enliven his brother asses as they enjoyed a friendly bray over their thistles. And it was during one of these long journeys of his that he picked up the legend which he told old Jenny, and which she generously imparted to me.

At a remote period of history--no matter exactly when and no matter exactly where--perfect love and harmony existed between the two great races of dog and cat. There was neither jealousy nor rivalry between them; and, indeed, why should there have been such at any period of time?

Dogs have ever preferred bones, or portions of the carcasses of slaughtered animals, to any other food; whilst, to cats, the flesh of the mouse, disdained as a rule by the canine species, and the tender breast of the newly-fledged bird, form more attractive feasts.

True it is, that both races are fond of milk, but there is nothing in that single similarity of taste to excite ill-feeling and bitterness; and no dog ever clashed with the love of the cat for fish, nor have cats the same partiality for biscuits which some of the other race have frequently displayed.

Then, again, their pursuits in life are of a somewhat different character, those of the dog being more varied than those of the feline species. The sheep-dog guards with vigilance the flock entrusted to his care; the foxhound follows his prey with keen scent and unfailing ardour; the greyhound stretches his lanky form in eager pursuit of the unfortunate hare; the mastiff, seated in front of his kennel in the backyard, warns the inmates of the house of the approach of beggars or persons of doubtful character: the pug-dog, the terrier, the pomeranian, all have their separate employments and varied uses, in none of which does a cat seek to share, and with none of which does she ever wish to interfere.

The cat, on the other hand, has amusements and occupations to a great extent peculiar to herself. She loves to bask in the sun, upon the window-sill if such be available, on fine days, and in wet or cold weather to nestle snugly upon the hearthrug. When she goes out, it is not to run here and there and everywhere, after the fearless and sometimes intrusive manner of the dog. She prefers to steal quietly and leisurely along, placing her velvety feet softly upon the ground, and peering round on each side of her, to see that the country is secure. Crawling along the top of a wall, or creeping up the stem of a tree, she strives to capture the unwary bird, who may afford her sport and amusement first, and a meal afterwards. Or, seated demurely in some corner of a room or near some tree, where mice frequent, she does not object to watch patiently, whilst minutes and hours pass away, in the hope of at last finding an opportunity to pounce upon her favourite victim. With all this no dog has any reason to interfere, and none has ever attempted to rival the cat in the pursuit of bird or mouse.

Again: dogs are more apt to attach themselves to the persons of men or women, cats more readily become attached to the places in which they have lived; so that, once for all, if we consider the nature, the character, and the habits of these two great races, we shall, I am confident, come to the conclusion that there can be no real cause for their natural enmity, but that, in the great scheme of creation, they were intended to be upon as friendly and harmonious terms as was certainly the case at the time of which we now speak.

Such were the reflections of Jenny, and I am inclined to endorse them all, and to think that I see the confirmation of their truth in the legend which I am about to tell as she told to me.

It chanced that at this time a worthy couple possessed an animal of each sort, of which they were extremely fond. The dog was a handsome, black, curly fellow; of what particular breed I don't know, but this description of him sounds as if he was a Romney-Marsh retriever, or something of the sort. The cat was a tortoise-shell, and one of the most perfect specimens of her kind; with glossy fur, elegantly-shaped body, and tail like a fox's brush, which swept the ground as she walked.

Jenny did not know the names of the worthy couple who owned these animals; and in fact I have noticed that, in most of the stories which animals have told me from time to time, men and women are made to play a very subordinate part, and are indeed for the most part considered as altogether inferior beings by the excellent animals of and by whom the stories are told. Thus, in the present instance, although the good ass knew perfectly well that the dog's name was Rover, and the cat's Effie, she knew no more than an ignorant calf might have done of the names of the people with whom they lived. Nay, if I remember rightly, her expression was that, "Some people lived in and kept the house in which Rover and Effie dwelt;" so that very likely the donkey, and perhaps the animals themselves, considered that the premises belonged to themselves, and that the man and woman were merely lodgers on sufferance.

And very likely, as a matter of fact, this is the actual view entertained by many of our animals--horses, dogs, cats, possibly even pigs and chickens--at the present day, if we did but know it. Perhaps it is as well we do not, as we might consider our supremacy challenged and our rights invaded, and this might make us less kind to the poor animals, which would be very sad.

I should not wonder, however, if it was the truth; for I am sure our servants--or some of them--have firmly-rooted convictions that our houses and everything in them, are at least as much, if not more, theirs than ours, and some of us give in to them very much as if we thought so too. So I do not see why the four-legged creatures, as well as the two-legged, should not think the same thing,--and perhaps they do.

Rover and Effie, as I have said, lived in this house, which, to put the matter in a way not likely to be offensive to anybody, was also inhabited by an old couple--I mean a man and his wife; because, of course, "a couple" might, standing alone, mean a couple of ducks, or a couple of fowls, or rabbits, or anything else of the kind. But it was a man and his wife, and they had no children, and they were very fond of the dog and cat, and petted them both exceedingly. They passed very happy lives, having very little to trouble themselves about, and being possessed of a comfortable home, and plenty of agreeable neighbours.

Rover and Effie used to walk out together, and were for some time, as most of their respective races were, the very best of friends. Neither of them would have suffered a strange dog or cat to breathe a syllable against the other; and in their tastes, thoughts, and actions, they were as much allied as was possible under the circumstances.

Things continued in this happy condition until an old weasel, who lived in the immediate neighbourhood, cast his envious and malicious eye upon the two friends and determined it possible to interrupt their amicable relations. He had his own reasons for so doing.

The family of weasels, though of ancient lineage and old blood, had never been considered as particularly respectable. In fact they had always been a set of arrant scamps. The rats and rabbits complained bitterly of their intrusive habits, and extremely disliked their abominable practice of entering the holes used by other animals, and carrying blood and murder into homes that were otherwise peaceful and contented. The hens also raised their homely cackle in the same strain, and counting egg-sucking as among the worst of crimes, brought heavy charges against the weasels on that account. In fact, no one had a good word for the little animals, except indeed their cousins the stoats, and some of the unclean sorts of birds, to wit, the jay, the magpie and the carrion crow, who themselves lived chiefly by thieving.

The weasel had a great jealousy of the cat, because she interfered with him in the matter of rats, mice, and small birds, to all of which he was partial; and he also saw in the dog a rival as regarded rabbits.

Whilst the two remained in such close alliance, he thought that they were able to wield a power which, although not actively exerted against himself, was little likely to be ever used in his favour; and he therefore resolved to lessen that power if he possibly could, by sowing the seeds of discord between the hitherto friendly animals. But clever as he was, the weasel racked his brains in vain for a long time. He could think of nothing which would effect his object, and could satisfy himself with no plan by which he might approach the two animals with that intent.

It would not, indeed, have been hard for him to have entered the house by the means open to him, namely, a drain or a rat's hole, of which there were several. But, should he do so, he ran the greatest risk of having his intentions mistaken, and of suddenly falling a victim to one of the very two animals with whom (though not from any kindly feeling) he wished to communicate. The same fear prevented his accosting them during their walks, for he could not tell but that they might turn upon him and seize him before he could escape. Direct communication, then, appeared to be out of the question; and he accordingly resolved to seek a confederate, through whom he might perchance accomplish his wicked ends.

So he went to a neighbouring magpie, knowing the love of meddling which characterises that class of birds, and sought her aid in his scheme. The magpie was a very wary and cunning bird, and would not trust herself within paws' length of the weasel, for although she knew that, happily for herself, she was not a morsel which even a weasel could eat with relish, yet she was also well aware of the bloodthirsty nature of the animal, and thought it better not to expose him to the temptation of getting her neck into his mouth. So she sat up in the old hawthorn tree, and chattered away to herself, whilst the little animal came underneath and tried to attract her attention.

When at last she condescended to see him, she would not enter upon business for some time, but, like many persons who, not being blameless themselves, are very ready to blame other people, chattered away to him for a good five minutes upon the subject of his general bad behaviour, and read him a lesson upon morality, coupled with a homily upon the sin of thieving, which would have come admirably from the beak of a respectable rook, but was very ill-placed in that of a notorious bad liver and evil-doer like the magpie.

The weasel, however, keeping his object steadily in view, heard her remarks with great apparent politeness, although as a matter of fact her advice (like that which many better people give, both in and out of season) went in at one of his ears and out at the other, and produced not the smallest effect upon his future conduct. When her chatter came at last to an end, he unfolded the nature of his business and asked her counsel and assistance in the matter.

Now the magpie was by no means friendly to the dog and cat, having an idea that they were better off in their worldly affairs than she was, which is always a sufficient cause for evil-minded people to dislike others. So she had no objection at all to enter upon a scheme which might annoy and injure them, and indeed her natural love of mischief would have prompted her to do so, had she had no other feeling in the matter. Having always, however, an eye to the main chance, she asked the weasel what she should gain by the transaction, and having been faithfully promised the eye-picking out of the first twelve young rabbits he should catch, she at once consented to go into the business.

The idea of the two confederates was to create in the first place a coldness between the dog and cat, by means of inducing the couple already mentioned, to show greater favour to one than the other.

Here, however, arose another difficulty. How could either weasel or magpie obtain access to a man and woman, or in any shape exercise an influence over their conduct and actions? The idea was so preposterous that they had to give it up.

Then came the question whether they could not persuade either the cat or dog to do something which would offend and annoy the other, either by being opposed to his or her feelings and prejudices, or being actually unpleasant and disagreeable. If they could only settle on something of this kind, it did not appear so impossible to carry out the plan. The weasel need not be seen in the matter, and would incur no such personal danger as that to which he might have been exposed by any scheme which entailed his actual communication with the enemy. The thing must be done by the magpie, who, seated upon the roof of the house, or in an adjacent tree, could converse with either cat or dog without the smallest risk, and was sly and crafty enough to poison the minds of both.

So it was agreed that this should be the course taken, and what was to be the precise form of the magpie's address will be speedily gathered from the story.

The two innocent animals who were the object of this nefarious plot upon the part of creatures so vastly inferior to themselves, were all the while quite unconscious of the conspiracy which was being hatched against them. They went on just the same, and were as friendly as ever. Nor was their harmony disturbed by the introduction into the household of a small poodle, whom somebody gave to the mistress of the house, and who rather amused them than otherwise by his curious antics and grotesque behaviour. He was a curious dog, and had some funny tricks, but old Jenny said that she never heard that there was much against him, or that he had any concern in the wicked plot of the weasel and the magpie.

Having fully determined upon the plan to be pursued, the crafty pair of rascals waited until they could hit upon a time when the cat and dog were not together. The opportunity soon occurred. One fine morning the human occupier of the house (who laboured under the strange but, among human beings, not uncommon delusion that the place and all that it contained belonged to him) went out for a walk in the country, accompanied, as was frequently the case, by honest Rover.

The sun was shining so brightly that Mrs. Effie thought that she had better make the most of it, and get some fresh air at the same time, with no more exertion than was necessary. So she climbed quietly up on the window-sill, stretched herself at full length thereupon, and basked luxuriously in the warm rays of the sun.

Seeing her thus enjoying herself, the magpie flew leisurely into an apple tree which grew near the house, and began to chatter in a way which was certain to attract the cat's attention before long. After a little while Effie began to wink and blink her eyes, move her ears against the woodwork on which she lay, and appear as if disturbed by the noise. Presently she lifted up her head, shook it, and sneezed violently.

"Bless you, Pussy," immediately said the magpie from the apple tree.

Effie looked at her in some surprise.

"Many thanks," she said; "the more so, indeed, since I do not happen to have the pleasure of your acquaintance."

"More's the pity," replied the bird; "but that is no reason why I should refrain from giving a civil blessing to a person who happens to sneeze, for you know well enough that if you sneeze three times without someone blessing you, evil is sure to follow within the week."

"Indeed," answered the cat, somewhat coldly, for she hardly approved of being addressed by a mere bird, and that, too, a perfect stranger, in such a familiar manner. "Indeed, I am sure you are very kind."

And she laid her head calmly down again upon the windowsill. But the magpie was not to be daunted, and determined not to lose the opportunity which she had so carefully sought.

"Although you don't know me," continued she, "which is not surprising, considering that you move in high circles, whilst I am only, as one may say, a humble drudge among the inferior parts of creation, it does not follow, madam, that I am not well acquainted with _you_, and have long wished to obtain your friendship. The beauty of your fur, the elegant shape of your body, the graceful action with which you move, and, above all, the sweetness of your voice (which I have sometimes been fortunate enough to hear at nights), have all made an impression upon me which will not easily be removed. I only wish I might know you better."

As the bird spoke, she hopped from twig to twig of the apple-tree, until she came within easy speaking distance of Effie, and lowered her voice so as to make it less harsh, and more impressive in conversation. Now cats, as is well known to the attentive student of natural history, are by no means averse to flattery. It has sometimes been said that the same is true of women, but this is by no means fair as a general description of the latter, many of them cordially disliking it, and taking it as anything but a compliment when men bespangle them with empty flattery, instead of carrying on sensible conversation, and treating them like reasonable beings. But it is undoubtedly true of cats. Three things they can never resist: cream, scratching their heads, and flattery; and as the magpie had no cream, and forbore to attempt scratching the cat's head for reasons of her own, she fell back, as we have seen, upon flattery.

Effie listened, it must be confessed, with pleasure, and drank in the words of the magpie as greedily as if they had been inspired by the undoubted spirit of truth. As a matter of fact, her elegance of body, beauty of fur, and gracefulness of action might all have been fairly conceded to be matters of opinion, in which many would have agreed with the magpie. But as to the beauty of her voice, anybody who has ever lain awake at night and listened to a concert of cats upon the adjacent roofs will be inclined to stop his ears at the bare recollection of it, and to confess that the magpie must have well known that she was telling a--well, a tarradiddle.

Strange to say, however, the allusion to her voice touched and pleased Effie more than anything else in the magpie's speech, and this the cunning bird had fully expected. She knew cat nature well, which differs but little from human nature in this respect, that people very often fancy themselves to possess some talent or virtue, in which they are, as a matter of fact, deficient, and not unfrequently, whilst priding themselves upon the fancied possession, neglect to cultivate and develop some other quality which they really have, and which might be made much more useful to themselves and others.

So Effie was proud of her voice--where there was nothing to be proud of--and extremely pleased to hear it praised by the magpie, whom she instantly set down in her mind as an evidently respectable and well-informed bird, and one whose acquaintance it might be well to make. Without lifting her head, however, or disturbing the position of her body, which was so placed as to get as much sun as possible, she replied in a languid tone of voice:

"You are really very kind, Madam Magpie, and I am far from wishing to decline the acquaintance you offer."

The magpie broke in at once in a quick chatter, her words tumbling one over another as if they could not get fast enough out of her beak.

"Oh, how good, and kind, and nice, and polite, and generous, and affable, and altogether charming you are! I have often watched you sunning on the window-sill or strolling about the gardens, or looking out for mice, or amusing yourself in one way or another, and I have always looked, and longed, and hoped, and wished, and wondered if I might make so bold as to speak to such a grand, lady-like, beautiful, queenly creature; and when I've heard your voice, I've often said to myself, 'Here's music, and melody, and taste, and feeling, and harmony, and everything that is delightful in sound, and if the lady would only learn singing (though little learning it is she wants), and take it up as a profession, how happy the world and everybody in it would be made: and what so pleasant as to make people happy with the good gifts we have, and who has more than she?'"

As the magpie rattled on, Effie felt more and more pleased, and became still more strongly convinced than before that the bird was a superior creature, who had well used her opportunities, and possessed opinions which were entitled to great weight.

Meantime the weasel, who was listening to the conversation from an old rat's hole in which he had hidden hard by, was fit to kill himself with laughter when he heard the flattery of his ally, and how the cat took it all in.

The latter now raised not only her head but her body, and sat up upon the window-ledge, looking with friendly glance at the old bird in the tree.

"Really," she said, in rather an affected tone, "really, you think too well of me--you do indeed--but now you speak of it, I _have_ (so my friends say at least) something of a voice, and have often thought of cultivating it more than I have hitherto done. But all are not of the same opinion, and I know that my friend Rover the dog thinks differently."

Here the magpie quickly interposed.

"Oh the jealousy of this wicked world and of them dogs in particular! To hear that black, ugly, shaggy animal howl at the moon, or what not, of a night. I declare if it isn't enough to drive one crazy; and for such an animal as _that_ to think anything but good of your lovely, sweet, tuneful, angelic notes! 'Tis really shocking to think he should do so--but envy and meanness, my dear creature, and malice and jealousy was ever in the hearts of dogs--forgive me that I should say so, knowing as how you live in the same house and bear with him as you do."

These words rather gave Effie a new idea of her situation, but as they were evidently intended to be complimentary to herself, though at her friend's expense, she listened to them with complacency.

"You must not blame my friend," she demurely answered, "because he has not such a voice as mine. Few have such, as I think I may say without being suspected of vanity, and I have no reason to think that he is either mean or envious. True, he does not evince the same pleasure in my notes as that which you so kindly express, but this is merely a matter of taste."

"Ah, you dear, kind, good, charitable creature," rejoined the magpie, "it is so like you to take the best and most pleasant view of whatever anybody else says or does. But never mind, if the dog don't like it, others do, and for _my_ part, I should like to hear you play and sing all day and all night long."

"As for playing," returned the cat, "I do not pretend to do _that_; in fact I have never learned, and have always been accustomed to trust to my natural voice without any accompaniment."

"Never learned to play?" cried the magpie in a voice of astonishment. "Dear me, dear me, what a pity! I have so often heard good singers like you speak of the pleasure of being able to accompany oneself, and I am sure you _could_ play if you liked. Now I have a neighbour who plays the violin in the most delightful manner, and what is more, he gives lessons upon that charming instrument. A very few lessons from him, and I am sure you would play so well that the whole neighbourhood would flock to hear you!"

"Really," said Effie, "this sounds very tempting. I have always felt that one ought to cultivate one's talents, and make the most of the gifts which Nature has given us. Your words are well worth consideration," and she mused for a few moments, purring all the while in a contented and self-satisfied tone.

The magpie, who had now brought the conversation to the very point she desired, according to the plan agreed upon with the weasel, began to press the matter home to the cat, telling her that she was wronging herself as well as all the other animals in not making her talents of more avail to them, and taking advantage of the opportunity which now offered.

The musical neighbour of whom she had spoken, turned out to be "Honest John," the hare, and although his services were in great requisition, the magpie said, she was sure that she should be able to secure them for so distinguished a person as the cat, provided that she would consent to take lessons.

After a little more talk, Mrs. Effie decided to allow the magpie to sound the hare upon the subject, and appointed another meeting upon the following day in order to discuss the matter further. Then the magpie, having done a good morning's work, and successfully laid the train by which she hoped to carry out her plot with the weasel, flew chuckling off, whilst the weasel stole silently away, and occupied himself on his own affairs.

Meanwhile the cat was much gratified by all that had passed. She felt that she was appreciated; and that those who lived around evidently recognized her as a person to be considered and made much of. She resolved that she would tell the dog nothing whatever of her interview with the magpie, partly because she thought he would laugh at the readiness with which she had listened to the bird's flattery, and partly because she was quite sure that he would entirely disapprove of her proposed lessons upon the violin. Thus, then, were the first seeds sown of that unhappy quarrel which was destined to divide the two once united races.

Rover returned from his walk in a cheerful and pleasant mood, and behaved in the most friendly spirit towards his old friend. He could not help observing, however, that she hardly treated him after the same fashion. She seemed to hold her head higher than usual, and stood more upon her dignity than had formerly been the case. Being a good-natured dog, he took no notice of this, and, in fact, attributed her conduct to some accidental derangement of the nerves or the digestion. But when the same thing continued during the whole of the next day, he began to feel rather annoyed. Still he said nothing, and went for his walk as usual. As soon as his back was fairly turned, the magpie again made her appearance, and commenced another conversation with the cat. She had not been able to see Honest John, she said, but had made an appointment for the following day, and would call again on the morning after. Then she went on in her former strain, praising the cat's beauty and sweetness of voice to the skies, and throwing in all the nasty insinuations she could think of against poor Rover. Jenny always used to get angry when she came to this part of the story, vowing that no faithful person, and, in fact, no real lady, would have allowed anyone to say such things of an absent friend, but would have stopped the mischievous gossip at once.

Effie, however, did no such thing; and after all, we must own that she only acted in the same manner as a great many men and women, for everybody likes to hear himself praised, and when a person wants to abuse or run down another, if he manages to do so in the same conversation in which he flatters his listener, he has an excellent chance of escaping without rebuke from the latter. Besides, whatever Jenny's opinion may have been, we know very well that, after all, she was but an ass.