wait for the sun, or the dry wind, or better still, the frost. Ah, how
the biting cold stimulates me! It lashes my lungs with handfuls of
needles, and makes a _bonbon glacé_ of my charming nose. The rollicking
frost-sprite will blow his madness into me. She'll laugh and He too,
leaving his scratching-paper, to see me vie with the leaves in bounds,
leaps and wild whirlings, resembling a floating flurry of gray smoke
rather than a Cat. To the top of a tree! Down again! Then seven turns
after my tail! A perilous backward leap! A vertical jump, with aerial
_danse du ventre_! Girations, sneezes, careering from the real to the
dream, until in terror of myself, I come to a sudden stop.... Everything
turns before my eyes. I'm the center of a strange, spinning world ... In
my bewilderment (half-feigned) I'll make a little moo, like a cow, which
will bring them both running to me,--She laughing, and He fearing
something wrong. That will suffice to sober me, and with a bold front
and noble mien, I'll regain this cushion near your altar, O Fire!

TOBY-DOG

This hearth-stone burns the horny pads of my feet. What shall I do?
Move away? never! I'll toast to death rather than give up this
redoubtable bliss. Heaven prevent Her coming, now! I've reason to fear
the lash of the whip, and the magic words which mean exile: "Toby!
that's stupid! I forbid you to roast yourself. You'll have sore eyes,
and catch cold when you go out." That's what She says, while I regard
her with a stupid look of utter devotion. But She's never duped by it. I
hear noises upstairs, her step coming and going ... I wonder is her
vagabond fancy wearied at last? This morning She whistled to me and in
my haste to obey her, I rolled to the bottom of the stairs--being low
and thick-set, with short legs, no nose, and almost no tail to balance
me. Well, we set off. The last apples were rocking to-and-fro on swaying