torment the bird a little, for it faints away too soon between my teeth!
Terrible to see I'll gallop towards the house, singing in a strangled
voice, without loosening my grip, for He must stop his scratching to
admire me, and She must give chase with distracted cries: "Wicked,
savage cat! Drop that bird! drop that bird!! Oh, I beg of you! It hurts
me so...." Ha! She never can have hunted....

I intend to astonish the world, Fire, during Winter's reign. The Cat
that lives at the farm (She says the farmer's cat, while we say the
Cat's farmer), the fellow that's so badly dressed, disfigured by the
nose of a weasel, and seems to walk on stilts, his legs are so
long--well, he sharpens his claws and regards me the while. Patience!
He's strong, brutal, irresolute, and utterly lacks distinction. The
slamming of a door terrifies him; he puts back his ears and flies,
panic-stricken. Still, I've seen him kill a good-sized hen, without
making any fuss about it. For a glance of the young cat's deceitful
eyes, or right of precedence on the garden wall, for a word of double
meaning, for nothing, but the fun of the thing--I'll take my chances
with him! He'll learn that a mysterious silence can demoralize the enemy
quite as effectively as murderous cries. The low garden wall seems to me
a convenient place. Let him try his hoarse miauling in all possible
keys! May his unsightly face, and more hideous body dislocate itself in
a deceitful ataxia (for they're still at these old tricks)! I'll be
proof against it all, and merely flash the green magnetism of my
magnificent eyes upon him. His brows will fall under their persistent
insult, a shudder will run along his spine, he'll do a few steps of our
ancient war dance--forward, back, forward again. But I'll
stand--motionless as the statue of a Cat. The green witchcraft of my
gaze will strike terror and madness into my rival and soon I'll see him
writhe, utter false cries, and, as a last resource, try to balance