It is as sad as true that great natures are solitary, and therefore
doubly value the affections of their pets.

Southey wrote a most interesting biography of the cats of Greta Hall,
and on the demise of one wrote to an old friend: "Alas! Grosvenor, this
day poor old Rumpel was found dead, after as long and as happy a life as
cat could wish for--if cats form wishes on that subject. There should be
a court mourning in Cat-land, and if the Dragon wear a black ribbon
round his neck, or a band of crape, à la militaire, round one of the
fore paws, it will be but a becoming mark of respect. As we have not
catacombs here, he is to be decently interred in the orchard and catnip
planted on his grave."

And so closes this catalogue of Southey's "Cattery."

But, hark! my cats are mewing, dogs all calling for me--no--for dinner!
After all, what is the highest civilization but a thin veneer over
natural appetites? What would a club be without its chefs, a social
affair without refreshment, a man without his dinner, a woman without
her tea? Come to think of it, I'm hungry myself!




CHAPTER V.

STARTING A POULTRY FARM.