wanted to eat. I don't believe they _meant_ to do any harm."

"Perhaps not," said the gardener; "but the crocuses were spoiled all the
same. You know, Master Jack, I'm about the place summer and winter, and
I see a lot. Now, if there's one thing more than another that I hate
about a garden, it's cats. They do trample down things and spoil the
beds. As this house is lonesome rather, we don't get much of that pest,
I'm glad to say; and then Smut is not a sociable cat. But I'll tell you
of a curious thing that happened to him one day. There was a pair of
thrushes who had built their nest in the laurel hedge at the bottom of
the garden next to the field. You know, Master Jack, there's a broad
gravel path along the garden side of the hedge. One day, just as the
young birds were able to get out of the nest, the young cat at my
cottage close by walked into this garden, where, of course, she'd no
business; but there she was in that gravel path, and she saw one of the
birds and caught it. I saw her with it. The thrushes scolded her, flew
at her with a sharp, angry cry, and puss was soon off the premises. The
next day, Mr. Smut was walking along this gravel path, enjoying the
sunshine in a quiet way, never thinking of birds, for he's a deal too
lazy to put himself out of the way to catch anything. I've tried him
with a mouse, but he never put out a paw to touch it. He blinked at it
in the most unconcerned way, and didn't show the least bit of interest
in it. Well, as I said, Smut was walking along, when out flew the
thrushes from the hedge, swooped down upon him, pounced on his back,
pecked his head, and screeched at him, till poor Smut was quite dazed.
They fairly chased him out of that part of the garden. You would have
laughed to have seen sober old Smut take to his legs as fast as he could
run. The robins, too, soon afterwards began the same game, and would
stand and scold within two or three yards of the cat, if he was asleep
in the garden. I have often seen them sit just over him, and scold him