it. The negro stoutly maintains that once, when she heard the
meat-man, while she was on the top floor, she managed to press
the button that called the elevator to take her down.

She is sleek and beautiful again. She is not only one of the four
hundred that form the inner circle about the liver-barrow, but
she is recognized as the star pensioner among them. The liver-man
is positively respectful. Not even the cream-and-chicken fed Cat
of the pawn-broker's wife has such a position as the Royal
Analostan. But in spite of her prosperity, her social position,
her royal name and fake pedigree, the greatest pleasure of her
life is to slip out and go a-slumming in the gloaming, for now,
as in her previous lives, she is at heart, and likely to be,
nothing but a dirty little Slum Cat.



ARNAUX


THE CHRONICLE OF A HOMING PIGEON

We passed through the side door of a big stable on West
Nineteenth Street. The mild smell of the well-kept stalls was
lost in the sweet odor of hay, as we mounted a ladder and entered
the long garret. The south end was walled off, and the familiar
"Coo-oo, cooooo-oo, ruk-at-a-coo," varied with the "whirr, whirr,
whirr" of wings, informed us that we were at the pigeon-loft.

This was the home of a famous lot of birds, and to-day there was