And, first of all, to what extent does the Cat deserve his reputation
of being able to return to the beloved home, to the scenes of his
amorous exploits on the tiles and in the hay-lofts? The most curious
facts are told of his instinct; children's books on natural history
abound with feats that do the greatest credit to his prowess as a
pilgrim. I do not attach much importance to these stories: they come
from casual observers, uncritical folk given to exaggeration. It is
not everybody who can talk about animals correctly. When some one not
of the craft gets on the subject and says to me, 'Such or such an
animal is black,' I begin by finding out if it does not happen to be
white; and many a time the truth is discovered in the converse
proposition. Men come to me and sing the praises of the Cat as a
travelling-expert. Well and good: we will now look upon the Cat as a
poor traveller. And that would be the extent of my knowledge if I had
only the evidence of books and of people unaccustomed to the scruples
of scientific examination. Fortunately, I am acquainted with a few
incidents that will stand the test of my incredulity. The Cat really
deserves his reputation as a discerning pilgrim. Let us relate these
incidents.

One day--it was at Avignon--there appeared upon the garden-wall a
wretched-looking Cat, with matted coat and protruding ribs, so thin
that his back was a mere jagged ridge. He was mewing with hunger. My
children, at that time very young, took pity on his misery. Bread
soaked in milk was offered him at the end of a reed. He took it. And
the mouthfuls succeeded one another to such good purpose that he was
sated and went off, heedless of the 'Puss! Puss!' of his compassionate
friends. Hunger returned; and the starveling reappeared in his wall-
top refectory. He received the same fare of bread soaked in milk, the
same soft words. He allowed himself to be tempted. He came down from