FURTHER CHRONICLES OF AVONLEA



I. AUNT CYNTHIA'S PERSIAN CAT

Max always blesses the animal when it is referred to; and I don't
deny that things have worked together for good after all. But
when I think of the anguish of mind which Ismay and I underwent
on account of that abominable cat, it is not a blessing that
arises uppermost in my thoughts.

I never was fond of cats, although I admit they are well enough
in their place, and I can worry along comfortably with a nice,
matronly old tabby who can take care of herself and be of some
use in the world. As for Ismay, she hates cats and always did.

But Aunt Cynthia, who adored them, never could bring herself to
understand that any one could possibly dislike them. She firmly
believed that Ismay and I really liked cats deep down in our
hearts, but that, owing to some perverse twist in our moral
natures, we would not own up to it, but willfully persisted in
declaring we didn't.

Of all cats I loathed that white Persian cat of Aunt Cynthia's.
And, indeed, as we always suspected and finally proved, Aunt
herself looked upon the creature with more pride than affection.
She would have taken ten times the comfort in a good, common puss
that she did in that spoiled beauty. But a Persian cat with a
recorded pedigree and a market value of one hundred dollars