trepidation on the part of his doting mistress that he might make a bold
strike for his former home. But Thomas Erastus felt he had a mission to
perform for his race. He would disprove that mistaken theory that a cat,
no matter how kindly he is treated, cares more for places than for
people. Consequently he would not dream of going back to his old haunts.

No; he sat down in the front yard and took a long look at his
surroundings, the neighboring lots, a field of grass, a waving
corn-field. He had already convinced himself that the new house was
home, because in it were all the old familiar things, and he had been
allowed to investigate every bit of it and to realize what had happened.
So after looking well about him he made a series of tours of
investigation. First, he took a bee-line for the farthest end of the
nearest vacant lot; then he chose the corn-field; then the beautiful
broad grounds of the neighbor below; then across the street; but between
each of these little journeys he took a bee-line back to his
starting-point, sat down in front of the new house, and "got his
bearings," just as evidently as though he could have said out loud,
"This is my home and I mustn't lose it." In this way he convinced
himself that where he lives is the centre of the universe, and that the
world revolves around him. And he has since been as happy as a
cricket,--yea, happier, for death and destruction await the unfortunate
cricket where Thomas Erastus thrives.

But don't say a cat can't or won't be moved. It's your own fault if he
won't.