otherwise marked, I remember fastening my affections securely upon one
kitten who grew up to be the ugliest, gauntest, and dingiest specimen I
ever have seen. In the days of his kittenhood I christened him "Tassie"
after his mother; but as time sped on, and the name hardly comported
with masculine dignity, this was changed to Tacitus, as more befitting
his sex. He had a habit of dodging in and out of the front door, which
was heavy, and which sometimes swung together before he was well out of
it. As a consequence, a caudal appendage with two broken joints was one
of his distinguishing features. Besides a broken tail, he had ears which
bore the marks of many a hard-fought battle, and an expression which for
general "lone and lorn"-ness would have discouraged even Mrs. Gummidge.
But I loved him, and judging from the disconsolate and long-continued
wailing with which he rilled the house whenever I was away, my affection
was not unrequited.

But my real thraldom did not begin until I took the Pretty Lady's
mother. We had not been a week in our first house before a handsomely
striped tabby, with eyes like beautiful emeralds, who had been the pet
and pride of the next-door neighbor for five years, came over and
domiciled herself. In due course of time she proudly presented us with
five kittens. Educated in the belief that one cat was all that was
compatible with respectability, I had four immediately disposed of,
keeping the prettiest one, which grew up into the beautiful,
fascinating, and seductive maltese "Pretty Lady," with white trimmings
to her coat. The mother of Pretty Lady used to catch two mice at a time,
and bringing them in together, lay one at my feet and say as plainly as
cat language can say, "There, you eat that one, and I'll eat this," and
then seem much surprised and disgusted that I had not devoured mine when
she had finished her meal.