FOUR-FOOTED FRIENDSHIP

IT is ill writing one's reminiscences, if one can only chronicle human affairs. Man's life, no doubt, is social, and the interplay of mutual influences, thoughts and emotions contributes to its interest; but man is surrounded by creatures of humbler creation, as we say; and man's treatment of these creatures measures his character, and they in their turn influence his moral growth. Professor Huxley used to say that he respected the house of which the cat was an honoured inmate; he felt that a certain largeness of humane feeling was indicated by the affection and care bestowed upon the harmless, necessary cat. However this may be, I can chronicle the way in which a cat claimed and won a place-yes, a very kindly place, in my regard.

Betty-I called her so-Betty was not beautiful; she could not claim admiration for her long silky hair, for her brilliant colouring or her alluring eyes. She had no record of infantile attractions on which she could rely; she did not come to us as a fluffy round ball, full of fascinating kittenish ways, hunting some rolling thing or prettily entangling herself in a ball of string. She had no claim of young, graceful movements or mature beauty on which to rely for her maintenance. She just came to us-how, I do

not know; in fact, she planted herself upon us without invitation or apology. And she was not beautiful; she was just commonplace-a grey tabby cat, and not fair to look upon when measured by other tabbies; she was lean, grey and unkempt in appearance. Yet, with all her disadvantages, she won an established position among us; her quiet persistency, her quiet assumption that we could not refuse her hospitality; her faith in our goodness was a subtle and successful kind of flattery, and we succumbed ; and Betty became an inmate of our house.

I was then at 50 Highbury Hill-the house I occupied when I was Vicar of St. James's, Holloway-and Betty became by degrees my study companion. Perhaps the children were too noisy and too demonstrative in their attentions; the dining-room had attractions, no doubt, but the nurseries were too vibrant with startling activities; there was peace in the study, and so Betty found her way to the study and was my comrade while I read or wrote. She soon discovered the cosiest corner in which to repose; she selected the one easy chair, and curled herself up in it with calm dignity; she had appropriated it as her own, and had I been never so desirous of lounging in it, I believe I should never have dared to assert my claim. To do so would have seemed to have infringed sovereign and wellestablished rights. In reposeful comfort, therefore, Betty yawned and stretched, curled up and slept in the soft armchair. I can hear the critic say: "And you really tolerated this utterly selfish conduct?" Dear critic, I did; call me weak, if you will; but bethink you, Betty was a refugee who sought my protection and hospitality. She dreaded

the children; but even more she dreaded the onslaughts of Charley. Let me explain: "Charley" was my aunt's dog. She had come to keep house for me, and she could not be parted from Charley. Charley, to my unsympathetic mind, was a most detestable dog; he was by way of being an English terrier, but I doubted the purity of his pedigree; he was broad-set, brawny, self-indulgent, arrogant; he would tolerate no rival; cats he regarded as belonging to a despised race; they were to be hunted, harassed, chased and chivied wherever they were found. So Charley at once declared war upon Betty, and the only sanctuary open to Betty was my study. There she sought and found peace; there Charley never came; and there, there was to be found an inoffensive and quiet creature, who welcomed her and allowed her the choice of the most comfortable chair. From the storm and turmoil of the house, and from the outrageous persecutions of Charley, Betty sought and found an asylum in my study.

And Betty became very companionable. At first she was content to slumber in my armchair; but after a time she began to show an interest in me; her interest then grew to what I may call a grateful affection; and she used to descend from the chair, leap upon my writing-table and put out a timid and appealing paw, as much as to say: "We are companions in misfortune, and we are happy in this quiet refuge." If I continued writing, she would pat my pen and demand my attention. I soon understood her: she wanted to be talked to and to be petted; so I would stroke her and talk soothing nothings to her. She seemed to enjoy it all, and was reluctant to leave me. Then I

would say: "Now, Betty, that is enough; I have work to do, and you must go back to the chair." back to the chair." She soon under

stood, and would be content if once or twice in the morning she might jump on the table and be petted and stroked and talked to; then she would gravely and gracefully retire to her slumbers. She was only an ugly, uninteresting tabby; but she had affection, and she showed a real interest in the man who stood to her as protector and comrade.

Probably the sad loneliness of that time heightened my sense of Betty's companionship. There were moments in which I felt that she and I were the victims of common misfortunes; we were both lonely, and we both desired quiet. So a subtle sympathy drew us together. If you

talk to an animal much, and give it your trust and tell it your confidences, you humanize it by degrees, and a bond of common feeling will grow up between it and you. I know that I felt sympathy with Betty; I think that she had, in some sub-conscious fashion, some sympathy with

me.

"Cats have no personal attachment. Their love is for places, not for people." This is the common opinion, I believe. It was expressed, I remember, when I had to migrate from Highbury Hill to Paddington. "You will never take Betty with you," some one said; "she will remain with the house; she will never accept a changed residence." So the opinion went. However, I believed in Betty's attachment, and I took her with us when we moved. I brought her to my study in Queen's Gardens; the old chair was there; the writing-table was there, and I was

there; and Betty accepted all; she showed no signs of uneasiness. She slept in the chair; she leaped on the table for her mid-morning caress; she patted my pen till I put it down and stroked her and talked to her. The change of house did not trouble her. She had what she wanted and she was content. Like human beings, she found quiet and comfort in kindness and in familiar things; so the old habits of friendly intercourse were continued as before; in the new house the attachments were the same as they had been in the old.

Do you wonder that I grew fond of Betty? Do you wonder that I felt for her in the hard, harsh days when Charley and the children terrified her? Do you wonder that in those days I commemorated Betty in the following fashion?

POOR BETTY.

Poor Betty, with your soft warm fur

And gentle loving ways,

You only of the household now

Bear memory of past days.

The cosy fender was your own,

Where peacefully you purred,

There one fond hand would stroke your coat,

And speak the kindly word.

Then you would rise and arch your back,

And give contented yawn;

Or rub your cheek confidingly

As nearer you were drawn.

Or you would bound the staircase up,
And purr and leap before

The steps of her who welcomed you
Within her chamber door.