listened. 'What can it all mean?' she asked her little ones.

THE SQUABBLE IN THE POND.

"I looked towards the duck-pond. 'What lovely music!' cried one duckling to his comrade.

"'Hideous, you mean!' cried the other, and then they fought and quarrelled till scarcely a feather was left between them. This is the way with quick-tempered little ducklings: they fight for a worm, and are good friends again as soon as either of them has eaten it up. Sulky little boys and girls have a lesson to learn from them in this, so that even a duckling is a teacher at times, if we can only read our lesson aright.

"COME ALONG THEN."

"The noise the dogs were making reached even the end of the field, where a blackbird was busily engaged with an obstinate worm, who preferred his hole to the open air. And the terrified bird forsook half his dinner, in his anxiety to get away.

"My adventure, you see," continued Pussy, "at any rate created a noise in the neighbourhood! At length the dogs' master came out with a whip in his hand. He walked up to them, and must have laid about him pretty freely, for their howling increased to something indescribable. Then suddenly they stopped, and I heard the dog-whip flung fiercely at the crouching curs. And then their master went away, as I could tell by his retreating steps.

"FLUNG FIERCELY AT THE CURS."

"I was full of curiosity to see how they looked in their humbled frame of mind. So I with great difficulty scrambled up the wall. I looked over, and nearly tumbled over too, for I could hardly keep my balance, so great was my inward rejoicing at their discomfiture.

"'So you are paid out, you three cruel, mischief-makers!' I cried, and leaped down again from the wall.

"They howled back their reply, which I did not wait to hear—and that is the end of my story," said Pussy.

"Thank you, Pussy dear!" I said. And King Charlie danced frantically round the room to show his delight at the way the adventure had ended.

"I hate low under-bred curs, and I am always glad to see them punished," he cried, again assuming his kingly look. He was a despot in spirit, and really thought himself King of the dogs. Poor, harmless, vain little Charlie, I loved him all the same!

"Now it is your turn to tell me a story," said Miss Perkie to him. "I will tell you something more of these three dogs afterwards."

"Very well," began King Charles, "very well; a tale you shall have, but a short one. My tail is not long, and my tales are not long," and he looked towards Pussy; then at me; but neither of us smiled: he was only a dog of small intellect, so I forgave him.

"Your story was of dogs," he went on; "mine shall be of cats. You hate dogs—I hate cats; therefore we like each other."

Pussy did not quite follow the reasoning, as I could see from her puzzled face; but since the end was true, and the argument sounded well, she thought it must be all right.

"My story is of a cat of your tribe, Perkie," he continued; "of a Maltese kitten. They are all great play-babies, you know, and I suppose you owe your earnestness of character to me. But that is not to the point! The kitten I am speaking of was called Pussy. That seems to be a common name in your family, Pussy; and it is a most extraordinary thing that all the cats and kittens I have ever known have had that name, and it is yours too, Perkie, isn't it? However, it is a very pretty name, so I won't say anything more about it. It is not to the point either! To proceed: this Pussy was a very great play-baby. A soft ball was her joy, her comfort; a saucer of milk, her greatest delight. How you cats can live on milk, I cannot understand. It's very nice in its way, but it goes such a little way, though that is not much to the point again! Well, this cat's mother was a thief—all cats are thieves—she used regularly, when she had a chance, to go to the jar of milk that was kept for me and for the family, and lap up as much as she could reach with her tongue.

"AND LAP UP AS MUCH AS SHE COULD."

"Of course I hated her for this alone; but another vile practice she had increased my dislike for her. She would, every morning after the piano was dusted, jump upon the music-stool, and thence bound on to the keyboard. She would then walk about on it backwards and forwards, making the most abominable sounds—screeching notes, buzzing notes, groaning notes; groaning notes, buzzing notes, screeching notes, worse than the railway train. I could not stay in the same room with her, and used rather to go out and sit in the cold attic.

AN UNSKILLED PERFORMER

"I never actually fought her, for I always pitied her weakness, and her claws were very long and sharp. Her daughter was just as annoying in other ways, though I must confess that her ball-games were rather pretty. But still I do not agree with frivolity being turned into a science, and her games were almost scientific in grace and action. I will try to describe to you her morning occupation.

"First of all, of course, was the mewing scene—'Mieaou—mieaou—mieaou!' 'What is it my little sweetie wants, then?' the lady of the house would ask; 'does it want its pretty little ball?' And then she would throw the miserable soft ball to her.

"I sat by and looked on, half scornful, half amused, half—— I forget what the other half was!"

"Half asleep?" suggested Pussy.

"Perhaps half asleep, but I forget. The kitten would then watch where the ball fell, waiting till it stopped rolling. She would never touch it until it got to a considerable distance from her. Then she would suddenly dart upon a hassock or a footstool close by it, and fiercely gaze down upon it. After a while, she would stretch out one paw, and set it rolling, and, as it rolled, crawl after it, crouching low down to the ground.

"Suddenly a pounce, and a little squeak of delight: 'The ball is mine,' she thinks, and begins to play with it. She tosses it to and fro, now biting it, now patting it—preparatory, no doubt, to swallowing it.

"But do not be too sure, Miss Pussy! See, the ball flies from her, as if possessed with life. It rolls away, on and on. And Pussy, who had thought it dead, seems struck with wonder. 'Can it be alive after all?' she thinks; 'there must be a mouse inside it!' then scamper, scamper, a spring and a leap, and she has caught the ball again. Once more it escapes from her claws—once more she bounds towards it, and now it is