Zath, the coroner, disputed at length with Nith, the lean notary; and Kranon and Shang and Thul were overwhelmed with questions. Even little Atal, the innkeeper's son, was closely questioned and given a sweetmeat as reward. They talked of the old cotter and his wife, of the caravan of dark wanderers, of small Menes and his black kitten, of the prayer of Menes and of the sky during that prayer, of the doings of the cats on the night the caravan left, and of what was later found in the cottage under the dark trees in the repellent yard.
And in the end the burgesses passed that remarkable law which is told of by traders in Hatheg and discussed by travelers in Nir; namely, that in Ulthar no man may kill a cat.
Spleen
By Charles Baudelaire
Translated by Clark Ashton Smith
When the low sky weighs oppressive like a coffin-cover
Upon the groaning spirit, prey to long ennuis;
When all the horizons, and the charnel clouds that hover,
Pour out a black day sadder than the darknesses;
When the earth is changed into a humid prison-house,
Where Hope, with futile fearful wing, time after time,
Beats on the dripping wall as might a flittermouse,
Or soars to meet the ceiling's rottenness and grime;
When all the suns are impotent to succor us,
In a vast dungeon barred with ever-shafting rain;
And when a silent people of spiders infamous
Have come to weave their filaments upon our brain.
The bells of all the town, with rage funereal,
Leap out and launch toward the heaven a frightful howling,
Like that of demons homeless and inimical
Who whine for blood and souls, about the steeples prowling.
—And the long hearses, with no music and no drums,
Defile with lentor in my mournful soul; Despair
Weeps, even as Hope, and dire, despotic Anguish comes
To hang her stifling sable draperies everywhere.
