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CHAPTER IX
THE CAT TO-DAY
"Sphinx of my quiet hearth! who deignst to dwell
Friend of my toil, companion of mine ease."
PERHAPS some portion of the tenderness which falls to Pussy's happy lot in these smooth days, when her star—eclipsed since the fall of Pasht—has once more reached its zenith, is due to the nursery rhymes which present her so constantly to infant eyes and ears. "The cat," says M. Champfleury, "is the nurse's favourite, and the baby's earliest friend. It plays its part in little rhythmical dramas, cunningly presented to the drowsy child, who falls asleep with a familiar image parading fantastically through his brain." French rhymes are much the prettiest; less bald than the English, less banal than the German. There is a
