File:The fireside sphinx (1901) (14802567823).jpg

Identifier: firesidesphinx00repp (find matches)
Title: The fireside sphinx
Year: 1901 (1900s)
Authors: Repplier, Agnes, 1855-1950
Subjects: Cats
Publisher: Boston, New York, Houghton, Mifflin and co.
Contributing Library: Boston College Libraries
Digitizing Sponsor: Boston Library Consortium Member Libraries

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on doorsteps, in the streets, by thekitchen fires, — and none knew whereof they died.There was mourning and lamentation in many ahome; and the Cats Coronach might havebeen chanted at night in the deserted yards, andon lonely walls, no. longer guarded by resolute andvaliant Toms. And art thou fallen, and lowly laid,The housewifes boast, the cellars aid, Great mouser of thy day!Whose rolling eyes and aspect dreadWhole whiskered legions oft have fled In midnight battle fray.There breathes no kitten of thy lineBut would have given his life for thine. It is not only of cats in general that ElizabethDrinker deigns to write. She has much to sayfrom time to time of her own puss, who, at a ripeold age, fell a victim to the prevailing disorder, andfor whom she seems to have entertained a preciseand Quaker-like esteem ; — as good a regard aswas necessary, is her rather chilly way of record-ing her affection. Neither does she deem it be-neath the dignity of a diarist to note the arrival of a
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THE CAT TO-DAY 239 little waif who sought shelter by her comfortablehearth. A very pretty cat intruded herself on us thisevening. We did not make her welcome at first,but she seemed to insist on staying. Sally thengave her milk, and very soon after she caught apoor little mouse ; and she is now lying on the cor-ner of my apron by ye fireside, as familiarly as ifshe had lived with us for seven years. It is pleasant to hear the kind-hearted Quakeresssay poor little mouse; for the unconcern withwhich most of us view the death agony of a mousecontrasts strangely with our sentimental outpour-ings over a murdered bird. The mouse might saywith Shylock, If you prick us, do we not bleed ? — and feel with Shylock that no one heeds theshedding of such blood. But, for the slaughterof a bird, there is a different cry. Does not eventhat sweet saint, Eugenie de Guerin, bewail in nogentle words — in the most ungentle words herjournal holds — such a calamity ? I am furious with the grey cat. The

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