The wild-cat we ran down like the 'loup cervier'" "What kind of an animal is that?" asked Mr. Maxwell.
But either the cat was not an adept at turning on such a narrow support, or it was afraid to try.
"The cat was a very beautiful beast with his spotted hide," she said; "and you liked to play with him sometimes, but in a little while you will be glad that he has gone from you.
"You don't say so!" said I. "That cat was the old Maltesethe chairman of that convention.
THE ONE-EYED CAT "There's Peggy with that horrid cat againthe one-eyed cat from over the fence."
Say, but that bob cat is a terror, and crosser than any animal we got, except the hyenas.
It runs in the blood; thus, a cat and a tiger are blood relations; the little coon and the great black bear are nearly akin.
He had stayed in the stables all day, "wishin' all ole she-cats was to home, an' him an' Mist' Dode could live in peace.
He reflects for a few years on the subject of cats; and at last discovers in the cat "the characteristic equine quality of caudality, or a tail"; so that cats are horses, and wave on every tree-top the tail which is the equine banner.
"And I says to him," said Shoop, as he returned to his chair,"I says, 'Bondsman, that there cat was just passin' the buck to us to see if we was game.'
But the cat is a secret and alien creature, selfish and mysterious, a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
It was all right, I don't doubt; at any rate, that was his fancy then, and perhaps another time he may be obstinately hilarious; however, it may be that he is growing graver, for time is a fact so long as clocks and watches continue to go, and a cat can't be a kitten always, as the old gentleman opposite said the other day.
"I've taken it out o' the bank," ses George, starting; "if that cat's alive, Bob, and you've got it, there's the fifteen pounds the moment you 'and it over.
"An old cat" is the unkindest thing you can say about a woman.
It may turn out to be a regular picture of domestic life, and the cat is only a joke, something like a jest, so to speak, a motive, if I may call it that.
He says, "Cats were serpents, and they were made into cats at the time of some great change in the world.
And Timmy the cat was a priceless treasure.
It culminated in the conduct of a lady who declared that cats were poison, and who, "when pussy appeared in the room, had the presence of mind to faint."
Strange spicy odours, too, sometimes floated inland from the sugar wharves, miles away under the Heights, to mingle with the scent of lilac and iris in quiet, sunny backyards where whitewashed fences reflected the mid-day glare, and cats dozed in strategical positions on grape trellis and tin roofs of extensions, prepared for war or peace, as are all cats always, at all times.
Now cats, I continued(at the thrilling word Quilp became tense with excitement), cats are another affair.
On the whole, I should feel more disposed to concur with him who "has been led away by a love of etymology" that the "Cat and Fiddle" is an "anomalous" sign, and that "no two objects in the world have less to do with each other than a cat and a violin," than to adopt the opposite theories of E.D. or his predecessor, unless better supported than they are at present.
Besides, this cat is a thoroughbred, never been outside the home where she was born till now.
Anne's cat, Nicky, was there, the black Persian that Jerrold had given her last birthday.
Cats are misunderstood people.