When Taffy is on the foot of the bed I fly very low, almost touching him with my wings, and say, “You lazy cat, why don’t you wake up and hear the little birds sing to God Almighty; why don’t you wake up?” I soon hear words that are not used in polite society, and next see the end of his tail disappearing around the corner of the door. Before I go to sleep at night I exercise again. One afternoon Taffy was trying to take a nap in a chair in the back parlor. I kept flying over him, making a whizzing sound with my wings. When he could endure it no longer he went into the writing-room and sat down by his mother. I went in to take a luncheon on the table. Taffy stood up on his hind legs, reached out a velvet paw, and gave me such a slap I fell upon the floor. I was not hurt in the least, flew up on a picture and shook with laughter at the punishment and scolding Mr. Taffy was getting. He said very naughty words, scratched and bit, but he was conquered at last, and has behaved like a gentleman ever since. The first time I saw the snow I was wild with delight, flew to the window and tried to catch the pretty white flakes. But when I heard the sleigh bells they struck terror to my heart, for I thought a whole army of cats was coming, as all I knew about bells are Taffy’s. Not long ago my new mother was very ill and had to send for a strange physician, who knew nothing about me. When I heard him coming upstairs I hid behind the curtain and watched him fix a white powder in a paper. When he laid it on the table I swooped down, grabbed it and took it into my cage. After that I was kept busy, as my grandmother was ill for many weeks. I would carry off all the sleeping powders; one day I put them behind the bed, for I thought they would not taste so badly, and do just as much good. It did not take more than a minute to get down there when I heard the doctor come in, for I had to see that the medicine was mixed all right. It was great fun peering into the tiny little bottles in his case. I would stand on the ends of my toes and crane my neck to watch him drop the medicine into the tumblers. The other day some Christmas roses were brought in. They looked so tempting I took several bites, and the next day took some more. I felt a little queer, and kept opening my bill. My new mother thought I had something in my throat and gave me some water. The next afternoon she found me on the floor panting, took me to an open window, gave me wine and the attack seemed to pass. We went up to our room, and apparently I was as well as ever when she went down to dinner. After she had gone another attack came on and I am too weak to write any more, and can only warn little birds never to taste of a Christmas rose, as they are said to be deadly poison. When I went to my room late in the evening no little birdie peeped over the curtain to greet me. I looked on the floor, and there lay my darling Dewey, stiff and cold.