There is one thing very true. No one realizes my great age. Friends come in daily, and say, "Oh, Daisy, how lovely you are! and your tail is just perfect." Of course I know it is true. My tail is just lovely, and my fur is as soft and luxuriant as it was years ago. But when they say, "_She_ is beautiful," that arouses all the "old cat Adam" in me, for I suppose that is the part of us that dies last. After having all my life behaved like a gentleman, with all his virtues, and none of his vices, now, in my old age, to be called "She" is more than I can bear. The advanced woman cat may, like her superiors, have a desire to be men; but no gentleman cat would ever care to change his nature or sex. Just because my name is Daisy, they seem to think I am a "Miss Nancy," and adapt their conversation to suit an inferior intellect. One young girl came to visit us one day, and we were tired enough of her. She had no brains and soon used up all her small talk. Then she gushed over me. It made me sick. I opened my eyes wide at her. This pleased her so much that she nodded just like a donkey, and clucked at me just as if she thought me a hen. Then she repeated that awful silly thing with no sense in at all:-- "'Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, where have you been?' 'I've been to London to see the Queen.'" Her voice was thin and pitched high, and it made me tired and cross. She looked for approval and got disappointed. I backed away from her and swelled up my tail till it was as big as a muff. She was rather frightened, but my two friends laughed. They understood that I was insulted by such childish nonsense. As if I had a mind no deeper than that silly stuff! I wanted her to know that "Washington" and the "President of the United States" and his wife would be much more attractive to me. London and the Queen! There are snobs enough to visit them without a cat joining the crowd. I have no doubt the Queen is a nice old lady, but then there are so many nicer ones who earn their own living that I can see every day. Such a journey would be useless. I have never heard she was fond of cats. If she had been, they might be treated better by those who follow after and pin their faith on royalty. I did get very nervous over that silly "Pussy Cat." It ran in my head, and my nice fire pictures were filled with the maudlin trash. And I was heartily glad when Miss Eleanor said, "Now we will have a little of Dickens to clear the atmosphere." That calmed my nerves, and I fell asleep, and I also fell off of the hassock, where I had perched myself. The other day I heard Miss Milly say that she scarcely ever took up a paper without finding some interesting anecdote of a dog or cat. Miss Eleanor said, "What interesting stories we could tell of the pets we have known!"