They coaxed her, and in spite of her clinging to them, put her down very gently. She stood like one dazed. Then she turned and surveyed the house and its surroundings. She looked long at the clear, bright water, as if in deep thought. She then looked up at the sky, and after giving them a reproachful glance, she walked slowly toward the river. Reaching it, she paused one moment, then deliberately walked in. Twice she rose to the surface, then the waters closed over her forever. They could make no effort to save her. Knowing cats' strong dislike of water, they had no idea she would go near it. It was, they said, a clear case of suicide. Homeless, friendless, and wretched, she preferred death, even in the element a cat usually dreads, to seeking a new home. The people were very unhappy about it. They said they felt like murderers, and never had believed before that cats could think and suffer. They said that they should ever after do all they could for animals, particularly cats, in atonement for their share, though unintentional, in the death of poor pussy. It made me appreciate the care I had had all my life, when I heard such sad stories of cats. Cats are fond of mischief, and I fear I never thought of the sorrow I should cause when I saw a good opportunity for fun. We made a visit one summer in a family where the old grandfather, from Vermont, was spending a few weeks. He was an original character, and we were entertained by his quaint speeches and his old-fashioned manners. He thought Boston was one of the biggest and wickedest places in the world. I was the only one he seemed to be at home with, though I never could tell why, for I disliked him from the first sight I had of his horrid little eyes, with a real wicked expression, and his flesh looked just like an over-baked apple. The wonder of all to me was his head, which was the part I could not understand. It was covered by uneven, red-brown hair, with no seam in it, and it looked just like a cocoanut. He ate so loud I thought some one was choking, and when I walked over to the side of the table and looked in his face, I found he was eating with a big knife so fast it made me wink. This increased my dislike of him, and I refused all his overtures to make friends with me. He said I was "a proud critter." He guessed lots of time was spent on keeping my fur so nice. And "as to that trinket on my neck, it was too fine for a cat." One day I solved the mystery of his head-gear. I chanced to peep into his room,--as no place was sacred from my investigation,--and I saw another old man, his head as bare as the bed-post. When he said "Pussy, Pussy," I fled in alarm, but not before I had discovered that it was the same old man minus the top of his head. It was a wonder to me, and I never rested till I found that head-gear. They called it a wig, but I called it a "bird's nest."