Now these conversations with the magpie sadly unsettled the mind of the cat; more particularly when the magpie related to her how daintily the Countess von Rustenfustenmustencrustenberg’s cat always lived,--what nice bits of chicken she dined upon, what delicious morsels of buttered crumpet she often had for breakfast, what soft cushions she lay upon, and a great deal more to the same purpose: all of which made a powerful impression upon our wondering friend. So she sat and reflected by the fire, while the good old woman, her mistress, went on spinning the wool which she sold afterwards at the nearest town, to buy food and clothes. The more the cat talked to the magpie, the more dissatisfied she became with her present condition; till, at last, I am sadly afraid that when, in a morning, the old woman gave her her breakfast of goats’ milk with some nice brown bread broken into it, she began rather to despise it, instead of taking it thankfully, as she ought to have done, for she was very comfortably off in the cottage--having bread and milk every morning and night, and something for dinner, too; besides what mice she could catch, to say nothing of a stray sparrow or squirrel now and then. But, as I said just now, the magpie’s chattering stories unsettled her; she thought it would be so charming to dine upon bits of roast chicken, and have buttered crumpets for breakfast, and fine cushions to lie upon, like the Countess’s cat. All this was very silly, no doubt; but she wanted experience: she knew nothing of the thousands and thousands of poor cats who would have thought her life quite luxurious. It is a very bad thing to get unsettled; it sets people wishing and doing many foolish things. One fine bright evening the magpie was perched upon the projecting bough of her oak, and the cat, who thought the cottage particularly dull that day, had come out for a little gossip. “Good evening!” screamed the magpie, as soon as she saw her; “do come up here and let us chat a little.” So the cat climbed up, and seated herself on another bough a little below. “You look out of spirits to-day,” began the magpie, bending down a very inquisitive eye to her friend’s face. “I am afraid you are not well. But I am not surprised. That old sparrow I saw you eating for dinner must have been as tough as leather. It’s no wonder you are ill after it! You should really be more careful, and only catch the nice tender young ones.” “Thank you,” replied the cat, in a rather melancholy tone, “I am perfectly well.” “Then what in the world ails you, my dear friend?” “I don’t know,” answered the cat, “but I believe I am getting rather tired of staying here all my life.”