“Of course it’s a pity she didn’t have more sense,” added Impty, sagely; “but then, mice are _such_ a temptation! Æsop--my grandfather says he wrote the fable hundreds and hundreds of years ago--knew just as much about animals as he did about men. I’m going to tell you his story of ‘The Cat and the Fox.’” [Illustration: THE CAT AND THE FOX ] One day a cat met a fox in the wood. “Ah,” she thought, “he is clever and sensible, and talked of in the world a good deal; I will speak to him.” So she said, quite in a friendly manner: “Good morning, dear Mr. Fox; how are you? And how do things go with you in these hard times?” The fox, full of pride, looked at the cat from head to foot, and hardly knew what to say to her for a long time. At last he replied: “Oh, you poor little whisker-cleaner, you old gray tabby, you hungry mouse-hunter, what are you thinking about to come to me, and to stand there and ask me how I am getting on? What do you know, and how many tricks have you?” “I only know one trick,” answered the cat, meekly. “And pray what is that?” he asked. “Well,” she said, “if the hounds are behind me, I can spring up into a tree out of their way and save myself.” “Is that all?” cried the fox. “Why, I am master of a hundred tricks, and have, over and above all, a sackful of cunning. But I pity you, Puss, so come with me, and I will teach you how to baffle both men and hounds.” At this moment a hunter with four hounds was seen approaching. The cat sprang nimbly up a tree and seated herself on the highest branch, where, by the spreading foliage, she was quite hidden. “Turn out the sack, Master Fox, turn out the sack!” cried the cat; but the hounds had already seized him, and held him fast. “Ah, Master Fox,” cried the cat, “your hundred tricks are not of much use to you. Now, if you had only known one like mine, you would not have lost your life so quickly.” * * * * * “And now I really must go,” said Impty. “I’m sorry not to tell you more to-night, but our Caterwauling Class meets at eight in the backyard, and I’m leader. They say I’ve a wonderful voice for so young a cat. Isn’t it lucky that the shutter doesn’t close quite tight? If it did I’d never see the fence, nor my friends, either, and, just as likely as not, they’d elect Tabby Gray in my place out of spite. Good-by!” THE SEVENTH NIGHT Outside it was cold and wet; twilight had come early, and Impty trotted in shivering and a little cross. “I almost wish that I wasn’t black,” he growled, as he cuddled up beside Dolly. “Miss Jane’s airing her furs; _she_ says there’s frost in the air, and she picked me up just because she thought I was her old muff. The idea of mixing up a respectable kitten with a monkey muff!” “What did you do, Impty?” asked Dolly, curiously.