Among French authors we recall Rousseau, who has much to say in favour of felines. Colbert reared half a dozen cats in his study, and taught them many interesting tricks. The cat supplied Perrault with one of the most attractive subjects of his stories, and under the magical pen of this admirable story-teller, Puss in Boots has become an example of the power of work, industry, and _savoir-faire_. Gautier scoffs at storms raging without, as long as he has Sur mes genoux un chat qui se joue et folâtre, Un livre pour veiller, un fauteil pour devenir. Béranger, in his idyl The Cat, makes an intelligent cat a go-between of lovers. Baudelaire returned from his wanderings in the East a devotee of cats, and addressed to them several fine bits of verse; they are seen in his poetry, as dogs in the paintings of Paul Veronese. Here is a sample: Come, beauty, rest upon my loving heart, But cease thy paws’ sharp-nailèd play, And let me peer into those eyes that dart Mixed agate and metallic ray. Again: Grave scholars and mad lovers all admire And love, and each alike, at his full tide Those suave and puissant cats, the fireside’s pride, Who like the sedentary life and glow of fire. How he enjoys, nay, revels in the musical purr!— Those tones which purl and percolate Deep down into my shadowy soul, Exalt me like a fine tune’s roll, And yield the joy love philters make. There is no note in the world, Nor perfect instrument I know, Can lift my heart to such a glow And set its vibrant chord in whirl, As thy rich voice mysterious.