We know there are those who will say that cats are not in misery when they give vent to those soul-stirring passages from unwritten opera, under the currant bushes, but we cannot but think that they are in the most crushing misery which it would be a charity to put them out of, or they would not chew their words so, and expectorate imaginary tobacco juice, mingled with hair and profanity. We know that human beings when they are enjoying each others society do not groan, and scratch, and Samantha around with their backs up, and their eyes sot, and run up board fences, and it is a safe inference to draw that these after dark cats are in pain. Of course cats are not human, though they are endowed with certain human instincts, such as staying out nights, and following other cats. Sitting on the sharp edge of a board fence for hours, gazing at a neighboring cat, and occasionally purmowing, may be likened by the student of nature, to human beings who sit for hours on a cast iron seat in the park, with arms around each other; but it is far different. We have yet to hear of instances where quantities of hair have been found on the ground in the parks, and no young man or young woman, after an evening in the park, comes to his place of business in the morning, with eyes clawed out, ears chewed, or so stiff as to be unable to get up from under the stove without being kicked. Weighing this matter carefully and in an unbiased manner, we must give the chromo for good conduct, correct deportment, and good citizenship, to the human beings who frequent the parks at night, over the cats who picnic under our gooseberry bustes, and play Copenhagen on our area fences, when those who have brought them up from innocent kittenhood think they are abed and asleep. So it is plain that the humane society has got work to do. We, as a people, have got tired of seeing a Thomas cat that never paid any taxes, get upon a pile of wood, swell his tail up to the size of a rolling pin, bid defiance to all laws, spit on his hands and say in ribald language to a Mariar cat, of a modest and retiring disposition, “Lay on, Mac Duff, and blanked be he who first cries purmeow.” This thing has got to cease. The humane society will soon be on the track of the enemy. We know that the war is about to commence, because Mr. Holton has resigned the presidency of the society. But there are bold men in the society that are not so tender-hearted as Brother Holton, and they will fight this cat question to the bitter end.