Christopher was admirable. He always is, but on this occasion he outdid himself. He said nothing further, but took off his hat and coat, turned up his trousers, and went to work. For nearly an hour he pursued that kitten, trying every method he could think of or I could suggest. He stalked and coaxed, he waited and plunged, he withdrew, he circumvented and headed off. The rain fell steadily, and the bushes more than fulfilled their promise of wetness. I was very unhappy. After all, I care more about Christopher than about kittens. But something of the kitten’s perversity had infected me. As she could not bring herself to be caught, so I could not bring myself to abandon her. “Well,” said Christopher finally (he spoke carefully; for the last half hour when he had said anything at all, he had said it carefully), “I’m going to make one more effort, and then----” It was a thorough effort. He made a wide détour about the kitten’s position, entering a part of the forest which he had not penetrated before, and was about to close in on the maddening outcast, when, to my perplexity, he suddenly desisted from the whole undertaking and returned to the road, shaking the rain from his hair and turning down his trousers with as dark an air of disgust as I have ever seen. I wanted to ask, “What in the world is the matter?” but I thought I’d better not. He told me, however, presently. The situation was one which just had to be shared. “There’s a trail over there,” he said concisely, “leading to an occupied camp. We’ve spent the morning trying to kidnap that kitten.” Perhaps there is nothing more to be said. Certainly Christopher and I said nothing for many miles. I was too humbly chastened, and he was too--well, let us call it considerate. But we did some thinking; and, after a most opportunely good dinner at an unexpected wayside inn, I was relieved to hear Christopher begin to meditate aloud. “It wasn’t crying at all,” he reflected. “It was just saying, as its mother had taught it, ‘Welcome to our mountain home.’ How embarrassed it must have been!” “And frightened,” I added. “No wonder I thought it looked scared. Several times we nearly had it.” “Well,” Christopher concluded, with a grave glance at me, “philanthropy’s a ticklish business.” By kind permission of _The Atlantic Monthly_. THE TADPOLE AND THE FROG “Be ashamed of yourself,” said the frog. “When I was a tadpole, I had no tail.” “Just what I thought!” said the tadpole. “You never were a tadpole.” Robert Louis Stevenson. _Fables._ By permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons, the authorized publishers. SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF FAIRY TALES, ALLEGORIES, PARABLES, AND FABLES The editors have found the additional selections very useful in teaching these forms of narrative: Andersen, Hans Christian. _Fairy Tales._ Æsop. _Fables._