Peter, the admirable cat whose brief history I am about to relate, appeared in the world on a terrible winter's night. A fierce snowstorm was raging, the sleet was driving at a terrific rate through the air, and the streets were banked up with snow-drifts. All traffic had been stopped, the roar of London was hushed, and every one who had the merest pretence of a fireside sought it on this memorable occasion. It was a wild night in the city, a wild night in the country, a wild night at sea, and certainly a most unpropitious night for the birth of a cat, an animal which is always associated with home and hearth. The fact remains that Peter was born on the night of one of the most terrible storms on record. Our chairs were drawn up to the fire, the tea-things were on the table, and my mother was just about to try the strength of the brew, when Ann Tibbits, our faithful and well-tried maid-of-all-work, bounced into the room without knocking at the door. Her cap was all awry, her hair was dishevelled, and she gasped for breath as she addressed herself to my mother thus, in spasms: "Please--ma'am--the cat has put her kittens--in--your--bonnet!" Such a breach of discipline had never been known before in our prim household, where there was a place for everything, and everything had a place. My mother pushed her spectacles on to her forehead, and, looking severely at Ann, said: "_Which_ one, Ann? My summer bonnet, or--my winter bonnet?" "The one with the fur lining, ma'am." "And a most comfortable bonnet to live in, I'm sure!" replied my mother sarcastically, as much as to say that she wished all cats had such a choice under the circumstances. "Another cat would have chosen the one with the lace and the violets, out of sheer perverseness. But there--I _knew_ I could depend on a cat which had been trained in _my_ house." My mother poured out a cup of tea, betraying no agitation as she dropped two lumps of sugar into the cup--her customary allowance--and helped herself to cream. In a minute or two, however, she took up her knitting, and I noticed that two stitches in succession were dropped, a sure sign that she was perturbed in spirit. Suddenly my mother turned her eyes to the fire. "_How many_, Ann?" she continued, addressing our faithful servant, who still remained standing at the table awaiting her orders. "Seven, ma'am." "_Seven!_" cried my mother. "Seven--it's outrageous. Why, my bonnet wouldn't hold 'em!" "Three in the bonnet, ma'am, and two in your new m-u-f-f!" "My new muff!" cried my mother. "I _knew_ you were keeping something back." And the stitches dropped fast and furious. "That's only _five_, Ann," she continued, looking up from her work. "Where are the other two? I insist upon knowing." "In the Alaska tail boa, ma'am," responded Ann, timidly. Slowly my mother's wrath evaporated, and her features settled down to their ordinary aspect of composure.