It was about a week after my father and mother had reached home, when, one morning, as we were seated at the breakfast table, the door-bell rang, and an expressman appeared, with a grin on his face that seemed literally to reach from one ear to the other! “’Ere’s a cat!” he exclaimed, and forthwith produced a box a foot or two square, the top of which was decorated, in good-sized letters, with this injunction: “THIS SIDE UP WITH CARE!” As the official brought it into the hall, the listeners and lookers-on heard a prolonged “Waa-a-a-a-a-a!” which seemed to echo and re-echo, and at last died away into silence. “It is the kitten that we didn’t bring!” said my mother, while I ran for a hammer and chisel with which to open the box. When the operation was performed, there jumped out a large, yellow, cat-like kitten, which escaped as far as possible from us, as we tried to grasp it, repeating its mournful, yet decisive cry of—“Waa-a-a-a-a-a!” Strange to say, he did not recognize us as friends, immediately, but preferred to wait until he formed a closer acquaintance before he was victimized by our embraces or pettings, so he was consigned to the cellar, where he spent much of his time. When we would try to get him up, unless we succeeded in finding him asleep, he would climb a beam, and with great agility elude our efforts to capture him. Having heard many stories of cats returning to their former homes, and having had some experience in that line ourselves, we were careful to keep Mozart in the house, lest he should make his escape and be seen no more. If he did manage to get out of the kitchen door in a clandestine manner, a ridiculous procession was formed of the bareheaded members of our family, and no peace was given the poor animal, until, after racing around the yard once or twice, he surrendered to our clutches. Truly our anxious efforts to capture the unwilling prisoner must have been a ludicrous sight to any unsympathizing spectator. We let Mozart sleep in the kitchen, and this gave him the chance he apparently coveted, of sleeping on the table, which he did so obstinately, that we were finally compelled to resort to the expedient of turning the table on its side every night, so that if he slept on it, it would have to be in direct resistance to the law of gravitation! Mozart also showed a great desire to make the table his dining-room, though this freak was explained on the arrival of my auntie May, who said that he had eaten on an old table in the barn at home. He also probably slept there. But with us he was obliged to make his couch on some old pieces of carpeting.