mill. Hundreds of times he had gone the road before, but on this

particular morning, somehow or other, the miller felt peculiarly nervous. It was so dark, and everything was so still, and being Christmas morning, what more likely than that he should see a ghost. He tried to sing, but for once in his life he failed; and he felt quite a sense of relief when the farmer's cocks awoke, and began hallooing to each other all over the country. So, in no enviable frame of mind, he reached the mill and opened the door. The old dog came to meet him, and he struck a light, and shaking off for a time his superstitious fears, he donned a dusty coat, and set to work in earnest. First there was the corn to spread upon the kiln. That done, he went below to put a match to the kiln-fire which was already laid. In this furnace it was not coals that were burned, nor wood either, but the outside husks of the oats themselves,--what are called in Scotland "shealings." This made a roaring fire, and was easily lit. All was darkness when the miller went down, but he soon had both light and heat. Indeed, from the latter he was fain to stand back; and so, leaning on his shovel, as he contemplated his work, with the firelight playing around his handsome face and figure and the darkness behind him, he would have formed no mean study for a painter. But suddenly the spade dropped from his grasp, his face turned pale,--pale as it never would be again until death set his seal on it,--and the perspiration stood in big drops on his brow, while his frightened gaze was riveted on the furnace before him. He had seen _a face in the fire_, apparently that of a demon--what else could it be?--black and unearthly looking, with white teeth and green glaring eyes; it showed but a moment, and disappeared again in the smoke beneath the kiln. For a few seconds which seemed like ages, he stood there transfixed; then again that awful face in the blaze, and this time a horrid yell which seemed to rend the very mill; and something sprang wildly from the furnace,--sprung at him, over him, through him, somehow or anyhow, the miller could not tell,--he had tumbled down in a dead faint. Daylight was just coming in when he awoke. The fire was black out, and the mill still grinding away at nothing in particular. Outside, the snow lay on the ground to a depth of several inches; it was no wonder then that the poor miller began to shiver, as soon as he gathered himself up. He shivered,--and when he thought of that terrible apparition, he shuddered as well as shivered.

"An awfu' visitation," he muttered to himself,--"a truly awfu' visitation on a Christmas morning;" and he began to wonder what he had ever done to deserve it. He went over his whole life,--honest man, it had been anything but a chequered or eventful one,--and finally came to the conclusion that it must be a judgment on him for forsaking his early love.

"Poor lonely Nannie!" he sighed, as he dragged himself wearily away to begin his work.

The miller was a steady, sober man, but he did feel glad when visitors began to arrive at the mill, and being Christmas morning, bring a bottle with them. But he could not find exhilaration in the whisky,--no, nor consolation either. He simply could not get warm, only his face seemed to glow; and there was a weight at his heart, as if he had swallowed one of his own millstones. When at last the day wore over, and he found himself at home, he thought he had never felt so tired in his life before. His decent old body of a housekeeper marked how ill he looked, and insisted on putting him to bed at once, with a bottle of hot water, an extra blanket, and a basin of gruel.

Next day the miller was in a raging fever, and for many weeks he seemed only hovering between life and death. Mrs. Fowler, as his housekeeper was called, could not have been more kind to him if he had been her own son. But one day she said to herself, as she looked upon his poor worn face, "I see I canna cure him, and the man will die if assistance doesna come soon. I'll try it,--I'll try it."

What the trying it had reference to we shall soon see. Mrs. Fowler put on her Sunday's gown and bonnet, put on her scarlet shawl and her sable boa, and telling the miller she would soon return, went out into the keen January air, and took her way to the bridge that spanned the rapid Don. For the good lady was far too old to try the ford, or climb the rocks, or trust herself in the dark little footpath, that led through the forest to Nannie's house. She arrived there in good time for all that.

Nannie was spinning, but strange to say, she was always glad to see Mrs. Fowler. So she put aside the reel and bustled about to get tea ready.

"And is he getting any better?" asked Nannie at length, referring to the miller. The question was asked in seemingly a half-careless tone, but none knew but herself, how her heart was beating all the while.

"Na, na, poor man," said Janet, for that was her maiden name, "he is no long for this world."

Nannie had turned away her head, and buried her face in her hands. Presently she was sobbing like a child. Janet spoke not.

"Oh," cried poor Nannie, "I must, I _shall_ see him before he dies."

Then Janet spoke.

"And God in heaven bless you, my bonnie bairn, for those words; for you're the only one in this weary world that can save his life."

"No,--but," said Nannie, "if he really is going to live, you know,--I--a--"

Oh the inconsistency of women! A moment before, and she would have given all she possessed in the world for one glance of the loved face; now, because he was going to live,--oh, dear!

But Janet hastened to tell her all the story,--how in his wild delirium he had spoke of no one, raved of no one, save her; and now that the fever had subsided and left him weak as a baby, how he always led the subject on to Nannie, his early love, their rambles in the pine-forest, and his cruel desertion of her, and how he always wound up with the melancholy reflection, that he knew poor Nannie would forgive him when she saw him being carried to his "lang hame."

And so well did Janet represent the whole matter and argue her case, that Nannie gave her consent to go along with her even then. And she laughed and cried at the same time, in quite a hysterical way, as she said,--

"Well, Mistress Fowler,--he! he! he!--you know best and--he! he!--if you really think it will do the poor man good, I'll go; and--but--oh! Mistress Fowler, I _must_ have a cry."

And she did.

And it really seemed to do her good; for she smiled quite calm and happy-like afterwards--the heightened flush in her cheeks making her look ten times prettier; and she was soon dressed and ready to march.

Just as she was going out, however, her countenance fell, and,--

"Oh! Mistress Fowler, my poor cat," cried Nannie.

"Your cat?" said Janet.

"Aye, woman, my cat," replied Nannie; "come and see the poor darling. Somehow or other it got dreadfully burnt, about three weeks ago, and it isn't better yet; come and see."

"That a cat!" said Janet with uplifted hands and eyes; "dearie me! dearie me!"

In good sooth it might have been taken for a kangaroo, or anything else you liked. There wasn't a hair on its whole body; and although the wounds and scars were healed, it was still in a state of prostration and debility. It purred kindly, however, when its mistress gently stroked it, showing how fully it appreciated her kindness. * * *

"You'll even take the poor thing wi' you, Nannie," said old Janet.

"Three whole hours," said the miller to himself as he lay in bed and looked up at the old-fashioned eight-day clock, whose melancholy ticking had been his only solace since Janet left,--"three whole hours, and she promised she would be back in one." Presently big flakes of snow began to fall slowly ground-wards, and the poor man's spirits seemed to fall along with them. It was so gloomy being all alone in the still house; the very fire had forsaken him; and he shivered as he gazed out into the fast closing winter's day. He remembered how different had been his feelings one evening, long, long ago, when he had stood with her by his side, looking upwards through the maze of snow-flakes,--how they had crept closer together from the cold, and sworn to be for ever near each other. Ah, that lost love! He was sure he was dying, even now; and how dreadful he thought it was to die all alone. He wondered if _she_ would feel sorry, when she heard of his death. And then he slept--a nasty fitful starting sleep, with painful racking dreams; now he was climbing interminable precipices, every moment ready to fall; now he was walking over long trackless moors that would never, never have an end; and now he was toiling at the mill with wheels, wheels all around him, and horrid shapes with brown skinny arms, that tried to clutch and pull him down among the dark grinding machinery; then he screamed, or tried to scream, and at once his dream took another form. He seemed to be lying in his own room, and could hear the ticking of the old clock; but it was no longer dark and dismal, the blinds were drawn, the lamp was lit, a cheerful fire burned on the clean-swept hearth, and the kettle sang on the hob, and--ah, blissful vision! there, beside the bed, sat Nannie,--his Nannie, as he had seen her years and years ago; a bright blush was on her cheek, and her bonnie eyes were bent on his face with so sad a look. The miller held his breath, lest the vision should vanish into darkness.

"Oh! oh!" cried poor Nannie, "he doesn't know me, he doesn't know me;" and she hid her face on his breast and sobbed aloud. _Now_ he knew it was no dream. He stretched out his arms, but it had all come so suddenly, everything seemed to swim before his eyes, and his head sank like lead on the pillow. He had fainted.

When he opened his eyes again, it was only to meet once more Nannie's loving anxious gaze; he could only smile as he pressed her hand, and fell into a sleep, sweeter than he had slept since childhood.

Well may the poet call sleep "Nature's sweet restorer." But there is something more important than even sleep itself, and without which, refreshing sleep can never come--happiness and contentment. Psychics, or mental treatment, is not now overlooked by medical men as it used to be; and if ever the philosopher's stone, or the secret of making men immortal, be found, it will be through this science.

It was far into the middle of next day, before the miller awoke. He felt a sensation of happiness at his heart even before he opened his eyes, or remembered the cause. The cause indeed was just then busy getting ready his breakfast. It was a clear frosty day outside, with the sky ever so bright and blue, and the whole landscape white with dry powdery snow; and inside everything was as neat as new pins. How pretty and home-like Nannie looked, bustling about with her peachy cheeks and her nut-brown hair. It was quite refreshing to look at her,--at least so the miller thought; and he gave a big double-shuffle sigh, like what a child does when it is just finishing a good cry.

"Oh! you're awake, are you?" said Nannie, going to the bedside, and taking his hot hand between her cold little palms.

"I've been keeking at you from under the coverlit for mair than an hour," said the miller, honestly.

"And what made ye come, Nannie?"

"I heard you were dying, John."

"Oh! bless you, bless you, poor lassie; it is mair than kind,--it's what only an angel would do. But if ye knew what I've suffered a' these lang lang years,--"

"I do know, John; Janet has told me everything."

"And bye-gones are bye-gones; and I'm forgiven?"

"Bye-gones are bye-gones, John; and you're forgiven."

"Nannie," said the miller, emphatically, "that wee deevilock (imp) that lap oot at me through the kiln-fire was a saint, I'll be sworn."

"It's here," said Nannie.

"Eh?" said John, somewhat nervously.

"Here," continued Nannie; and she held up the cat which had been sleeping cosily at the miller's feet all the night.

"Dear me! dear me!" said the invalid. "Well, well; and the deevilock was a cat--your cat--after all. Well, Nannie, it's no bonnie; but, Lord bless it, give me it, till I take it into my bosom."

Pussy, purring, was duly deposited under the bed-clothes; and then Nannie enjoined her patient not to talk any more. "But," she added, "you do feel better; don't you?"

"Better! Nannie," quo' John; "if I had any mortal thing on besides my sark, I would rise this vera minute, and dance the reel o' Bogie."

It was a treat to John to see Nannie infusing the tea in Janet's best brown-stone,--it was a treat to see her kneeling there, making the toast and then putting on the butter, and crushing the hard edges with the knife, and seaming it across and across, that the butter might find its way to the interior; and it was a treat to see the way she placed the little table at his pillow-side, and spread a clean white towel over the tray, that held the plates for the toast, and the pot with the fragrant tea. But when she placed her own cup on the same tray, and sat down beside him, John was indeed a happy man; and scarcely a mouthful could he swallow for looking at her, although she had cut the tender juicy steak into the most tempting tiny morsels that ever were seen.

Now although the miller began to revive, from the very day that Nannie first became his gentle nurse, still he had a hard tussle for his life; and the winter's snow had melted, the ploughed fields--dotted here and there with sacks of golden grain--were changing from black to brown in the spring sunshine, ere, leaning on Nannie's arm, he could take even a short walk. It was wonderful, though, the amount of good even that first little outing did him. It seemed to put new life into his veins, to see the buds coming out on the trees, the grass turning green, and the sturdy farmers busy scattering the corn, with the reverend-looking rooks in swallowtail coats, religiously following at their heels. Oh! bless you, it was the worms, not the grain, they were gobbling up. To the upper moorland the peewits had returned, and the curlew was mingling his shrill scream with their laughing voices; and of course there was the lark up yonder in heaven's blue, all a-quiver with song, and ever and anon cocking his head, and giving another look down, to see if that hussy of a hen of his--who couldn't sing a stave to save her life--was duly appreciating his efforts to amuse her. Well, then, if I tell you that the soft spring-wind was blowing balmily from the south-west,--as properly educated spring-winds always ought to, and do blow,--you will not marvel that, when the miller at last sought the house, there was a brighter look in his eye, and that the roses of returning health had already begun to bud on his cheeks. Old Janet met him in the door, and noted this.

"Ay, my lad," she said, with a cheery nod, "you'll live yet awhile."

That same evening Janet beckoned Nannie into her own room, and having closed the door,--

"Now," she said, "my dear lassie, I'm just going to tell you, you've done your duty like a Christian. Wi' the blessing of God ye hae saved John's life."

"You think he is really out of danger, then?" asked Nannie, anxiously.

"He'll be in danger lang eno', if you bide ony mair wi' him," answered Janet, with Scottish bluntness.

"Ye'll even gang home the morn, my lass, and I'll make John himsel' come over and thank you for a' you've done for him, as soon as he can walk as far; and mark my words, he won't let that be lang."

So next morning Nannie took her departure, back to her little farm in the pine forest. But pussy had no such intention. She had quite recovered the effects of her late incineration; and had got a complete new coat of the silkiest fur. Besides, she had taken quite a fancy to the miller,--for here again cats are like women: allow them to nurse and attend you when ill, and they are sure to love you. There were water-rats to catch in the dam, mice in the mill, and plenty of trout in the mill-lead, and this cat was madly fond of sport,--so she stayed.

Nannie was right about the miller's recovery. Every day he extended his walk a little farther, and by-and-by was quite able to superintend matters at the mill.

Well, one fine morning, when the country-side was busy laying down the turnips, John, dressed in his best, with a smart cane in his hand,--for the day was to be big with his fate,--took the road and shaped his course for Nannie's farm. Mind you, all the time that Nannie was nursing him, John never breathed a word of his love for her or his hopes for the future,--he was much too honourable to take so unfair an advantage.

Nannie was busy in her little garden; and either the pleasure of meeting the miller, or the excitement of labour had flushed her cheeks, and made her look very pretty indeed.

"I just came over to help you with the garden a bit," said John,--the hypocrite! "for thanks to you, Nannie, I'm just as strong as a young colt."

So they worked in the garden most industriously all day, just like a second edition of Adam and Eve; and at sunset Nannie set out to convoy the miller through the pine wood. Now, although they had both been chattering all day like a couple of magpies, neither now had a word to say. Nevertheless they took the path as if by instinct, that led down into the hazel-copse that overlooked the wimpling Don. There were yellow primroses growing here, and wild sorrel, and a mossy bank; and on this our lovers sat.

"Ah!" said John, "it does seem strange, but this is the very spot where we parted years ago,--and in anger, dear lassie."

Nannie was silent.

"You'll marry me now; won't you?" continued John.

A soft warm hand placed in his, was the reply; a wee mouth held up to kiss, and a face all wet with tears. What little fools women are, to be sure!

In the first harvest-moon the miller and she were married. There was a wedding-breakfast, a wedding-dinner, ay, and a wedding-ball. To this latter came all the flower of the country; it was held in the old mill, and began as early as six in the evening. Never before in the country-side had such a rant been seen or heard tell of. There were three small fiddles and a blind bass, besides a clarionet and a squinting fifer;--what do you think of that for music? And there were four-and-twenty "sweetie wives"[7] round the door, with baskets full to the brim; and they were all _sold out before morning_,--think of that. Now the English reader has little notion how important a personage a "sweetie-wife" is at a country ball. The "sweeties" are made up in little ornamented sixpenny bags, and to these a young man treats his partner after a dance; so you may tell how any girl is appreciated by the number of bags of sweeties in her possession. Highest of all is the belle of the ball herself,--a lovely and stately girl, who will only dance with men with beards, and who has so many bags that her pockets will hold no more; so she keeps dealing them out with a queenly hand, to her plainer and less fair friends. Then there are stars of lesser magnitude, with enough but none to spare; and minor constellations, with perhaps a dozen bags; and there are ten-bag beauties, and seven-bag beauties, and five-bag beauties, three-bag beauties, and beauties with never a bag at all, who have only been thought worthy of getting their sweeties in loose handfuls.

Ay, that was a ball. The miller had given orders that the lads and lasses should "dance the day-light in," and that not even a "sweetie-wife" should go home sober. Then, hey! how the fiddlers played! Hey! how the dancers danced! and hey! how the sweeties flew!

And when, during a lull, the miller himself and his pretty wife came in to dance one reel, just for fashion sake,--oh, dear! wasn't the floor quickly filled? The fiddlers played as they hadn't played yet; and the way the old blind bass screwed his mouth, and turned up the whites of his eyes was a caution to see. The tune was that rattling old Scotch strathspey, "The Miller of Drone"; and you should just have heard the cracking of thumbs and the hooch-!-ing,--if you had had a single drop of Scottish blood, twelve generations removed, you would have been on your pins at once. But when they came to the reel, the hoochs! were fired off like pistol shots, till they ended in one jubilant hurrah!! and the rafters rang as the music stopped. Then steaming whiskey punch was handed round in bumpers from buckets, and all drank the miller's health, and the miller's wife's health, and long life and happiness, and three times three, with Highland honours. Then the miller and his bride drove off,--in a real carriage and pair, mind you; with wedding-favours on the horses' heads, and tassels at their ears, oh! none of your half-and-half affairs; and eight-and-forty old shoes from four-and-twenty old sweetie wives, came whistling after them, as they rattled round the corner and were lost to view.

I am in a position to state, that John and his Nannie spent a most happy honeymoon in the Highlands of their native land, in that most pleasant of all seasons when the bloom still lingers on the heather and the autumn tints are on the trees.

Years have fled since then, but the old mill-wheel goes merrily round as in the days of yore; and Nannie and John are still alive, and likely to live for many a long year. And when the miller returns from his labour of an evening to his home in the pine-wood, there are a clean fireside and a singing kettle to welcome him; and better still, a little curly-haired boy with his mother's eyes, and a wee baby-girl with its father's dimples and its mother's smile. Pussy is getting old, but in the long fore-nights of winter she loves to play with the little ones on the rug, or lull them to sleep with her drowsy purr; but, when "summer days are fine," she will follow them far a-field, and the children gather gowans on the leas and string them into garlands to hang around her neck; and at sundown, pussy, they think, must be very tired; the good-natured cat humours the bairnies' fancy, and pretends to be nothing short of dead-beat, and so they carry pussy home.

ADDENDA.

NOTE A.

I deem it fair both to myself and to the reader, to supplement my own evidence on the "Curiosities of Cat Life," by giving the names and addresses of my authorities for those of my anecdotes, which may seem to run contrary to the generally received opinions, concerning cats; at the same time thanking those ladies and gentlemen, who have taken so much interest in the progress of this work, and expressed themselves willing to vouch for the truth of the incidents herein related by me. I have tried to make the anecdotes as readable as possible, and as humorous, as I know many people think "cats" a dry subject; _but in no single instance have the interests of truth been disregarded_. My anecdotes are what might be called sample anecdotes, as I have many hundreds more of the same sort, my object being to describe _pussy as she really is_, and thus, to gain favour for an animal hitherto understood only by the few, and abused by the many. And, nothing would give me greater pain, than the reader to have an idea, that my cats are exceptional cats; for, I distinctly aver, that _no cat mentioned in this book, has either done or suffered anything, which any other cat in the kingdom cannot do or suffer_.

INDEX OF NAMES AND ADDRESSES.

Anderson, Alex., Mr., New Fowlis, Crieff, N.B.

Anderson, Jane, Miss, Old Meldrum, Aberdeenshire.

Bird, Miss, Snowdon Place, Stirling.

Bonnar, T., Mr., Largoward, St. Andrews.

Budge, W., Mr., 113, Montrose Street, Brechin.

Burns, D., Mr., 19, Murray Road East, Finsbury Park, London.

Catto, W. D., Ed. of "People's Journal," Dundee.

Church, W., Mrs., 5, Regent's Park, Heavitree, Essex.

Cockerell, Misses, 41, Warwick Street, London.

Crerar, Peter, Mr., Buchan's Buildings, Burrell Street, Crief, N.B.

Cresswell, Frances, Miss, Early Wood, Bagshot, Surrey.

Catto, Edward, Mr., 17, Mortimer Street, Dundee.

Davis, Mr., Aberdare, South Wales.

Donald, John, Mr., 54, Plantation Street, Glasgow.

Dorwood, David, Mr., Kinettles, Forfarshire.

Douglas, T. S., Mr., Park Street, Aberdeen.

Durno, Isa, Miss, Floors, Auchterless, N.B.

Ford, R., Mr., 32, Princess Street, Dundee.

Forshall, F. M., Miss, 14, Park Place, Clarence Gate, London.

Gerrard, Samuel, Mr., New Aberdour, Fraserburgh, N.B.

Gillespie, James, Mr., Ardean, by Dollar, N.B.

Geekie, G., Mr., 18, Mitchell Square, Blairgowrie, Perth.

Gordon, Miss, Camden House, Aberdeen.

Gordon, Mrs., 41, Grieve Street, Dunfermline, N.B.

Grant, Archibald, Mr., New Dupplis, Elgin.

Gray, T., Mr., Park Street, Galashiels.

Grey, P., Mr., Durris, by Aberdeen.

Hutcheson, James, Mr., 22, Temple Lane, Dundee.

Howie, David, Mr., Inverleithen, Peebleshire.

Leitch, David, 31, Bonnygate, Cupar Fife, N.B.

Lynch, Miss, Arduthie, Stonehaven, N.B.

Mackie, A., Mr., 12, Lower James Street, Sheerness.

Macdonald, Mrs., Post Office, Lasswade, N.B.

McCorkle, R., Miss, Newhouse, Stirling.

McLean, John, Mr., Orbliston, Fochabers, N.B.

McKenzie, Mrs., Dornoch, N.B.

McPherson, Colin, Mr., Viewbank Terrace, Dundee.

Miller, Francis, Mr., 17, Sutherland Street, Helensburgh.

Millar, D., Mr., The Cross, Linlithgow.

Mitchell, J., Mr., Matthew's Land, Strathmartine, by Dundee.

Morseley, C. A., Miss, 8, Ludeley Place, Brighton.

Mowat, M., Mr., Berriedale, Caithness.

Oliver, A., Miss, Bovinger Rectory, Ongar, Essex.

Paterson, J., Mr., Carnbo, Kinross.

Pettigrew, Miss, Post Office, Auchterarder, N.B.

Pratt, W., Mr., 143, Norwich Road, Ipswich.

Robinson, W. J., Ballycassidy, _viâ_ Omagh, Ireland.

Rebecca, Mr., Rubislaw, near Aberdeen.

Sibbald, Peter, Mr., 5, Brougham Place, Hawick.

Smith, J., Mr., 79, Princess Street, Dundee.

Stoddart, D., Mr., 92, Rose Street, Edinburgh.

Suter, Miss, Balne Vicarage, Selby.

Swanson, J., Mr., Durness Street, Thurso.

Taylor, W., Mr., Merchant, Cuminstone, by Turriff, N.B.

Tyndal, T. G., Mr., Schoolmaster, Portleithen, Hillside, Aberdeen.

Wallace, Mrs., E. U. Manse, Coupar Angus.

Watson, J., Mr., High Street, Alva, Stirlingshire.

Whiteley, Mr., Baggholme Road, Lincoln.

Whyte, J., Mr., Dallfied Terrace, Dundee.

Wilson, G., Mrs., Cults, near Aberdeen.

NOTE B.

Anecdotes of "Jenny," and "the cat, kitten, and mice,"--from Mrs. McDonald. The cat with two homes,--Mr. J. McLean. The cat that eats its mother's kittens, lives at an hotel adjoining the railway station, Keighley, Yorkshire. The cat ringing the bell,--Miss McCorkle.

NOTE C.

The cat that went to the harvest-field with mistress and child,--Mrs.--Kintore, Aberdeen. Anecdotes of tabby and child,--Miss Durno. Cat saving the life of the sick child,--Mrs. G. Wilson.

NOTE D.

"Pussy Poll,"--by Mr. Budge.

NOTE E.

Anecdote of woman going to harvest,--Mr. Samuel Gerrard. Sagacity of the shopkeeper's cat,--Mrs. Gordon. Cat and starling's nest,--Mrs. Wilson. Cat baiting mouse's hole,--Mr. Rebecca. Cat taking a Fenian's revenge,--Mr. Robinson. Cats mysteriously disappearing: first anecdote,--Mr. D. Miller; second ditto,--Mrs. Gordon.

NOTE F.

"The cat that kept the Sabbath,"--from incidents related by Mr. Whyte. Mrs. Gordon and Mr. Swanson also know of almost similar instances.

NOTE G.

Cat and the tame mavis,--Mr. P. Gray. The merchant's honest cat,--Mr. Taylor. Cat bringing home a live canary,--Mr. Watson.

NOTE H.

"Ploughman's Mysie,"--from incidents related by Mr. Watson, etc.

NOTE I.

Cat and pigeon loft,--this occurred in Dundee. Cat and school-boy,--Mr. A. Grant. Buried cats,--Mrs. G. Wilson. Tom the cat, and Archie,--Mr. Taylor.

NOTE J.

Cat travelling to Wales after her master,--Mr. Whiteley. Mr. Davis possesses a cat that travelled from Pembroke to Aberdare, over fifty miles.

NOTE K.

Cat and pickled herring,--Mrs. Gordon. Cat and "bonnie fishwife,"--Mr. D. Miller. The cat that _was_ a thief,--from incidents related by Mr. Smith.

NOTE L.

Mary, the old maid, and her cat,--Mr. Taylor. Cats saving kittens' lives by swimming,--Miss Durno and Mr. Mitchell. "Ginger and Josie," these two cats are, I believe, still alive. They belong to Miss Anderson.

NOTE M.

Miller's cat,--Mr. Philip. Cat that kept watch with its master at sea,--Mrs. Church. Cat's love for the boy that caused its death,--Miss Lynch. Fiddler's cat, that died on his grave,--Mr. Crerar.

NOTE N.

The anecdotes of cats fishing, both in shallow water and in deep, can be testified to by Mrs. Gordon, Mr. P. Sibbald, Mr. Philip, and Mr. Paterson, etc.; Cats teaching their kittens to fish, by Mrs. Gordon and Mr. Taylor. Cat catching eels,--Mr. T. Gray. Water-rats,--Mr. T. Gray.

NOTE O.

The sketch of the starling in this tale is taken from life.

NOTE P.

Anecdote of Pirnie,--Mr. Watson. Graysie and the weasel,--Miss Durno. Cat killing twenty rats in a day,--Mr. Gerrard. Anecdote of poor farmer and the rabbits,--Mr. Gerrard. Cat and the fox,--Mr. A. Grant.

NOTE Q.

The further adventures of this famous cat, Gibbey, will be found in the second volume, in the tale entitled "The Two Muffies."

NOTE R.

Cats rearing dogs--this is a very common occurrence,--Mr. Stoddart and Mr. Watson. Cat rearing a hare--this is likewise not unusual. The late Mr. J. Duncan, Wolfhill Village, Perthshire, had a cat that was in the constant habit of killing and bringing home rabbits as large as herself. Still, when once upon a time all her kittens were drowned, she went and brought home two young rabbits, which she suckled and reared to maturity, and defended from dogs and cats and all comers. "It was especially observed," says Mr. Ford, "that she never brought them mice and birds, as she always used to do with her kittens."

Nursing squirrels. Every one has seen this, doubtless.

Nursing chickens. I confess I was surprised when I first heard of this habit in some cats, as related to me by Miss Gillespie; but since then the matter has been placed beyond a doubt by dozens of witnesses.

Nursing hedgehogs,--Mr. Paterson.

Nursing rats,--Miss C. A. Morseley.

NOTE S.

Anecdote of Tom and Tabby,--Mrs. McDonald. Anecdote of the Czar and Whiskey,--Mr. Taylor. Pussy and the hare,--a true account of the latter years of a very remarkable cat and her no less remarkable bosom companion. I could conduct the reader now to a certain family, where a cat, a dog, and a rabbit nightly sleep together on the hearth-rug.

"Pussy and the hare,"--from incidents related by Mr. Tyndal.

NOTE T.

"The Miller's Friend." This is a tale based on fact. The cat mentioned in the story was _twice_ nearly burned alive in the kiln. It was strange, that although she took up her abode for a time at the mill, she went home to have her kittens. When the different members of her family could provide for themselves, she went back. She was very expert at fishing and catching water-rats. For the incidents of the story I am indebted to Mr. Philip.

The following anecdote was kindly sent me by Mr. Catto, of _The People's Journal_:--

CURIOUS STORY OF A MONTROSE CAT.--About five o'clock on Friday morning the loud "walin" of a cat was heard at a door in Castle Street, Montrose. "Mither," exclaimed Johnny to his parent, "that's Tammie at the door." "Na, na," said his mother, "it canna' be him, for I threw him ower the brig and drooned him a fortnight since." Nevertheless, the "wals" became more loud and frequent. The good woman became terrified, and cried out, "Oh, dinna' lat him in, Johnny; it's his ghost!" Notwithstanding the terrific appearance of the cat, which all who have seen agree in acknowledging as something indescribably horrible, Johnny rose, cautiously approached the door, and with bated breath whispered through the keyhole, "Is that you, Tammie?" Three mild responsive "wals" were given. Thus encouraged, Johnny opened the door, and in trotted Tammie hearty and hale. How he escaped from the strong ebb tide that was ruthlessly sweeping him away in the dread darkness of the night, is a mystery which he has not yet told. Perhaps he is reserving it for future publication. The narrative will be deeply affecting, and on its appearance we shall not hesitate to give copious extracts from it. "Tammie" is not to be drowned again, and his mistress thus explains why she made the attempt:--"Weel, ye see, it's the auld story. Tammie is gey good lookin' and had ower mony lasses rinnin' after him; and them and him made sic a disturbance upon the stair that I was determined to get rid o' him."

END OF VOL. I.

CATS.