the cutting of cables, and that evening the youngest boy of the
house, a horrid little American with no proper appreciation of
royalty, was tying a tin to the blue-blooded one's tail,
doubtless in furtherance of some altruistic project, when Pussy
resented the liberty with a paw that wore five big fish-hooks for
the occasion. The howl of downtrodden America roused America's
mother. The deft and womanly blow that she aimed with her book
was miraculously avoided, and Pussy took flight, up-stairs, of
course. A hunted Rat runs down-stairs, a hunted Dog goes on the
level, a hunted Cat runs up. She hid in the garret, baffled
discovery, and waited till night came. Then, gliding down-stairs,
she tried each screen-door in turn, till she found one unlatched,
and escaped into the black August night. Pitch-black to man's
eyes, it was simply gray to her, and she glided through the
disgusting shrubbery and flower-beds, took a final nip at that
one little bush that had been an attractive spot in the garden,
and boldly took her back track of the spring.

How could she take a back track that she never saw? There is in
all animals some sense of direction. It is very low in man and
very high in Horses, but Cats have a large gift, and this
mysterious guide took her westward, not clearly and definitely,
but with a general impulse that was made definite simply because
the road was easy to travel. In an hour she had covered two miles
and reached the Hudson River. Her nose had told her many times
that the course was true. Smell after smell came back, just as a
man after walking a mile in a strange street may not recall a
single feature, but will remember, on seeing it again, "Why, yes,
I saw that before." So Kitty's main guide was the sense of
direction, but it was her nose that kept reassuring her, "Yes,