to repose. The slightest noise disturbs and irritates her until she
discovers its cause. If she hears a footstep in the hall, she runs out
to see whose it is, and, like certain troublesome little people I have
known, she dearly loves to go to the front door every time the bell is
rung. From my window she surveys the street with tranquil scrutiny, and
if the boys are playing below, she follows their games with a steady,
scornful stare, very different from the wistful eagerness of a friendly
dog, quivering to join in the sport. Sometimes the boys catch sight of
her, and shout up rudely at her window; and I can never sufficiently
admire Agrippina's conduct upon these trying occasions, the well-bred
composure with which she affects neither to see nor to hear them, nor to
be aware that there are such objectionable creatures as children in the
world. Sometimes, too, the terrier that lives next door comes out to sun
himself in the street, and, beholding my cat sitting well out of reach,
he dances madly up and down the pavement, barking with all his might,
and rearing himself on his short legs, in a futile attempt to dislodge
her. Then the spirit of evil enters Agrippina's little heart. The window
is open and she creeps to the extreme edge of the stone sill, stretches
herself at full length, peers down smilingly at the frenzied dog,
dangles one paw enticingly in the air, and exerts herself with quiet
malice to drive him to desperation. Her sense of humor is awakened by
his frantic efforts and by her own absolute security; and not until he
is spent with exertion, and lies panting and exhausted on the bricks,
does she arch her graceful back, stretch her limbs lazily in the sun,
and with one light bound spring from the window to my desk."

And what more delightful word did ever Miss Repplier write than her
description of a kitten? It, she says, "is the most irresistible
comedian in the world. Its wide-open eyes gleam with wonder and mirth.
It darts madly at nothing at all, and then, as though suddenly checked