The Cat Is Domestic Only

And The Vagueness Of His Alarm Added To Its Terrors; When Once You Have Taken The Impossible Into Your Calculations Its Possibilities Become Practically Limitless.

I Love Americans, But Not When They Try To Talk French. What A Blessing It Is That They Never Try To Talk English.

The Cook Was A Good Cook, As Cooks Go; And As Cooks Go, She Went.

There Was Something Alike Terrifying And Piteous In The Spectacle Of These Frail Old Morsels Of Humanity Consecrating Their Last Flickering Energies To The Task Of Making Each Other Wretched. Hatred Seemed To Be The One Faculty Which Had Survived In Undiminished Vigor Where All Else Was Dropping Into Ordered And Symmetrical Decay.

The Cat Of The Slums And Alleys, Starved, Outcast, Harried, Still Keeps Amid The Prowlings Of Its Adversity The Bold, Free, Panther-tread With Which It Paced Of Yore The Temple Courts Of Thebes, Still Displays The Self-reliant Watchfulness Which Man Has Never Taught It To Lay Aside.