“ And the heroes ran forward and hurried through the wood, among the dark stems of the mighty beeches, guided by the gleam of the Golden Fleece, until they saw it hanging on one vast tree in the midst.”

THE GOLDEN FLEECE here gave a sort of croon, which was neither a mew nor a purr, and rubbed an enthusiastic red head against the nearest branch. "I wish," I said, critically regarding this pleasant prospect with some discontent, "I wish that you would make up your mind what you mean to be. Are you the Cheshire Cat?” — the Fleece crooned again and grinned down upon me "or are you an illustration from Kingsley's ' Heroes,' or are you merely a clown? I incline to the clown." The Fleece is talked Barbarossa the Third when he goes to the Crystal Palace Cat Show. He is a red Persian, his father was a red Persian, his grandfather was a red Persian. Further back, into the mists of antiquity we do not go. But for the fact that the Original Golden Fleece was worn by a ram, I am convinced that it might have belonged to this red thing's very great grandfather. But perhaps lam prejudiced. Anyhow, Barbarossa the Third is a very great gentleman, whether f had a very great grandfather or no.

He is indubitably indisputably red, though he has not got a beard! For this reason, he is known in private life as Rossa, and sometimes, in consequence (to the frivolous), as O'Donovan for short. The butcher's boy calls him "Ginger," the grocer's boy calls him "Carrots." Boys of that class call anything that is auburn Ginger or Carrots; they do not seem to be able to help it. I wish sometimes that the Golden Fleece were the colour of ginger—that beautiful, deep, dark, old-honey hue, where the ginger happens to be preserved. I wish sometimes he were not the colour of a carrot, but he is — the warm, bright , scarlet-tinged red of the spring carrot, freshly torn from its native soil. I ask visitors always if he is not exactly like a new sovereign. Sometimes they agree. Sometimes they suggest something else, a little less artistic. But only the grocer's buy has stooped to realism — and carrots.

The Golden Fleece is up in the beech tree, under which I am swinging in my hammock, reading "The Heroes." He does not like the hammock, because his paws go through the meshes whenever he attempts to get in or out, and I shrewdly suspect that he is not quite happy when I swing. But there is the tree, the great, bold, smooth-stemmed beech, with its broad-spread boughs and its glorious outlook. (Also there is the empty wren's nest, which the Golden Fleece mercifully postponed discovering until too late to affect the wren.) So I lie in my hammock, and my big red cat clambers about overhead, and plays at being a squirrel and a puma, and a flying fox, and all sorts of beasts, red and otherwise, that are given to tree tops, and poses in all sorts of ridiculous ways for my benefit. Tell a cat that it is vain, and the cat will be scornfully contemptuous; but it is the painful truth. The Golden Fleece in vanity incarnate!

He is a born poseur. I aml so glad, for be does it exquisitely. This afternoon —directly after lunch, too, when all dignified people and cats might be allowed forty winks on such a blazing day, and I had got into the hammock for that express purpose — he must needs fly to the upper branches and dance the tight-rope there for my benefit. It, was a lovely sight, but, it banished my desire to "wink forty times" (the last thing in the world one would dream of doing in one's sleep). I suffered from apprehension, to say nothing of fragments of bark in my eye, as he "showed off" directly over my head, some thirty feet in air, gleaming ruddy in the brilliant sunlight that flickered through the bronze leaves. Now he is tired, and has come down. Suddenly, abruptly, with desperate scratchings of tiger claws, fairy-like leaps from branch to branch, and great flourishing of that superb golden tail — down which it is my daily pride to make a parting, when I do his hair — and has established himself , flat upon his waistcoat, on the big, low bough from which the hammock is suspended.

He is a talkative cat. Call him, and he calls back, as he, hurries up ("like a dog," say those whose cats have not learnt obedience), his magnificent coat flopping as he trots, his cold, shell-pink nose ready to thrust into my hand or up my sleeve. I have knownhim dart across the lawn and spring upon me in my chair, to snuggle that great square silken head against my cheek with a loud, roaring purr — he has a purr like a lion — and eager claws spreading and contracting joyfully among my laces. It is not nice for the lace, but it is so nice for me, adoring cat-lover that I am. Who could help adoring the Golden Fleece and his ardent "forthcomingness?”

Presently, when they- bring the tea-table out under the shadow of our beech tree, he will descend from his perch. He will come down the smooth, branchless trunk with three careful steps, a slide, and an avalanche rush, reminding me of the Irish banks that you "climb down nine feet and fall all the rest"; he will have a very greedy tea, and go to sleep on any knee as I sit in the deep basket-chair, purring loud and low, loud and low, like the cat that walked by himself, until the last murmur dies away and he is in the land of forty winks. His beautiful elastic length is stretched across my knees, his sides heave with his deep breathing, the masses of his fleece rise and fall, parting into soft creases, that tempt me to blow softly to see the pink skin beneath. His broad brush is spread limp and relaxed down my trailing white skirt, one foot, coral-padded, curved Ariadne-wise over his head, that suddenly, between sleeping and waking, turns over and nestles closer into my lap, with a long. happy sigh, revealing an adorable throat, that can he tickled gently, adding to the Fleece's bliss without disturbing his slumbers. Yesterday some unattractive people, with an execrable dog came to call. He is used to his own dogs, and loves them, but this was a yapping pariah of no education. The Fleece rose upon my lap “all of a piece," arched his back like a croquet hoop, made his tail into a muff, and "loomed very large" indeed. He did not hiss at the dog; he just Ireathed very hard in his throat, and the dog got under the tea-table (which was annoying, because there was not quite room).

It is the funniest sight in the world to watch him with the turtle. The turtle came from Covent Garden, about the size of a five-shilling piece, and has since "grown out of all knowledge." He is much more interesting than a tortoise; he has a lovely, dark, semi-opaque shell (carapace, that is the word!), the colour of New Zealand greenstone, and a long tail like a rat. Its winter he and the Fleece sit on the hearthrug and enjoy the fire, the turtle burrowing into the warm ruff of that soft coat with obvious enjoyment. In summer he is sometimes brought out, and runs rapidly about the lawn. necessitating anchorage, and a long string, like the fly of Nelly Bly. The Fleece pretends to be a tiger, and that the bound turtle is his cowering victim, and only the fact that the sacrifice refuses to be alarmed, but insists on enjoying the fun, prevents a very realistically-acted arena scene of ancient Rome. The turtle is no relation of the immortal "Snapping Turtle in the region of the West," so I do not see how he could avenge a sly nip; but the Fleece is a gentleman.

Later, when the flying beetles come out, he darts about the darkened garden, catching, and, if not prevented, eating them, with horrid cracklings. Once he proudly brought an enormous chocolate cockshafer, or “tottly-buzz,” up to my bedroom, and laid it as a love-gift at my hurriedly retreating feet. Some day I know he he will catch something that will bite or sting him badly. There was an agonising moment connected with the largest centipede we had either of us ever seen. Oh, Golden Fleece, you are so charming, that I hope Fate's heart will always be soft towards you. Your misfortunes be upon my head, Golden Fleece!