... Then, if I don't betray my
hiding-place by an irrepressible quavering, frightening them away in one
great commotion of wings and rustling branches!... But no, I'm master of
myself. One bound at exactly the right moment and my feeble prey is
panting under me. Oh, the ridiculous effort of a weak animal--its tiny
ineffectual claws and pointed wings beating against my face! My jaws
will open to the splitting point and my perfect nose wrinkle
ferociously, for the joy of holding a living, terrified body. I'll know
the intoxication of battle! I'll prance victoriously, shaking my head to
torment the bird a little, for it faints away too soon between my teeth!
Terrible to see I'll gallop towards the house, singing in a strangled
voice, without loosening my grip, for He must stop his scratching to
admire me, and She must give chase with distracted cries: "Wicked,
savage cat! Drop that bird! drop that bird!! Oh, I beg of you! It hurts
me so...." Ha! She never can have hunted....
I intend to astonish the world, Fire, during Winter's reign. The Cat
that lives at the farm (She says the farmer's cat, while we say the
Cat's farmer), the fellow that's so badly dressed, disfigured by the
nose of a weasel, and seems to walk on stilts, his legs are so
long--well, he sharpens his claws and regards me the while.
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