No human being could have told, sitting in a closed room in
winter, two flights up, the identity of a person coming up the steps and
opening the door. But the Pretty Lady, then only six months old, used to
rouse from her nap in a big chair, or from the top of a folding bed,
jump down, and be at the hall door ready to greet the incomer, before
she was halfway up the stairs. The cat never got down for the wrong
person, and she never neglected to meet any and every member of our
family who might be entering. The irreverent scoffer may call it
"instinct," or talk about the "sense of smell." I call it sagacity.
One summer we all went up to the farm in northern Vermont, and decided
to take her and her son, "Mr. McGinty," with us. We put them both in a
large market-basket and tied the cover securely. On the train Mr.
McGinty manifested a desire to get out, and was allowed to do so, a
stout cord having been secured to his collar first, and the other end
tied to the car seat. He had a delightful journey, once used to the
noise and motion of the train. He sat on our laps, curled up on the seat
and took naps, or looked out of the windows with evident puzzlement at
the way things had suddenly taken to flying; he even made friends with
the passengers, and in general amused himself as any other traveller
would on an all-day's journey by rail, except that he did not risk his
eyesight by reading newspapers.
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