And sing duets with the tea-kettle

And sing duets with the tea-kettle

And sing duets with the tea-kettle

I never think, somehow, that a fireside has the same cheerful look of an evening unless there be a cat there, to sit on the footstool, and sing duets with the tea-kettle.

And I do not wonder at old women, whose friends have all long since gone before, and who have no one left to care for them, getting greatly attached to a faithful pussy; for people must have something to love.

“But, fancy loving a cat!” I think I hear some churl remark.

Yes, cynical reader, and I have, myself, before now, often shared my heart with stranger pets than cats; and I don’t mind betting you that what I have left of it is bigger than yours now.

Figuratively speaking, I think a man’s or a woman’s heart is like a blacksmith’s arm it grows with use.