I Do Not Exactly Remember At What

My Emotions Lose Their Force When I Endeavor To Interpret Them, And My Words Seem Very Inept.

Cats Are Possessed Of A Shy, Retiring Nature, Cajoling, Haughty, And Capricious, Difficult To Fathom. They Reveal Themselves Only To Certain Favored Individuals, And Are Repelled By The Faintest Suggestion Of Insult Or Even By The Most Trifling Deception.

I Recall Feeling An Almost Delicious Terror When One Day I Found Myself Alone In The Midst Of Tall June Grasses That Grew High As My Head. But Here The Secret Working Of Self Consciousness Is Almost Too Entangled With The Things Of The Past For Me To Explain It.

My Books Were Always Full Of Ink Blots, Always Stained And Covered With Smeared Sketches And Pictures, Which One Draws Idly When His Attention Wanders From His Task.

Often, Before Returning Home, I Would Take A Long And Roundabout Way And Pass By The Peaceful Ramparts From Where I Had Glimpses Of Other Provinces, And A Sight Of The Distant Country.