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Snowbell, the cat, enjoyed nighttime more than daytime. Perhaps it was because his eyes liked the dark. But I think it was because there are always so many worth-while things going on in New York at night.

Snowbell had several friends in the neighborhood. Some of them were house cats, others were store cats. He knew a Maltese cat in the A & P, a white Persian in the apartment house next door, a tortoise-shell in the delicatessen, a tiger cat in the basement of the branch library, and a beautiful young Angora who had escaped from a cage in a pet shop on Third Avenue and had gone to live a free life of her own in the tool house of the small park near Stuart's home.

One fine spring evening Snowbell had been calling on the Angora in the park. He started home, late, and it was such a lovely night she said she would walk along with him to keep him company. When they got to Mr. Little's house, the two cats sat down at the foot of a tall vine which ran up the side of the house past George's bedroom. This vine was useful to Snowbell, because he could climb it at night and crawl into the house through George's open window. Snowbell began telling his friend about Margalo and Stuart.

"Goodness," said the Angora cat, "you mean to say you live in the same house with a bird and a mouse and don't do anything about it?"

"Well," said Snowbell's friend, "all I can say is, you've got more self-control than I have."

"Look here," he heard the Angora cat say to Snowbell, "I admit that a cat has a duty toward her own people, and that under the circumstances it would be wrong for you to eat Margalo. But I'm not a member of your family and there is nothing to stop me from eating her, is there?"

"Doubtless," said Snowbell. "However, I sometimes think I've got too much self-control for my own good. I've been terribly nervous and upset lately, and I think it's because I'm always holding myself in."

The cats' voices grew louder, and they talked so loudly that they never heard a slight rustling in the vine a few feet above their heads. It was a gray pigeon, who had been asleep there and who had awakened at the sound of cats and begun to listen. "This sounds like an interesting conversation," said the pigeon to himself. "Maybe I'd better stay around and see if I can learn something."

"That's the situation," replied Snowbell. "But what can I do about it? Please remember that Stuart is a member of the family, and the bird is a permanent guest, like myself."

"Nothing that I can think of offhand," said Snowbell.

"Then here I go," said the Angora, starting up the vine. The pigeon was wide awake by this time, ready to fly away; but the voices down below continued.

"I won't get into any trouble," said the Angora.

"Please wait till tomorrow night," said Snowbell, firmly. "Mr. and Mrs. Little will be going out tomorrow night, and you won't be taking such a risk. It's for your own good I'm suggesting this."

"Why not?" asked the other cat.

"Well, for one thing, you're not supposed to enter our house. It's unlawful entry, and you might get into trouble."

"Oh, all right," agreed the Angora. "I guess I can wait. But tell me where I'll find the bird, after I do get in."

"Wait a minute," said Snowbell, "don't be in such a hurry. I don't think you'd better go in there tonight."

"That's simple," said Snowbell. "Climb this vine, enter George's room through the open window, then go downstairs and you'll find the bird asleep in the Boston fern on the bookcase."

"Easy enough," said the Angora, licking her chops. "I'm obliged to you, sir."

Finally, just before dark, she hopped up to an open window and without saying anything to anybody she flew away. It was springtime, and she flew north, just as fast as she could fly, because something inside her told her that north was the way for a bird to go when spring comes to the land.

Next morning Margalo found a note on the branch of her fern when she woke. It said: BEWARE OF A STRANGE CAT WHO WILL COME BY NIGHT. It was signed A WELL WISHER. She kept the note under her wing all day long, wondering what she had better do, but she didn't dare show it to anyone -- not even to Stuart. She couldn't eat, she was so frightened.

"What had I better do?" she kept saying to herself.

"Well, the old thing!" whispered the pigeon to himself, and he flew away quickly to find a piece of writing paper and a pencil. Snowbell said goodnight to his friend and climbed up the vine and went in to bed.