Foreign News: The Bravest

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A Times obituary called her "a London stray," but a memorial plaque on the wall of the little Church of St. Augustine-with-St. Faith-under-St. Pau's-Cathedral, flanked by citations from two continents, testified that she was more than that. The plaque told of a night when Faith, a gentle grey and white cat, had "endured horrors and perils beyond the power of words to tell" and through them all "stayed calm and steadfast." Even the Times paid tribute to this heroine who "stuck, while the bombs fell, to her kitten."

There was a time some twelve years ago when Faith's only friend in all the world was Henry Ross, rector of St. Augustine's. Three times his own verger had turned away the cat that wandered unannounced from the turmoil of Watling Street to make her home in his church. At the fourth try the rector interceded. "The cat must stay," he said. "She has chosen our church, and she must remain." Faith took up residence in his rectory. Years of halcyon days followed when Faith would recline in proprietary ease in St. Augustine's carpeted pews, rubbing languorously against the ankles of parishioners dropping in for midday prayer. At services she would sit in quiet dignity at the rector's feet.*

In September 1940 Faith, who was rearing a kitten, grew restless and decided to leave her niche upstairs in the rectory and move to a downstairs recess used for storing music. Three days later German bombers roared over Whitechapel. "Roofs and masonry exploded," runs the legend on Faith's plaque, "the whole house blazed, four floors fell through in front of her. Fire and water all around . . ." Attracted by a glow in the sky, Rector Ross came hurrying back from a trip to Westminster. "The cat and kitten are both dead," said the firemen.

When the firemen turned their backs, Ross climbed to a parapet from which he could see Faith's recess. There, surrounded by smoldering ruins, sat Faith—serenely nursing her kitten* and "singing," said the rector, "such a song of praise and thanksgiving as I had never heard . . . ' '

That was Faith's story. In time her "steadfast courage in the Battle of Britain" was formally recognized by citations from London's People's Dispensary for Sick Animals and New York City's Greenwich Village Humane League, but Faith herself went right on being a simple church cat and mother. She still curled in dignity at the rector's feet as he conducted service in a makeshift chapel at the foot of the old church tower. Last week Rector Ross posted on the church tower a notice that "the bravest cat in the world"† was gone at last.