June 13.

Papa came up late last night with a supply of the latest periodicals, weekly journals, etc., and my pet squirrels in a new and spacious cage.  These little creatures were presents to me this spring, and are very pretty, and partially tame.  I remember, however, one escapade of theirs shortly before we left the city.

My balcony at home is enclosed with glass, and there I frequently allowed the squirrels to play.  A game of cache-cache, of half an hour or so, was generally necessary before I could induce Fliegende Hollaender, the livelier of the pair, to return to the narrow limits of his cage.  One day, however, through some carelessness, the door from the balcony into my room was left open, and the squirrels were missing.  Senta (christened after the heroine of Wagner’s clever opera) was captured after some little difficulty, but not the Dutchman.  Being a flying squirrel, he was so very tiny that he could easily conceal himself in a dark corner, and although I descended upon my knees to peer under my sofa, bureau, writing-table, and chiffonniere, my search was fruitless—­the Flying Dutchman had evidently vanished to join the Phantom Ship.  I felt very uneasy, fearing he might fall a prey to my two cats, who would no doubt find cold squirrel a very tempting entremet; or if he escaped this Scylla, the Charybdis of death by starvation lay before him.  The hours passed, and Fliegende Hollaender did not appear.  Senta was cheerful, and reigned mistress of the revolving wheel—­always the bone of contention between the pair.  Once, during the afternoon, I fancied I heard a scratching as if of tiny claws, but could not obtain even a glimpse of his vanishing, fan-shaped tail.

In the evening two or three gentlemen were present, and Marguerite sang for them.  After the song (Gounod’s “Naiade,” a lovely salon piece), we were speaking of the loss of dear little Hollaender, when one of our friends exclaimed: 

“Why, that squirrel was perched over the register while Miss Cleveland was singing, but he was so quiet that I thought he was stuffed.”

“He evidently is fond of music,” said another; “pray sing something more, Miss Cleveland, and perhaps he may again come out.”

He had travelled down from the third story to the parlor through the flue (fortunately there was no fire), and was now commencing to desire society and food again.

“Since he is fond of music,” said Marguerite, “I will sing the ballad of the Flying Dutchman from Wagner’s opera—­that ought certainly to draw him out again.”

A music-loving squirrel evidently, and one versed in the art; for with the first strains of those curious harmonies and chromatic runs, descriptive of the howling winds that herald the coming of the Phantom Ship, Hollaender’s tiny head peered out, followed, after a furtive glance about, by his little body.  Two gentlemen started to capture him, and then a chase ensued.  Hollaender tried to scamper up a picture, but tripped upon its glass, and fell.  At last, the Colonel captured him in an attempt to scale the curtains, and after much struggling, kicking, biting, and other vigorous protestations from Hollaender, landed him safely in his cage.