In the evening two or three gentlemen were present, and Marguerite sang for them. After the song (Gounod's "Naïade," a lovely salon piece), we were speaking of the loss of dear little Holländer, 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, Holländer'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. Holländer 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 Holländer, landed him safely in his cage.
The squirrels evidently enjoy country life very much. Early this morning Minna took them out of doors, and removed the bottom of the cage that they might play upon the grass, which so much exhilarated them that I am convinced they fancied they were entirely free. Then I removed the hot cotton from their little nest, and filled it with fresh clover-leaves, which I am sure they much prefer. They run no risk of being devoured here, for Aunt Mary always disliked cats, so that there is not one upon the place, and Gabrielle's pet dog, a native of Bordeaux, has viewed them from afar, and snuffed at the cage, but is evidently too well-bred a Frenchman to desire even to tease them.
June 14.
A letter to-day from one of my Paris friends, Jennie Ford. She says:
"How divine it must be at Chappaqua! I am glad you are enjoying yourself, and are well. But you do not say a word of your Western trip. I hope you have not given it up."