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