Part 3 (1/2)

CHAPTER IV.

A Visit from Papa--A Musical Squirrel--Letters--Croquet--Extracts from Letters--Visitors--The Loss of the Missouri--The True Story of Ida's Engagement.

_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 s.p.a.cious 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 gla.s.s, 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 Hollander, 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 s.h.i.+p. 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 pa.s.sed, and Fliegende Hollander 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 vanis.h.i.+ng, fan-shaped tail.

In the evening two or three gentlemen were present, and Marguerite sang for them. After the song (Gounod's ”Naade,” a lovely _salon_ piece), we were speaking of the loss of dear little Hollander, 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 s.h.i.+p, Hollander'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. Hollander tried to scamper up a picture, but tripped upon its gla.s.s, 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 Hollander, 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 gra.s.s, 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.”

Then follows a cordial invitation for me to visit her in her beautiful home upon Lake Erie, now looking its prettiest in the leafy month of June. All sorts of pleasant inducements are held out: a croquet-lawn of velvet softness, long drives, and charming rides in which to display my stylish new beaver and habit, moonlight excursions upon Lake Erie, and no lack of handsome cavaliers, including naval officers. However, despite all these attractions, I do not think I shall care to leave Chappaqua this summer.

Jennie enclosed a photograph of the lady who reigned as belle of the American colony in Paris, some four or five years ago--Mrs. Horace Jenness, then Miss Carrie Deming. Three years of married life have changed the beautiful Carrie somewhat, if this picture is a truthful one. The perfect outline of her face is unaltered, but the haughty expression that ”La Princesse” wore in former days has vanished, and the fond young mother, grouped with her two little children is prettier than ever.

_June 15_.

I feel singularly indolent, and indisposed to journalize this evening.

Perhaps it is the result of two hours spent in croquet, a game in which I am very unproficient and therefore find decidedly wearisome; but Gabrielle, who is the best croquet player in Chappaqua, is in the city to-day, and my feeble a.s.sistance was necessary to make up the quartette.

Two entire hours spent in this game seem quite an unwarrantable loss of time, but we have had a guest from New York to-day, and therefore both Plato and Kohlrausch have remained under lock and key in the library.

I think no one enjoys the country more thoroughly than a physician when he can escape from his patients for a holiday, and Dr. Howe, our visitor of to-day, was not an exception. This gentleman is, I fancy, quite young in his profession, for his figure is of almost boyish slenderness; his face, too, which reminds one somewhat of Sh.e.l.ley in its delicacy and brightness, and its dark eyes and luxuriant curls, is quite youthful for a fully fledged M.D.

Dr. Howe returned from Europe some months since, and brought us a letter of introduction from a friend of mamma's in Florence; but owing to mamma's long illness and the seclusion in which we lived last winter, we have not seen him many times.

I have in my lap a number of letters received in this evening's mail.