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
Holländer, 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 _chiffonnière_, 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
Holländer 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 "Naïade," a lovely _salon_ piece),
we were speaking of the loss of dear little Holländer, when one of our
friends exclaimed: