To Miss Henrietta Sargent.
Wayland, 1862.
The broad meadow lies very beautiful before me; for the frequent rains have kept it fresh and green.
The sky is a beautiful clear blue, with a light, floating tracery of silvery clouds.
All looks so serene and smiling that it is difficult to realize the scenes of violence and destruction going on in other parts of the country.
A little striped squirrel that has for weeks come to the stone wall near my back window, to eat the breakfast I daily placed for him there, has disappeared for several days, and the fear that some evil beast has devoured him makes me sad. When so many mothers are mourning for their sons, not knowing where or how they died, I am ashamed to say that I have cried a little for the loss of my squirrel.
I had learned to love the pretty little creature.
He came so confidingly and sat up so prettily, nibbling a kernel of corn in his paws.
I learned many of the little ways of squirrels, which I had never known before.
He would scratch his ears and wash his face like a kitten, and even fold his paws under
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him and go to sleep, within reach of my arm. All innocent and peaceful things seem peculiarly attractive in these times of bloodshed and hatred, and I cannot help mourning some for my little squirrel.
