[Boston—Sunday, 24 March 1872]
Palm Sunday. Cold and clear again—snow blowing as if it were December.
We made Ellen Emerson rehearse to us the story of a parrot which we had forgotten. The parrot was brought into a room where he saw a muff for the first time. He walked round and round and considered it in much perplexity, then suddenly cried out “My God. What is it!” and fell down dead.
Little Mabel Hunt told her mother she heard a terrible noise in the night (it seems it was the cook snoring.) What is it like, said her mother. It is like wolves’ voices smoothing themselves on my back said the child.
