The kangaroo still continues to grow, which is very strange and
perplexing. I never knew one to be so long getting its growth. It has
fur on its head now; not like kangaroo fur, but exactly like our hair,
except that it is much finer and softer, and instead of being black is
red. I am like to lose my mind over the capricious and harassing
developments of this unclassifiable zoological freak. If I could catch
another one—but that is hopeless; it is a new variety, and the only
sample; this is plain. But I caught a true kangaroo and brought it in,
thinking that this one, being lonesome, would rather have that for
company than have no kin at all, or any animal it could feel a nearness
to or get sympathy from in its forlorn condition here among strangers
who do not know its ways or habits, or what to do to make it feel that
it is among friends; but it was a mistake—it went into such fits at the
sight of the kangaroo that I was convinced it had never seen one
before. I pity the poor noisy little animal, but there is nothing I can
do to make it happy. If I could tame it—but that is out of the
question; the more I try, the worse I seem to make it. It grieves me to
the heart to see it in its little storms of sorrow and passion. I
wanted to let it go, but she wouldn’t hear of it. That seemed cruel and
not like her; and yet she may be right. It might be lonelier than ever;
for since I cannot find another one, how could it?