Mother and I had great fun at Pine Knot. Mr. Burroughs, whom I call Oom
John, was with us and we greatly enjoyed having him. But one night he
fell into great disgrace! The flying squirrels that were there last
Christmas had raised a brood, having built a large nest inside of the
room in which you used to sleep and in which John Burroughs slept. Of
course they held high carnival at night-time. Mother and I do not mind
them at all, and indeed rather like to hear them scrambling about, and
then as a sequel to a sudden frantic fight between two of them, hearing
or seeing one little fellow come plump down to the floor and scuttle
off again to the wall. But one night they waked up John Burroughs and he
spent a misguided hour hunting for the nest, and when he found it took
it down and caught two of the young squirrels and put them in a basket.
The next day under Mother's direction I took them out, getting my
fingers somewhat bitten in the process, and loosed them in our room,
where we had previously put back the nest. I do not think John Burroughs
profited by his misconduct, because the squirrels were more active than
ever that night both in his room and ours, the disturbance in their
family affairs having evidently made them restless!