I purchased a select bouquet of violets. I passed by several young gentlemen. Were their eyes set on my flowers or my hands? I don’t wear gloves. I don’t wish my hands to be touched harshly by them. Truly I am vain of showing my small hands. I love the violet, because it was the favorite of dear John—Keats, of course. It may not be a flower. It is decidedly a perfume, anyhow. 31st—I have heard a sad piece of news from Mrs. Consul about Mr. Longfellow. She says that he has ceased to be an idol of American ladies. He has retired to a comfortable fireside to take care of school children. Poor old poet! Nov. 1st—American chair is too high. Are my legs too short? It was uncomfortable to sit erect on a chair all the time as if one were being presented before the judge. And those corsets and shoes! They seized me mercilessly. I said that I would spend a few hours in Japan style, reclining on the floor like an eloped angel. I brought out a crape kimono and my girdle with the phœnix embroidery, after having locked the entrance of my room. “Kotsu, kotsu, kotsu!” Somebody was fisting on my door. Oya, she was Ada, my “Rose of Frisco” or “Butterfly of Van Ness.” (She was quartered in Van Ness Avenue, the most elegant street of a whole bunch.) She was sprightly as a runaway princess. She blew her sunlight and fragrance into my face. I was grateful that I chanced to be acquainted with such a delightful Meriken lady. “O ho, Japanese _kimono_! If I might only try it on!” she said. I told her she could. “How lovely!” she ejaculated. We promised to spend a gala day together. [Illustration: Drawn by Genjiro Yeto “O HO, JAPANESE KIMONO!” ] “We will rehearse,” I said, “a one-act Japanese play entitled ‘Two Cherry Blossom Musumes.’” I assisted her to dress up. She was utterly ignorant of Oriental attire. What a superb development she had in body! Her chest was abundant, her shoulders gracefully commanding. Her rather large rump, however, did not show to advantage in waving dress. Japs prefer a small one. My physical state is in poverty. I was wrong to believe that the beauty of woman is in her face. It is so, of course, in Japan. The brown woman eternally sits. The face is her complete exhibition. The beauty of Meriken woman is in her shape. I pray that my body may grow. The Japanese theatre never begins without three rappings of time-honoured wooden blocks. I knocked on the pitcher. Miss Ada appeared from the dressing room, fluttering an open fan. How ridiculously she stepped! It was the way Miss What’s-her-name acted in “The Geisha,” she said. She was much taller than little me. The kimono scarcely reached to her shoes. I have never seen such an absurd show in my life. I was tittering. The charming Ada fanned and giggled incessantly in supposed-to-be Japanese _chic_. “What have I to say, Morning Glory?” she said, looking up. “I don’t know, dear girl!” I jerked. Then we both laughed.