She hummed a jaunty ditty. Her head inclined pathetically against my shoulder. My hair, stirred by the sea zephyrs, patted her cheek. She said the song was “My Gal’s a High-Born Lady.” Who was its author? Emerson did not write it surely. * * * * * When I returned to the hotel, I undertook to place on the wall the weather-torn fragment of cotton which I had picked up at the park. These words were printed on it: “KEEP OFF THE GRASS.” I decided to mail it to my Japan, requesting my daddy to post it upon my garden grasses—somewhere by the old cherry tree. 9th—To-day is the third anniversary of my grandmother’s death. I will keep myself in devotion. I burned the incense I had bought from a Chinaman. I watched the beautiful gesticulation of its smoke. Good Grandma! She wished she could live long enough to be present at my wedding ceremony. She prayed that she might select the marriage equipage for me. I am alone yet. I wonder if she knows—does her ghost peep from the grasses?—that I am drifting among the ijins she ever loathed. I don’t see how to manage myself sometimes—like an unskilful fictionist with his heroine. When shall I get married? 10th—I yawned. Nothing is more unbecoming to a woman than yawning. I think it no offence to swear once in a while in one’s closet. I was alone. I tore to pieces my “Things Seen in the Street,” and fed the waste-paper basket with them. The basket looked so hungry without any rubbish. An unkept basket is more pleasing, like a soiled autograph-book. “I didn’t come to Amerikey to be critical, that is, to act mean, did I?” I said. I must remain an Oriental girl, like a cherry blossom smiling softly in the Spring moonlight. But afterwards I felt sorry for my destruction. I thrust my hand into the basket. I plucked them up. They were illegibly as follows: “ women coursing like a ’rikisha of ’Hama their children crying at home left somewhere their womanliness gentleman with stove-pipe hat blowing nose with his fingers young lady kept busy chewing gum while walking. If you once show such a grace at Tokio, you shall wait fruitlessly for the marriage offer. “ old grandma in gay red skirt aged man arm-in-arm with wife so young What a martyrdom to marry for G-O-L-D! policeman has no “San Francisco is a beautiful city, but ’vertisements of ‘The Girl From Paris’ W——d’s Beer with the watches hanging on their breasts God bless you, red necktie gentleman woman at the corner chattering like a street politician.”