I gazed at it. I was exceedingly happy. 21st—A gardener came to fix our lawn. There is nothing lovelier than verdant grasses trimmed neatly. They are like the short skirt of the Meriken little girl. We women could be angels, I thought, if our speech lapped justly. Women talk superfluously. I do often. What language did that gardener use? It must be the English of Carlyle, I said, for its meaning was intangible. I discovered, by and by, that German English was his honourable choice. My eyes could express more than my English uttered in Nippon voice. My gestures helped to make my meaning plain. He became my friend. He carried a red square of cotton to wipe his mouth, like the furoshiki in which a Japanese country “O’ ba san” wraps her New Year’s present. And again as he was leaving I saw a red thing around his neck. Was it not the same furoshiki which served for his nose? It wouldn’t be a bad idea to play amateur gardener. The season wasn’t fitting for such a performance, however. A large summer hat! That was the customary attire. But my light-hearted straw one with its laughing bouquet was not adapted to November, however gorgeously the sun might shine. And it’s sheer stupidity to track after a tradition. I wound a large flapping piece of black crape about my head. (How awfully becoming the garb of a Catholic nun would be! I do not know what is dear, if it is not the rosary. A writhing rope around the waist is celestial carelessness.) I appeared on the lawn, but without a sprinkler and rake. It would have been too theatrical to carry them. I gathered the small stones from amid the grasses into a wheelbarrow near by. Just as my new enterprise was beginning to seem so delightful, the luncheon gong gonged. My uncle goggled from the hall, and said: “Where have you been? I was afraid you had eloped.” “I’ve no chance yet to meet a boy,” I spoke in an undertone. Afterward I was ashamed that I had been so awkwardly sincere. 22nd—There was one thing that I wanted to test. My uncle went out. I understood that he would not be back for some hours. I found myself in his room, pulling out his drawer. “Isn’t it elegant?” I exclaimed, picking up his dress-suit. At last I had an opportunity to examine how I would look in a tapering coat. Gentleman’s suit is fascinating. “Where is his silk hat?” I said. I reached up my arms to the top shelf of a closet, standing on the chair. The door swung open. Tamageta! My liver was crushed by the alarm. A chambermaid threw her suspicious smile at me. Alas! My adventure failed. 23rd—I mean no one else but O Ada San, when I say “my sweet girl.” She was tremendously nice, giving a tea-party in my honour. The star actress doesn’t appear on the stage from the first of the first act. I thought I would present myself a bit later at the party, when they were tattling about my delay. I delight in employing such little dramatic arts.