Her husband was surprised when he heard that we do not use knife and fork at home. Bamboo chop-sticks! How dear! 9th—I have no belief in the earring. It is a savage mode, like the deformed feet of the Chinese woman. But why did the Meriken lady discard her veil? Her face behind the veil would appear like a rose through the Spring mist. It is a charming thing as ever was fashioned for woman. I have seen no lady with a veil in this town. I suppose the Los Angeles women confide in their faces. They strew more liberty in their grace than the San Franciscans. Their beauty is informal. The city is enchanting. I am pleased that I am not shown here so many a “To Let” as in Frisco. Even the barefooted Arabs, those street sparrows, are quite a picture. 10th—I promised Mrs. Schuyler, Jr., good care of her baby for half an hour. I carried it firm on my arms. I jogged out to the garden. The baby faced toward me and said: “Bu, bu! Bu, bu, bu!” I felt grateful, thinking that it counted me among its friends. I laid its head on my breast. I sang a little Japanese lullaby: “Nenneko, nenneko, Nennekoyo! Oraga akanbowa Itsudekita? Sangatsu sakurano Sakutokini! Doride okawoga. Sakurairo.” (Sleep, sleep, sleep! When was our baby made? Third month, when the cherry blossoms. So the honourable face of our child is cherry-blossom coloured.) The breezes billed and cooed upon the grasses. An imperial palm cast its rich shadow. The affectionate sunlight made me think of a “little Spring” of the Japanese September. Everything inclined to a siesta in the yellow air. A tropical touch is the touch of passion. Can you fancy this is the month of December? I cannot. After I put the baby to its nurse, I paced around a bronze statue upon the lawn, losing myself in Greek beauty. Then I snatched a rose. I pressed it to my nose-tip. 12th—Where’s my painstaking description of Echo Mountain? I made a pleasant trip there yesterday with Schuyler’s party. I lost my writing penned last night. Such a heedless tomboy! I idled, watching a spider from my window. It was framing a net amid the garden trees. An awfully dignified tom cat glared from under a bush. I was sorry no game came upon the scene to his honour. My profound Japanese scholar was not discouraged by the lack of an audience. He was busy presenting his polite “Gokigen ikaga?” Then I found what I did with my yesterday’s diary. Areda mono! I wiped my oily hands with it and buried it in a trash basket. I fixed my hair this morning. Morning Glory San, you have to keep your Nikki in a safe! Great Carlyle wrote his “French Revolution” twice. I wish I had been given a slice of his persistency. 13th—A Bishop visited and lunched with us.