I borrowed an old scrubbing bucket. “Such a soft antique hue!” I exclaimed with delight. I elected one imperial rose and one little one for a “retainer.” I fixed them in the bucket. I thought it was verily the simplicity of the illustrious Mr. Rikiu. I presented the rest of the roses to Mrs. Schuyler, Jr. She stared at the bucket without a word. I knew that her silence was the most forcible irony. She didn’t approve of setting such a bucket on the table. “Meriken jins don’t know any art!” I said, when she left. My uncle begged me not to act so fantastically. 28th—“Here’s a shamisen, Morning Glory!” Mother Schuyler cried from the hall. I darted out of my room. “Well!” I exclaimed. Shamisen? It is a three-stringed guitar of Japan. Mr. Schuyler, Jr., had sent it from Yokohama, as she explained. She wished me to tinkle a little gamboling music in the parlour before dinner. It is a hard implement to handle. It has no notation. Attainment is through unending blind practice. I was compelled to learn by mother, many a year ago, but I soon gave it up for an English spelling-book. But I daresay I can play. I regulated the key to begin with. “Ting, ting! Chang, Chang, ting!” “What to hum, Uncle?” I asked, facing aside. “Love ditty is desirable,” Oji San considered. “Don’t fancy me a geisha!” I said in defending laughter. Then I murmured an old hauta, “Haori kakushite,” which was Englished by some one. “She hid his coat, She plucked his sleeve, ‘To-day you cannot go! To-day, at least, you will not leave, The heart that loves you so!’ The mado she undid And back the shoji slid: And clinging cried, ‘Dear Lord, perceive The whole world is snow!’” 29th—We went to a theatre last evening. Dear, classical “flower path”! How I missed it in the Meriken stage! Flower path? It is a projection into the auditorium used to represent when one starts out of the house or returns. So the American stage has no front gate scene! Every one enters very likely from the kitchen door. The stage never turns round like the Japanese stage. Oh, dear, iyadawa! American play has too much kissing. Each time I was electrified. The pit was filled with a well-behaved throng. All the ladies took off their hats. Do they pay more respect than in church? The gentlemen never whiffed smoke. Japan theatre is a hurly-burly. The “boys” roar up “Honourable tea—O’cha wa yoroshi? Honourable cake?” The attendants of tea houses bow around to the beneficent habitues, like inclining puppets. Women sob. They laugh, stuffing their sleeves into their mouths. They are ready to put themselves in the play. They are sentimental. Meriken women place themselves above the play. I doubted whether they were criticising or enjoying. Some lady even used a spy-glass to examine the face of a player.