She slipped her hand from it. I fell on a bush. The touchy rose thorned in my hand. 2nd—I made a discovery. Mother Schuyler’s teeth are all false. I have no chance to explore whether her hair is a wig. She chains a big bunch of keys to her waist. Its rattle sounds housewifely. She forgot it, laying it on the sitting-room table. I knotted it to my waist-strap. I jiggled it. “Jaran, jaring, jaran, jaran!” 3rd—The sayonara dinner was given. Mrs. Ellis’ folks joined us. Mother Schuyler repeated every ten minutes her query, “when would I visit them again?” Mr. Oscar set his depressive look on me. I wasn’t brave enough to encounter it. I slid away from confronting him. I found him an elegant young man. He impressed me as an image of Apollo. Only God knows when I will reprint my footsteps on the soil of Los Angeles! I felt awfully sorry in leaving such an agreeable company. “Fold your tent like the Arabs, And silently steal away.” How sad! 4th—Good-bye, Mr. Parrot! SAN FRANCISCO, 5th. I am again at Mrs. Willis’. San Francisco! Such miraculous San Francisco water! I will taste bliss again in drinking the midnight water, stretching out my arm from the bed. 6th—I tied Dorothy’s hair in Nippon style. She pleased me much by remembering the Japanese words I taught her. She is a cute dear. The mode had been the “O’tabaco bon.” I straightened her hair with my wet hand. I added a tiny bit of crimson crape. She looked a lovely fairy. 7th—Rainy day! The heavily reserved weather confines me in the pose of genius. My hair lounged down my shoulders. Disorder is the first step in being a genius, I fancy. My eyes should be rolled up to the sky in divine tragicalness. I have had a greediness for the name of novelist. To-day I found myself in the crisis where I must scribble or die. I regret to say that mine is a love story also, as every beginner’s book has been. I hope everybody will be contented with “The Destiny,” a respectable title for my fiction. Who says it is the style of name employed one hundred years ago? The book will be concluded with three hundred pages. Now I wonder whether a long story is in demand. Chapter I, is as follows: WHEN THE MOON ROSE. This story begins when the moon rose. Its silvery rays—it was six P.M. of April—fell on the Shiba park in laughter. My heroine jogged along into the park, singing a light song. “Miss Honourable Moon, how old are you? Thirteen and seven, you say? You are young enough to marry——” Let me explain about her a bit! Her name is O Hana San. Thirteen years old. Thirteen? It is the age when the flower of girlhood starts to bloom. Bewitching Hana!