Drawn by Genjiro Yeto “HOW DARE I SWALLOW RAW FISHES!” ] 13th—I created much noise in the Jap colony! Why not? Many brown men pause by my store and buy, simply because they can address a word or two to me. They are silly, aren’t they? I announce that I am tired of their faces. I have never met one progressive-seeming Oriental since I landed. They are like a dry tree. Are their souls dying? “Well, that’s why, they have no girl,” my uncle conclusioned. He is so bright once in a while. Why not make love with Meriken musume? I said I would petition the Tokio government to transplant her women. It may ruin the Japanese girl’s name, was my afterthought, if they ship only the homely gang. Lovely girl has no longing to sail over the ocean. She has plenty of chance to grow a flower bride at home. I pity my native boys of this city. “Jap! Jap!” They are dashed with such exclamations from every corner. As for me the sound of “Jap” is my taste, so I spray it in my writing. I took up again my knitting work which I had commenced on the seas. Nothing could be more decent to fill up my leisure in the store. My little neck fell, as I was intent on my stocking. Some one spoke above my head: “How is business?” “So, so!” I replied in businesslike reserve. I lifted my face. Oya, he was Mr. Consul. “Will you sell me a cigar?” “Things are becoming awfully high. Mine is a distinctly dear store. Do you know it, Mr. Consul?” “I’m prepared to pay more at the beautiful girl’s,” he began to titter. “General Arthur cigar has leaped one dollar higher since Monday, and——” “You don’t mean it!” He mimicked a sudden alarm. 14th—O funny drunkard! To-day one fellow established himself before my store. He fixed his amazing eyes on my face, and extended his hairy hand. “Hel-lo, Japanese!” he stuttered. He wanted to shake hands with me. I lengthened my arm, and slapped his face. I withdrew directly within, and watched him from a hole. “Ha, ha! She got mad—ha, ha, ha!” He was in a tip-top state of mind. “Let me help myself!” He pilfered one cigar from the shelf. He struck a match. He bit the cigar. “Good!” he muttered. He tossed himself away with ludicrous dignity, singing: “Pon pili, yon, pon, pon!” “This is undeniably a tough place!” I exclaimed. 15th—Night has just arrived. Only ten minutes ago a white-capped “Jim” (I overheard people calling him so) lighted a paper lantern labelled “Tomales.” He is an eating-stand keeper across the street. The loafers passed. There was some time to watch the lazy parade. It was a blank hour of Saturday when he could puff a whiff of smoke. The prankish songs ceased. Even in Dupont Street I am given a page of dream. The barkeeper of “Remember the Maine” called at my store. “Remember the Maine?” It is a name cheap as the grimness of a toothless woman. Mr. Barkeeper had something to say, I imagined. I offered a stem of cigarette.