30th—Uncle said that the poet said: “You are welcome, sir. The cottage for your young lady lies by one willow tree. The waters, the air, the grand view, are God’s. It costs a wee bit of money to provide the best coffee. I tell you that my claret is superb. You shall be my guest as long as you please. Present my love to Miss Morning Glory! Everything will be ready when you come.” “Isn’t he adorable?” I ejaculated. I stirred my trunk, and sifted out the things needful for my adventure. 31st—To-morrow! THE HEIGHTS, Feb. 1st Let me recline heart-to-heart on the breast of Mother Nature! Let me retreat to a hillside not far from the city, yet verily near to God! Let me go to my poet abode! We abandoned the Fruitvale car at the hill-foot. My uncle picked out our destination from the speckles in the distance. The breeze (how heavenly is a country breeze!) enticed my soul—a Jap girl also is provided with some soul—into “Far-Beyond.” “I feel myself another girl, Uncle.” “How?” “I’m a poet already. The poet without poem is greater, don’t you know?” We climbed the hill slowly. Every step enlarged the spectacle. When we attained to one wildly well-kept garden, the whole bay of the Golden Gate stretched before us. A thousand villages knelt humbly like vassals. I saw a tiny gate with the sign: “Fruit Grower.” An old gentleman appeared from a cottage, singing. “Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go, Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!” “Poet!” Uncle whispered. Let me now examine him! What lengthy hair he wore! It didn’t annoy me, however, because he stamped himself on my mind as if he were an ancient statue. I imagined him a type of mediæval squire. I thought of him truly as one metamorphosed from the frontispiece of a wholly forgotten volume in a cobwebbed recess of a library. His courteous voice was simply dignified. “Nature never hurries. God commands you every happiness and all repose. Here’s your little home, my gentle lady! I am at your service any time. I hope you will find it comfortable.” He set me at the “Willow Cottage.” He slipped gracefully away. There was some time before I heard his “kotsu kotsu” on my door. I opened it. “Greeting from the host!” Mr. Heine offered me a tuft of brisk roses. Heine was the poet’s name. How loving! I buried myself in the thought of straying to a fairy isle, and being accepted romantically by the dwellers. I suspected that I was dreaming. “Arcadia!” I exclaimed, when the poet announced that supper would be prepared within half an hour. I spied him through the window, gathering the loppings of trees and leaves. He made a camp-fire. Its soft smoke surged into the sky. Oh, smell it! How fascinating is the Poet’s life! I ran out, crying: “Pray, make me useful!” 2nd—Dream and reality are not marked here by different badges. They waltz round. Dear poet home!