Was it in my dream that I heard the tinkle of bells? I thought something was going on. I parted from the bed. I pushed out my face from the window. Look at the procession of cows! I have read much of them, but I admit that it was my first occasion to admire them. I am a trivial Jap, only acquainted with cherry blossoms and lanterns. How I wished to knot the bells round my waist, and whisk down the path by the violets! “Lover’s lane!” It should be the title for that path, I thought, if I were Mr. Poet. I finished my toilet. I leaped out upon the grasses smiling up to the sunlight. I congratulated myself on my new life. Then I found my uncle sitting by the camp-fire. “Ohayo!” I said, filling the seat on another side. I remember one Japanese essay, “The Poetry of a Tea Kettle.” Indeed! The kettle was a singer. Its melody was far-reaching. It was like a harp of pine leaves fingered by the zephyr. I faced up, and saw my poet moving down from the lily pond. Two frogs in his hand. “Frogs?” I cried. “They will complete our table. How did you sleep, my lady?” “Splendid!” “Do you love the country?” “I begin to taste a greater joy in Nature.” “I’m happy to hear it, my dear. My life is like the life of a bird. I awake when the sun rises. I lay me in the bed at the bird’s dipping into its nest. God made the night for keeping quiet. That is better than prayer itself. I light neither lamp nor candle. I presume that every young lady has certain secret work at night. Let me offer you a few candles!” We ate breakfast from the table by the fire. Frogs supplied a special dish. I couldn’t touch it, thinking of the songs of frogs that I had heard all the night long. Such a song! It was the muddy-booted song of the countryside. No valuable quality in it, of course. But I should say that they tried the best they could. Poor Messrs. Frog! I fancied the leg in my dish was that of one who volunteered to sing my lullaby. I almost cried in grief. The poet was ready to wash the dishes. I was quick to snatch his job. My uncle wiped them. Stupid uncle! He broke two dishes. I collected the bones of the frogs, and buried them. On the stone above them I wrote with a pencil: “Tomb of Unknown Singers.” What time was it when we were done with our breakfast? I couldn’t tell. The first thing I did yesterday was to stop the tick-tack of my watch, and hide it in the lowest drawer. The watch is a nuisance since I am thrown in THE GARDEN OF ETERNITY. 3rd—I searched for a pen and ink in my Willow Cottage. Nothing like those. Foxy Poet! He hid them from view, I fancied, in the opinion that playing with them for a girl is more jeopardous than swallowing needles. I say that letter-writing—particularly a decent love letter, if there is one—isn’t half so grave a crime as rhyming. I was spraying some water on a rose by the gate, when I caught sight of a white quill by my shoes. “This will serve me perfectly,” I said.