I had not one thing with any tooth except my comb. (Comb? Luckily I have not lost it Ara, ma, my hairpins! Five of them vanished from my head while I was springing amid the rocks. By and by the stems of acacia leaves shall be used in their places. Don’t you know this is quite a remote spot from civilisation?) A kitchen knife shaped my quill as a pen. Now only ink! I begged Uncle to run down three miles to fetch one bottle. 4th—We went to “breathe the song of the forest.” The forest laces the poet’s canyon. (By the way, poet’s ground spreads over one hundred and fifty acres. Does he pay taxes?) We climbed the “Road to the Milky Way.” I beseech your forgiveness, it was merely the name I wished for the path to the poet’s hilltop. I felt as if I were hurrying to the “Sermon on the Mount.” You would hardly believe Morning Glory if she said that sublimity vibrated in her soul, because she was just a little Oriental. How grand! We faced toward the Gate of the Pacific Ocean. We were still. Why? Because we were thinking the same thing. We traversed the poet’s graveyard. How romantic to put up a tombstone while living! How romantic to lie in the ecstasy of a marvellous view! We could be nearer the stars here. We stepped down to the canyon. The poet said solemnly: “Lady and gentleman, this is a holy place where you can pray heartily.” My uncle started to drone Bryant’s hymn: “The groves were God’s first temples.” “Did you ever read Thanatopsis, my dear?” Mr. Heine asked. “Yes, sir!” “It’s a noble piece. So many thousand Asiatics converted every year to the English alphabet. Wonderful!” he soliloquised. We seated ourselves by a brook. “Such a lesson in Nature! We endeavour to transcribe, but fail,” he sighed, looking on the trees. Then he turned to me questioning: “Do you hear the silent song of the forest?” I nodded. “Silence! Silence!” he muttered. We walked among the trees. We came back to the same hilltop, when the large red ball of the sun sank heavily from the Gate. “Bye-bye!” I shook my handkerchief. The playful breeze carried it away. It glimmered like a silvery inspiration. Who knows how far it sailed? I thought a huge statue of the Muse bidding sayonara to the dying sun would be the fitting ornamentation for these Heights. Countless numbers of people would look upon it from the valley. It would be a salvation, if they could bind themselves with Poesy by its noble figure. There was no question it would be more effective than a thousand pages of poem. “I have no coin to build it,” the poet said, in dear openness. “Let me present it by and by!” “When? “When? It must be after I get married to a rich philanthropist.” We laughed. We rolled down the hill in the purple fragrance of evening. The evening was sweet like a legend. 5th—I wrote a letter to the artist: “MY SWEET OSCAR: