“P.S.—This letter was written by my duck-quill. My new invention, you know. “My handwriting is clumsy enough, I suppose, to sell as high as any ancient author’s autograph. “Sayonara!” 6th—O poppy, beloved harbinger of California spring! I “hung on the honourable eyes” of a poppy by my door. Its quaking cup burnt in love (for a meadow-lark perhaps). “Let me feed you, my new friend!” I said, and brought out a cupful of water. I moistened it. A golden flake of the sun-ray came down to it. It smiled, daintily thanking me for my humble treat. I stared at it, slowly fabricating a fable of its love affair, when the breeze sent me a dreamy song. The song was old-fashioned, like the afternoon snore of a water-wheel. I plunged into the song, not knowing who was the singer. “Ara, ara, Grandmamma’s song!” I exclaimed. She is the aged mother of our poet. She is within the rim of ninety. I suspected her of having discovered the “Elixir for Preserving Eternal Girlhood.” You cannot help esteeming her a philosopher when you are told that she has visited San Francisco only twice in ten years. I have no bit of doubt that she would die if you were to rob her of the sight of her flower garden and one stout scrap-book about her son’s poems. They work a miracle. What a mystery is human life! I say that I’m touched by superstition. I have read of a villainous fox who masquerades in the shape of an old woman. My wretched fantasy about Mrs. Heine passed, when I heard that no fox resided in the hill. She is such a dear grandma. She has no hostile grimace against age. She welcomes it. Her wrinkles are all her beauty. Natural ripening in age is but another form of girlhood. She is happy as a sparrow. (Sparrow never forgets, it is said in Nippon, to dance in its hundredth year.) She hoes round her garden. Her vanity is to make her table rich with her own potatoes and roses. She lives alone by herself in a cottage some hundred steps from mine. Did you ever taste her cooking? “Good morning, Mrs. Heine!” I said. “Come in!” She showed herself, extending her large hands. They were damp. I thought she was employing herself in washing. Is there any sweeter occupation than service to an old lady? “Let me help you!” I carried out a bucket to a spring in the backyard. I brimmed it with the waters. It was so weighty. A naughty stone bounced under my heel. I was thrown down like a toy. Alas! My bucket was upset over my skirt. I had made myself a specimen of misery. “O grandma, it’s raining awfully outside!” I cried. 7th—To-day I was the _chef_, while my uncle was second cook. I placed a heroic iron pot over the camp-fire I dropped a lump of beef in, and afterward the mass of potatoes, carrots, and onions. Mr. Poet’s directions were that they should boil for two hours. Mr. Heine intruded, saying that he would like to season them himself.