“Longfellow, Lowell—they all loved high seasoning as I,” he said, snatching a pepper-box from my hand. He kept tapping the bottom of the box, when the cover fell into the pot. Oya! The red pepper garmented the whole thing. “Go, Mr. Poet! Why don’t you mind your own business? You are butler to-day.” I spoke in rough sweetness, and drove him away. He began to place a linen cloth on the table, while I dipped up all the pepper. He picked up one dozen pebbles to weight the tablecloth. The first thing he put on the table was his claret bottle. How could he lose it from sight! When he said that everything was in place, he had forgotten the knives and forks. Dear old poet! We sat at the table under the wild rose bushes. Mr. Heine read aloud the following menu: “PERFUME OF OMAR’S ROSE WATER OF JORDAN RIVER MOTHER LOVE BROTH MEAT OF WISDOM POTATOES OF SIMPLICITY PASSION CARROT ONION OF WIT DREAM COFFEE. DESSERT TYPICAL TOKIO SMILE OF MISS MORNING GLORY.” My grandmamma was our guest. “Mother, you talk too much always. Remember, this is a sacred service. Silence helps your digestion. Eat slowly, think something higher, and be content!” Poet said. We smelled the “Perfume of Omar’s Rose,” and wet our lips with the “Water of Jordan River.” The broth was served. Everybody choked with its pungent fire. Poor Mrs. Heine! She was showering her tear-beans. “This is perfectly seasoned. Send up your bowl again, ladies and gentlemen!” Mr. Poet’s performance was beautifully buffoonish. We finished our meat and vegetables. I smiled lightly, and said: “Are you ready for the Tokio smile?” “Just ten minutes yet, my dear!” The poet smoothed such a lengthy gray beard. I winked to Grandma. We looked upon him slyly. 8th—The poet was hoeing in his vegetable garden. His attire was theatrical. His red crape sash laxly surrounding his trousers lacked, I am sorry to say, a large Japanese tobacco bag. The cap with gay ribbons was like one of Li Hung Chang’s. His back carried a bearskin, inside of which some slovenly yellow silk flapped down. How tall he was! “Please, don’t dig over there, Mr. Heine, because I buried my poem there,” I said. “What poem, my lady?” he asked. “The poem to be read at the unveiling of my statue of the Muse on your mountain top, which may occur possibly within five years. The opening lines sound thus: ‘Victor of Life and Song, O Muse of golden grace!’” “That’s great! Why did you bury it?”