“Don’t you bury your poems? The best poems are those not published. The very best are those not written. Dante Gabriel Rosetti buried his ‘House of Life,’ because they were not for a gaping millionaire’s wife, but only for his own little wife. But his greatness was ruined when he dug them up and sold them. Poor poet! What all the poets ought to do, I think, is to bury their poems in a potato garden. What a shame even the poets have to eat once in a while! They should wait till the potatoes grow, and then sell them in a vegetable stand, calling ‘Poetical Potatoes!’ Do you sell your poems, Mr. Heine?” “Yes.” “Aren’t you making your living with your fruits?” “I never sell them, my dear.” “What do you do?” “I give them to needy persons. But I was obliged, last year, to hang up a sign, ‘No Fruit Lover is Wanted.’ I told an Oakland minister to come up and eat _some_ plums. He brought his wife and children, even his grand-mother. They shouldered away every bit of fruit from half a dozen trees. Next day so many people trampled in with an introduction from the minister.” “Such a minister! I see no use to have the sign, ‘Fruit Grower,’ if you don’t sell.” “Well, my dear lady, God will be merciful to let me use it in place of ‘Poem Manufacturer!’” My uncle announced that tea was boiled. We left the garden. 9th—The fogs held possession of our world, like the darkness of night. Where did they invade from? Pacific Ocean? Our hillside cottages looked like a tottering ship having no hope for any haven. Tremendous sight! I planted me on the hilltop. My mind merged in Japanese mythology. I felt as if I were the first goddess, Izanagi, standing on the “Floating Bridge of Heaven,” before the creation. The divine ghastliness bit my little soul. I couldn’t stand against it. I crept down like a mouse. The poet said he was preparing a lecture. Its title was “Not in Books.” He in his bed—there he passes every forenoon—was reciting his song. The words leapt like a leaping sword: “Sail on! Sail! Sail on! And on!” I threw a bunch of roses over to his bed as an admirer does to a star. Then I clapped my hands. “Pan, pan! Pan, pan!” 10th—I went up the hill to gather mushrooms and watercresses. I filled a huge basket with them. I carried it down on my shoulder in Chinese laundry style. I paused every twenty steps. I slipped within the gate of Mrs. Heine’s back garden. “Mush—rooms! Water—cresses!” I called boisterously. “My dear girl!” Grandma smiled out from her door. “Keep your hands off, please! They are things for sale. To-day they are uncommonly cheap. Will you buy them?” “How much do you charge?” “Two thousand words of the story about your illustrious son’s life.” “What a funny vendor!” “Tell me something about him! I’m ready to leave you the whole business.” “Shall I narrate to you how he started to write?” “How interesting!” I ejaculated. “Let me see your things first!” she said, tugging the basket nearer.