“My dear child, they aren’t watercresses, but baby weeds. I don’t consider they are legitimate mushrooms, either.” She turned upon me with compassionate objection. “Oya, oya, you don’t say so!” I exclaimed. “Then, no story, Grandma?” I looked up meekly. 11th—We had sipped our supper tea some time ago. A band from the bay sent up irregularly the melody of the love and prowess of dear mariners. The white moon rose. I sat alone on my front step, and watched tenderly by the poppy. My darling Miss Poppy shook herself prettily, as if she uttered a sweet word out of her heart. I imagined every sort of speech that may come from such a tiny bit of flower. “Sodah, she said that she loved me!” I murmured. I made a little letter. “MISS POPPY: “I love you too. “Yours, “MORNING GLORY.” I rolled it to a ball. I dropt it in her cup. The moon turned gold. The evening odour filled the air. Look! She was folding her cup, pressing my missive to her breast. There was no question that she understood. Dearest friend! Was it silly that I cried? 12th—The poet left the Heights to exchange his MS. for a gallon of whiskey. He carried a demijohn, which was as apt to him as a baby to a woman. I volunteered to clean his holy grotto. The little cottage brought me a thought of one Jap sage who lived by choice in a ten-foot square mountain hut. The venerable Mr. Chomei Kamo wrote his immortal “Ten-Foot Square Record.” A bureau, a bed, and one easy chair—everything in the poet’s abode inspires repose—occupy every bit of space in Mr. Heine’s cottage. The wooden roof is sound enough against a storm. A fountain is close by his door. Whenever you desire, you may turn its screw and hear the soft melody of rain. That’s plenty. What else do you covet? The closetlessness of his cottage is a symbol of his secretlessness. How enviable is an open-hearted gentleman! Woman can never tarry a day in a house without a closet. He never closes his door through the year. A piece of wire is added to his entrance at night. He would say that that will keep out the tread of a dog and a newspaper reporter. Not even one book. He would read the history written on the brow of a star, he will say if I ask him why. Every side was patched by pictures and a medley of paper clippings. Is there anything sweeter to muse upon than personal knick-nacks? O such a dust! I swept it. But I thought philosophically afterward, why should people be so fussy with the dust, when things are but another form of dust. What a far-away smell the dust had! What an ancient colour! I observed on the wall an odd coat and boots that dear old Santa Claus might have lost. “Klondyke costume!” I exclaimed. I undressed myself, and tried them on. When I was ready to put on a fur cap, Mrs. Heine wandered down, calling me. “Morning Glory! Morning Glory!” I trembled in deadly fear.