“Look, Morning Glory!” he said, exhibiting a silver piece. “Is there any story about that dollar?” “The father of the dead paid me for carrying the coffin.” “Uncle, did you accept it?” “Yes.” “Such a funny uncle!” “Why not?” “You have spoiled all your nobility for only one dollar.” I upturned my face, afterward, appealing in gleeful tone: “O Uncle, you ought to give me half of it. Fifty cents! I carried the bench, you know.” 15th—I arose at the first whistling of a meadow-lark. Hearken to its hailing morning voice! O simple bird! Its so various moods are expressed only in its eternally changeless syllables. What a magical song! How bungling seemed our human vocabularies! I trod the garden in bare feet. Naked feet, sir! The delicious chilliness of the ground animated me rapturously. Do you believe me if I confess that I knelt and kissed it? I said that I would not mind burying my nude body for a few hours. Mother earth is so sweet. I ran up the hill, humming an Oriental ditty. The air was relishable, like an ice-cream on a summer midnight. The beautiful sun was rising. I clapped my palms thrice, reverently bowing. Am I a sun-worshipper? Yes! I cleansed my feet in the water of the creek when I returned from the hill. I sat me on a rock, extending my bare feet in the sunlight. I thought that towel-wiping was too much of a modernism. “Uncle! O Uncle!” I called. “What is it, Miss Morning Glory?” The poet jutted out from a bamboo bush by the wooden bridge over the creek. “Such charming feet!” he said. I instantly lowered my skirt, blushing. He was carrying a spade and hoe. He said that he had been planting flowers about the grave of our friend, ever since four o’clock. “To make it beautiful is high poetry,” he philosophised. “What do you wish with Uncle, my child?” he continued. “I want my shoes.” “Let me have the honour of fetching them for you!” he said in amiably dignified docility. 16th—The poet gave me five feet square, behind the Willow Cottage, for my potato garden. I sticked a stick at each corner. I encircled it with my crape sash. The note hanging on it read, “Graveyard of Morning Glory’s Poem.” I hired uncle for ten cents, to clear off every weed. I raked. I set the seeds. I got a suspicious coat and pants from a nook in the unrespectable barn. It was fortunate that the horse—who may also be a poet, he is so philosophically thin,—didn’t shout, “Hoa, clothes-thief!” I put them on the limbs of an acacia tree. I planted it on my graveyard to scare away wild intruders. It is holy ground. I wondered when the potatoes would grow. 17th—Squirrel! What admirable eyes! He projected his head from a hole by my window. He withdrew it a bit, and bent it to one side, as if he were solving a question or two. Then his eyes stabbed my face. “I’m no questionable character, Mr. Squirrel,” I said. He hid himself altogether.