I cleansed it, and altered its form a trifle, because it was a lady’s. I am still keeping it for church-wear. I feel dreadful, thinking of her. E A butterfly passed by my cavern, a hundred times. Each time she threw me a vulgar laugh. Her face was thickly powdered in yellow. Does she think herself charming? I should say that I would prefer a girl in tights from a saloon-stage to her indecency. Such a flirt! I suppose that she wanted me to marry her. No! Am I not old enough to avoid running into such foolishness? F Rainy day! I sat in a memorial corner of my cave, with an unfinished novel of my wife’s. I do judge she had flashes of genius. She was so deep, like the sky. I never suspected that she could gracefully have beaten George Eliot, if she had only survived. Poor girl! One tenderly loved by God passes away young. I have fallen into the habit of crying unmanfully nowadays. I cannot help it, can I? G One thing I must furnish is a bathroom. Cleanliness is the first rule of heaven, I am told. I went to the lily pond to take a gracious bath. O such water gamins! Dirty-handed frogs! How could I dip me in the turbid water? The frogs ought to go to a reformatory school. They have no culture, whatever. H Camera hunters are thick as fogs. To-day I came near being a victim. No, sir! I can’t permit my picture to be seen with those of cheap matinee idols. I must keep some dignity. Americans are too commercial altogether. The pictures of our race are in demand, I imagine. I Beautiful moon, last night! I filled my stomach with the divine water from a creek. My face waved in the water. I flattered myself that I was a pretty handsome gentleman. I sang an ancient Chinese song: “Come ’long, to-morrow moon, Carrying a harp!” J Stop your empty noise, meadow-larks! Silence is the first study of this hill and the last, don’t you know? I am absorbed in my grave work, “The Secret of the World.” K My neighbouring Jap girl is rather attractive, isn’t she? I heard a few scratches of her native bubbling. The pagan speech is not so bad as I thought. L If there is one thing I cannot endure, it is ignorance. What is the state of your roses, old boy? The poet Heine is utterly alien to rose culture. Shall I order “How to Raise Roses” from a London publisher? M I went up the hill to pray to God. The higher the nearer. When I came back, my honourable vestibule was blocked, I found, by the dirt. The poet was ditching close by my residence. I couldn’t blame his conduct, however, because no one could see my home. I don’t hang out a sign like a quack doctor.