“A year or two ago, one Japanese theatrical troup roamed. They are not catalogued at home as actors. They chose to skip on the stage, simply because a bit more money is in it than in the calling of ‘lantern-carrying for politicians.’ Any wild animal can skip. I am now confronted with the question whether American generosity is not without sense. They piled up their money for them. Even the first-class critics struggled to find out something from such poor art. I am bound to be thankful, however, for the Americans saved these poor players from bankruptcy in Japan. It reminds me of a story. Our Nippon government many years ago appointed a certain loafing sailor as an English instructor, giving him a monthly pay of three hundred dollars. Sailor with an anchor-tatoo on his hand! Three hundred dollars are no small coin in Japan. Our sailor professor said, I am told, that he had not heard of any Milton. Ignorance can easily be a philanthropist, if it can be anything. “Japanese love Nature? They do. But how sad to glance at Japanese garden! It is painful to notice the dwarf trees. Japs never permit one thing to grow naturally. Country of deformity! America, most natural, most manly nation!” 24th—My uncle didn’t come back yesterday. Mr. Poet condescended to the town. I am alone. I spent the entire forenoon with Grandma, peeling potatoes, strewing sweet pea seeds on the ground. I ascended the hill with the root of a white rose—believing in the Nippon idea that blossoms for the dead should be white—and set it by the grave. Then I stole into the canyon. I amassed the dead leaves of redwood by the brook for a camp-fire. The smoke rose like a soul unto heaven. I watched its beautiful confusion. When I left, a snake obstructed my path, flashing its needle of a tongue. Snake, one of my greatest foes! (The others being cheese and mathematics.) I turned pale. But I bravely faced it, hoping that it would speak a word or two, as one did to Eve. I placed my eyes on it, though in fear. Perhaps it wasn’t as intelligent as the one in the garden of Eden. Maybe it thought it nothing but a waste of time to address a Jap poorly stored in English. It crept away. I ran down the hill. A storm of laughter struck me from within when I came to my Willow Cottage. I examined it from the window. Half a dozen young ladies were biting pie. (Pie! Rustic pastry I ever so hate!) “Picnic!” I murmured. My blood gushed up. I was on the verge of denouncing their irruption. The cottage belongs to any one, I said in my afterthought, as it does to me. I slipped away. I found myself in the plum orchard with a hoe. I began to root the weeds. I waited silently for their departure. 25th—The spring hills were coquetting like a tea-house maiden, singing: “The air is lovely like wine; Come, Lord! Come, Lord!” The curtain for the spring comedy has not yet risen. Already the picnic band invades.