I passed gracefully (like a princess making her triumphant exit in the fifth act) into my chamber, leaving behind my happiest laughter and shut myself up. [Illustration: Drawn by Genjiro Yeto “A NEW DELIGHT TO CATCH THE PEEPING TIPS OF MY SHOES” ] I confess that I earned the most delicious moment I have had for a long time. I cannot surrender under the accusation that Japs are _only_ imitators, but I admit that we Nippon daughters are suited to be mimics. Am I not gifted in the adroit art? Where’s Mr. Somebody who made himself useful to warn the musumes? Then I began to rehearse the scene of my first interview with a white lady at San Francisco. I opened Bartlett’s English Conversation Book, and examined it to see if what I spoke was correct. I sat on the writing table. Japanese houses set no chairs. (Goodness, mottainai! I sat on the great book of Confucius.) The mirror opposite me showed that I was a “little dear.” 6th—It rained. Soft, woolen Autumn rain like a gossamer! Its suggestive sound is a far-away song which is half sob, half odor. The October rain is sweet sad poetry. I slid open a paper door. My house sits on the hill commanding a view over half Tokio and the Bay of Yedo. My darling city—with an eternal tea and cake, with lanterns of festival—looked up to me through the gray veil of rain. I felt as if Tokio were bidding me farewell. Sayonara! My dear city! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration: GOOD NIGHT—NATIVE LAND! ] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ON THE OCEAN “BELGIC,” 7th Good night—native land! Farewell, beloved Empress of Dai Nippon! 12th—The tossing spectacle of the waters (also the hostile smell of the ship) put my head in a whirl before the “Belgic” left the wharf. The last five days have been a continuous nightmare. How many a time would I have preferred death! My little self wholly exhausted by sea-sickness. Have I to drift to America in skin and bone? I felt like a paper flag thrown in a tempest. The human being is a ridiculously small piece. Nature plays with it and kills it when she pleases. I cannot blame Balboa for his fancy, because he caught his first view from the peak in Darien. It’s not the “Pacific Ocean.” The breaker of the world! “Do you feel any better?” inquired my fellow passenger. He is the new minister to the City of Mexico on his way to his post. My uncle is one of his closest friends. What if Meriken ladies should mistake me for the “sweet” wife of such a shabby pock-marked gentleman? It will be all right, I thought, for we shall part at San Francisco. (The pock-mark is rare in America, Uncle said. No country has a special demand for it, I suppose.)