We will take leave to-morrow. O gracious graceful poet abode! My farewell poem in seventeen syllable form is as follows: “Sayonara no Ureiya nokore Mizu no neni!” “Remain, oh, remain, My grief of sayonara, There in water sound!” 28th—Mrs. Heine kissed me. Dear old Grandma! “Do you know what this is, Miss Morning Glory?” the poet said, plucking a leaf from a tree by his door. “Fig-leaf! Isn’t it?” [Illustration: MY SAYONARA POEM IN JAPANESE AUTOGRAPH. ] “Yes, my child! It is a fig-leaf. Do you know the fig tree? It is the shyest tree in the world. Classical tree, indeed! It has no blossom, being so modest of display, but it has the fruits. Remember, my young lady, its teaching of ‘Modesty! Modesty!’” “Sayonara, Mr. Poet!” “One minute, Uncle!” I said. I ran into the Willow Cottage to get a cupful of water. I watered my friend Miss Poppy with love. Bye-bye, little girl! SAN FRANCISCO, March 1st Civilisation again! The first thing was to buy a cake of the best soap. Because my hands had perfected their transformation into worthless leather while I dwelt on the hill. What kind of soap did I use, do you suppose? Laundry soap. 2nd—Delightful Ada! We drove to the Cliff House, Ada to laugh at the stupid song of the seals, I to say my adieu. Good-bye, Pacific Ocean! We cried in hugging. We shall not see each other for some time,—maybe never again! Ada! O Ada San! 3rd—This afternoon! Eastward, ho, ho! OVERLAND TRAIN, March 4th “Madame Butterfly” lay by me, appealing to be read. “No, iya, I’ll never open! I erred in buying you,” I said. I dislike that “Madame.” It sounds indecent ever since the “gentleman” Loti spoiled it with his “Madame Chrysanthème.” The honourable author of “Madame Butterfly” is Mr. Wrong. (Do you know that Japanese have no boundary between L and R?) Undoubtedly, he is qualified to be a Wrong. Authorship is nothing at all, nowadays, since authors are thick as Chinese laundries. Well, still, it can be honourable, if it is honourable. Japanese fiction penned by the tojin! It is a completely sad affair. I wonder why the author (God bless him) didn’t fit himself for brooming the streets instead of scrawling. The characters in his book—I am grateful I see no lady writer of Japanese novels yet—remind me of the “devils of mixture” swarming in Yokohama or Kobe, whose Jap mother was a professional “hell.” It is lamentable to set the verdict on them that they have inherited the art of framing lies from their mamma. Do I vex you, gentleman, when I say that your Japanese type could only be an unprincipled half-caste?