Flowerless, birdless city, sayonara! BUFFALO, 12th Niagara Falls was a disappointment. Uncle says I have still to learn how to be appreciative of things. A red brick chimney by the Fall spoils the whole affair, I do think. My uncle was cross, saying that he had eaten the toughest beef of his life. He seized two Canadian dimes and a bogus half-dollar in an hour. “Poor Uncle! Isn’t this Buffalo town awful?” I said. NEW YORK, 13th Miss Morning Glory has stepped into Greater New York, at last. Thirteenth of March, 1900. To-day will be the special day of my family history. My entrance was delightful to the full. The train stole gracefully into the city at early morn. The sky was distinct like the lake of Biwa. The respectable face of the city accepted us charmingly. I bounced my little body in my happy thought of another chapter of life. I felt like Dante crawled out of darkest Hell, after the torture of the terrible show. (O Chicago!) Our kind Japanese consul of New York was looking after our arrival with a carriage. I saw a horse-car trotting. It encouraged me to think that even an ignorant Jap girl might find her own living here, since such an old-fashioned thing exists perfectly. I secretly fixed in my mind that I will adventure my independent life when the crisis demands. Our carriage rolled up Fifth Avenue to Central Park. How often had I imagined laying me in this celebrated ground! “Pray, let me off to smell the smell of the New York breeze!” I exclaimed. When I was stationed on the third floor of an edifice on Riverside Drive—what a brisk name in the world!—which was Mr. Consul’s home, my bubbling fancies hastened down with the waters of the Hudson River under my window. Hudson River? It is my dear old acquaintance, introduced by the ever so pleasing Mr. Irving. See its classical profundity before my face! Where’s “Sleepy Hollow,” I wonder! The spectacle of the river reminded me of the Sumida Gawa of Tokio, mirroring the clouds of affectionate cherry blossoms which border its bank. It would be a remarkable idea, I thought, to petition the Mayor of New York for the Japanese cherry-trees to parade on this side of the Hudson. When they are in flower, I will open a tea-house under them, of course. My attire as a mistress should be a little red crape apron to begin with. My head will be wound with a Japanese towel to endow my Oriental eyes with certain better results. I will raise my voice, calling, “Honourable rest! Honourable tea plucked by the choicest musumes!” What a novel! Romance! How can I live without it! In that case I must entreat the removal of the characters on the other side, which are: “Lots For Sale!” Because I don’t see any such unaristocratic sign by the Sumida Gawa. 14th—O snow, yukiya fure, fure!