The season of the city is still within the fence of winter. I was grateful to my fate that conveyed me here to overtake my loving snow. I settled me by my window in absorption with the snow view of Hudson Gawa. How busily the snowflakes fall! Their cautiously silent hurry made me recollect the drama of the China-Japan war. How stealthily the soldiers marched at midnight! Can I ever forget how I tugged my shoji, crying “Victory, Dai Nippon!” I raised the window, stretching out my arm. I collected the snow-petals in the hollow of my palm. I tasted them. “Uncle, New York snow is as deliciously savoured as at home,” I said. Central Park must have been artistically attired. “Oji San, let us go to the park for snow-viewing! I advise you to till a bit more poetry in yourself, Uncle,” I announced. I began to change my dress before his decision. 15th—We went to the famous Brooklyn Bridge. Verily, New York gentlemen are interested with their papers in the car. Newspapers, O newspapers! There’s no slip of a doubt that they would die without the sight of their newspapers. The unheroic part about them is that they forget neatly to offer their seats to a lady. Woman loves an absent-minded man once in a while, but never on the car, I do say. I suppose every woman of this city has to be rich. Must I equip a carriage? I do not see why I could not win the first prize with my Louisiana ticket. How I wish to fabric an every-inch-a-Japanese mansion on Fifth Avenue, and welcome a thousand tojins to hear my Jap song on Sunday! “Is this bridge built for Americans or Europeans, Uncle? People crossing here use no English,” I said. “Liberty Statue!” I will let the Beauty statue hail from the Bay of Yedo, when I am wealthy enough to afford it. Doesn’t Nippon signify beauty? “How dear is that sign, ‘Beware of Pick-pockets!’ It makes me just feel as if I were at Shinbashi station in Tokio, doesn’t it you, Uncle?” Humbly humble ’rikisha men! If I were besieged by them imploring me to take a little honourable ride, the scene would be complete. I miss such a merry car in Amerikey. We walked down Broadway. We came to a graveyard. Tombstones in the midst of commerce! O romantic New York! I wondered how Wall Street gentlemen would be struck glancing at them. What a soft silence hovered! The old Gothic Church was my own ideal. “Uncle, let us fall in and rest!” I cried. The morning service was proceeding. Alas and alas! Not one soul was there. Is this a religious city? The inside was compact of heavenly purple air. Mr. Bishop—whatever he may be—gestured like another being from a loftier realm. A beautiful boy (there’s no greater fascination than a boy with a prayer-book) supported the service. Intangibleness of speech is itself a divine charm. “Will you mind asking Mr. Bishop whether he wants a sweeping girl? I wish I were given just a chance to clean such a holy church, uncle.” Then I looked up to Mr. Secretary.