16th—It seems to me a recent style that New York ladies discard their babies to leave them in the hands of European immigrants (very likely they want them to learn an ungrammatical hodge-podge, as respectableness is old-fashioned) and accompany a dog with mighty affection. O my dear “chin” that I left at home! Shall I call it to Amerikey? Little loyal thing, pathetic, clinging! I am sure it would beat any other in a dog contest. 17th—I never saw such hungry eyes in my life as those of an organ-grinder, set upon the windows for a dropping penny. To an artist they would hint of a prisoner’s bloodshot eyes numbed by useless gazing toward the light of the world. Poor Italians! They don’t know one thing but turning the handle. The last two days they placed their organ—read their sign, “Garibaldi & Co.”—under my apartment at the same hour for my bit money. I thought one of them might be a grandson of the renowned Italian patriot. How interesting it would be to be told of his shipwreck in life! Now three o’clock. There’s one more hour before their frolic music will gush. I must wrap some money in paper for them. God bless them—simple creatures who work hard! 18th—Mr. Consul—an old man who sips the grayness of celibacy—never strays out from his official duty. He calls society and novels two recent pieces of foolery. The family of Uncle’s intimate is off in Europe. The possibility of a nice time for me is verily illegible. Tsumaranai! Last night I sketched an adventure of enlisting in the band of domestics. “Capital idea to examine a New York household!” I said, when I left my breakfast table. I humbled myself to a newspaper office with the following shamefaced advertisement: “Jap girl, nineteen, good-looking, longs for a place in a family of the first rank.” I used every kind of oratory to bring my uncle to agree to my two weeks of freedom. 19th—Two letters were waiting me at the office. One from No. 296 of a certain part. 296? Unfortunately it sounds like “nikumu” in Japanese, meaning hatred. And the other was from Fifth Avenue. Parlour maid. Twelve dollars for a month. I shall accept it, since it is the proper quarter for seeing the high-toned New Yorker. I feel already a servant feeling. I am sorry that I didn’t discipline myself before in dusting. I will style me an honest worker for awhile. “Toiling for my daily bread,” does ring an American sound, doesn’t it? “Domestic girl has no right, I think, to sit with Messrs. Consul and Secretary,” I said, moving my dinner plate to the kitchen table. Morning Glory, isn’t it time you changed the book of your diary? Really, sir! Let me close now with a ceremonious bow! My next book shall be entitled: “THE DIARY OF A PARLOUR MAID.” [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------