I had well-nigh decided that I would not cross such an ocean again by ship. I would wait patiently until a trans-Pacific railroad is erected. I was basking in the sun. I fancied the “Belgic” navigating a wrong track. What then? Was I approaching lantern-eyed demons or howling cannibals? “Iya, iya, no! I will proudly land on the historical island of Lotos Eaters.” I said. Why didn’t I take Homer with me? The ocean is just the place for his majestic simplicity and lofty swing. I recalled a few passages of “The Lotos Eaters” by Lord Tennyson—it sounds better than “the poet Tennyson.” I love titles, but they are thought as common as millionaires nowadays. A Jap poet has a different mode of speech. Shall I pose as poet? ’Tis no great crime to do so. I began my “Lotos Eaters” with the following mighty lines: “O dreamy land of stealing shadows! O peace-breathing land of calm afternoon! O languid land of smile and lullaby! O land of fragrant bliss and flower! O eternal land of whispering Lotos Eaters!” Then I feared that some impertinent poet might have said the same thing many a year before. Poem manufacture is a slow job. Modern people slight it, calling it an old fashion. Shall I give it up for some more brilliant up-to-date pose? 17th—I began to knit a gentleman’s stockings in wool. They will be a souvenir of this voyage. (I cannot keep a secret.) I tell you frankly that I designed them to be given to the gentleman who will be my future “beloved.” The wool is red, a symbol of my sanguine attachment. The stockings cannot be much larger than my own feet. I dislike large-footed gentlemen. 18th—My uncle asked if my great work of poetical inspiration was completed. “Uncle, I haven’t written a dozen lines yet. My ‘Lotos Eaters’ is to be equal in length to ‘The Lady of the Lake.’ Now, see, Oji San, mine has to be far superior to the laureate’s, not merely in quality, but in quantity as well. But I thought it was not the way of a sweet Japanese girl to plunder a garland from the old poet by writing in rivalry. Such a nice man Tennyson was!” I said. I smiled and gazed on him slyly. “So! You are very kind!” he jerked. 19th—I don’t think San Francisco is very far off now. Shall I step out of the ship and walk? Has the “Belgic” coal enough? I wonder how the sensible steamer can be so slow! Let the blank pages pass quickly! Let me come face to face with the new chapter—“America!” The gray monotone of life makes me insane. Such an eternal absence of variety on the ocean! 20th—The moon—how large is the ocean moon!—sat above my head. When I thought that that moon must have been visiting in my dearest home of Tokio, the tragic scene of my “Sayonara, mother!” instantly returned. Tears on my cheeks! Morning, 21st—Three P.M. of to-day! At last! Beautiful Miss Morning Glory shall land on her dream-land, Amerikey. That’s my humble name, sir.