Chapter II: Part 2

Many Winters ago I modelled a doll of snow, which was supposed to be a gentleman.

How proud I used to be when I stamped the first mark with my high ashida on the white ground before anyone else!

I wonder how Santa Claus will array himself to call on this town.

His fur coat is not appropriate at all.

7th—Why didn’t I come to Amerikey earlier—in the Summer season?

I was staring sadly at my purple parasol against the wall by my dresser.

I have no chance to show it.

I have often been told that I look so beautiful under it.

8th—My darling O Ada came in a carriage. Her two-horsed carriage was like that of our Japanese premier.

She is the daughter of a banker.

The sun shone in yellow.

Ada’s complexion added a brilliancy. I was shocked, fearing that I looked awfully brown.

Ada said that I was “perfectly lovely.” Can I trust a woman’s eulogy?

I myself often use flattery.

A jewel and face-powder were not the only things, I said, essential to woman.

We drove to the Golden Gate Park and then to the Cliff House.

What a triumphant sound the hoofs of the bay horses struck! I fancied the horses were a poet, they were rhyming.

I don’t like the automobile.

Ada was sweet as could be.

“Tell me your honourable love story!” she chattered.

I did only blush.

I hadn’t the courage to burst my secrecy.

I loved once truly.

It was an innocent love as from a fairy book.

If true love could be realised!

In the park I noticed a lady who scissored the “don’t touch” flowers and stepped away with a saintly air. The comical fancy came to me that she was the mother of a policeman guarding against intruders.

We found ourselves in the Japanese tea garden.

A tiny musume in wooden clogs brought us an honourable tea and o’senbe.

The grounds were an imitation of Japanese landscape gardening.

Homesickness ran through my fibre.

The decorative bridge, a stork by the brook, and the dwarf plants hinted to me of my home garden.

A sudden vibration of shamisen was flung from the Japanese cottage close by.

“Tenu, tenu! Tenu, tsunn shann!”

Who was the player?

When I sat myself by the ocean on the beach I found some packages of peanuts right before me.

The beautiful Ada began to snap them.

She hummed a jaunty ditty. Her head inclined pathetically against my shoulder. My hair, stirred by the sea zephyrs, patted her cheek.

She said the song was “My Gal’s a High-Born Lady.”

Who was its author? Emerson did not write it surely.

* * * * *

When I returned to the hotel, I undertook to place on the wall the weather-torn fragment of cotton which I had picked up at the park.

These words were printed on it:

“KEEP OFF
THE GRASS.”

I decided to mail it to my Japan, requesting my daddy to post it upon my garden grasses—somewhere by the old cherry tree.

9th—To-day is the third anniversary of my grandmother’s death.

I will keep myself in devotion.

I burned the incense I had bought from a Chinaman. I watched the beautiful gesticulation of its smoke.

Good Grandma!

She wished she could live long enough to be present at my wedding ceremony. She prayed that she might select the marriage equipage for me.

I am alone yet.

I wonder if she knows—does her ghost peep from the grasses?—that I am drifting among the ijins she ever loathed.

I don’t see how to manage myself sometimes—like an unskilful fictionist with his heroine.

When shall I get married?

10th—I yawned.

Nothing is more unbecoming to a woman than yawning.

I think it no offence to swear once in a while in one’s closet.

I was alone.

I tore to pieces my “Things Seen in the Street,” and fed the waste-paper basket with them.

The basket looked so hungry without any rubbish. An unkept basket is more pleasing, like a soiled autograph-book.

“I didn’t come to Amerikey to be critical, that is, to act mean, did I?” I said.

I must remain an Oriental girl, like a cherry blossom smiling softly in the Spring moonlight.

But afterwards I felt sorry for my destruction.

I thrust my hand into the basket. I plucked them up. They were illegibly as follows:

“ women coursing like a
’rikisha of ’Hama their children
crying at home left somewhere
their womanliness
gentleman with stove-pipe hat blowing
nose with his fingers young
lady kept busy chewing gum
while walking. If you once show such a grace
at Tokio, you shall wait fruitlessly for the
marriage offer.
“ old grandma in gay red skirt
aged man arm-in-arm with wife
so young What a martyrdom
to marry for G-O-L-D! policeman
has no

“San Francisco is a beautiful city, but
’vertisements of ‘The Girl From Paris’
W——d’s Beer
with the watches hanging on their breasts
God bless you, red necktie
gentleman woman at the corner
chattering like a street politician.”

And I missed some other hundred lines.

11th—A letter from the minister arrived.

(I’d be a postman, by the way, if I were a man. A noble work that is to deliver around the love and “gokigen ukagai.”)

I clipped off the Mexican stamp.

I will make a stamp book for my boy who may be born when I become a wife.

Before opening the letter I pressed it to my ear. My imaginative ear heard his illustrious “Ha, ha, ha——” rolling out.

How I missed his happy laughter!

Can he now pronounce a “How do?” in Mexican?

12th—It surprises me to learn that many an American is born and dies in a hotel.

Such a life—however large rooms you may possess—is not distinguishable, in my opinion, from that of a bird in a cage.

Is hotel-living a recent fashion?

Don’t say so!

The business locality—like the place where this Palace Hotel takes its seat—does not afford a stomachful of respectable air.

I preferred some hospitable boarding house in a quiet street, where I might even step up and down in nude feet. I wished to occupy a chamber where the morning sun could steal in and shake my sleepy little head with golden fingers as my beloved mama might do.

We will move to the “high-toned” boarding house of Mrs. Willis this afternoon.

Her house is placed on the high hill of California Street.

I am grateful there is no car quaking along there.

My uncle says I shall have a whole lot of millionaires for neighbours.

California must be one dignified street.

The Chinese colony is close at hand from Mrs. Willis’,—the exotic exposition brilliant with green and yellow colour. The incense surges. So cute is the sparrow-eyed Asiatic girl—such a “karako”—with a small cue on only one side of the head. Dear Oriental town!

Good luck, I pray, my Palace Hotel!

Sayonara, my graceful butlers!

I shall hear no more of their sweet “Yes, Madam!” They talk gently as a lottery-seller.

The more they bow and smile the more you will press the button of tips.

They are so funny.

So long, everybody!

13th—The savour of the air is rich without being heavy.

The Tokio atmosphere emits a lassitude.

It’s natural that the Japs are prone to languor.

A good while ago I pushed down my window facing the Bay of San Francisco. I leaned on the sill, my face propped up by both my hands.

The grand scenery absorbed my whole soul.

“Ideal place, isn’t it?” I emphasised.

The bay was dyed in profound blue.

The Oakland boat joggled on happily as from a fairy isle. My visionary eyes caught the heavenly flock of seagulls around it.

If I could fly in their company!

The low mountains over the bay looked inexpressively comfortable, like one sleeping under a warm blanket.

The moon-night view from here must be wonderful.

I felt a new stream of blood beginning to swell within my body.

I buzzed a silly song.

I crept into my uncle’s room.

I stole one stalk of his cigarettes.

I bit it, aping Mr. Uncle, when my door banged.

14th—I bustled back to my room.

My breast throbbed.

A naked woman in an oil painting stood before me in the hall.

Is Mrs. Willis a lady worthy of respect?

It is nothing but an insulting stroke to an Oriental lady—yes sir, I’m a lady—to expose such an obscenity.

I brought down one of my crape haoris, raven-black in hue, with blushing maple leaves dispersed on the sleeves, and cloaked the honourable picture.

My haori wasn’t long enough.

The feet of the nude woman were all seen.

I have not the least objection to the undraped feet. They were faultless in shape.

I myself am free to bestow a glimpse of my beautiful feet.

I turned the key of my door.

I stripped off my shoes and my stockings also.

Dear red silken stockings!

I scrutinised my feet for a while. Then I asked myself:

“Which is lovelier, my feet or those in the painting?”

15th—I couldn’t rest last night.

The long wail of a horn somewhere in the distance—at the gate of the ocean perhaps—haunted me. The night was foggy.

I had a wild dream.

The fogs were not withdrawn this morning.

I was discouraged, I had to go out in my best gown.

Wasn’t it a shame that two buttons jumped out when I hurried to dress up?

“Are the buttons secure?” is my first worry and the last.

Why don’t Meriken inventors take up the subject of buttonless clothes?

Woman cannot be easy while her dress is fastened by only buttons.

16th—I wish I could pay my bill with a bank check.

Have I money in the bank with my name?

I fancied it a great idea to sleep with a big bank book under the pillow.

I decided to save my money hereafter.

How often have I expressed my hatred of an economical woman!

I detested the clinking “charin charan” of small coins in my purse. Very hard I tried to get from them.

Extravagance is a folly. Folly is only a mild expression for crime.

I deducted ten dollars from the fifty that I had settled for my new street gown. I dropped a card notifying my ladies’ tailor that I had altered my mind for the second price.

“Ten already for the bank!” I said.

I took it to the “Yokohama Shokin Ginko” of this city.

I was given a little book for the first time in my life.

I thought myself quite a wealthy woman preserving my money in the bank.

I pressed the book to my face. I held it close to my bosom as a tiny girl with a new doll.

And I smiled into a looking-glass.

17th—I went to the gallery of the photographer Taber, and posed in Nippon “pera pera.”

The photographer spread before me many pictures of the actress in the part of “Geisha.”

She was absurd.

I cannot comprehend where ’Mericans get the conception that Jap girls are eternally smiling puppets.

Are we crazy to smile without motive?

What an untidy presence!

She didn’t even fasten the front of her kimono.

Charm doesn’t walk together with disorder under the same Japanese parasol.

And I had the honour to be presented to an extraordinary mode in her hair.

It might be entitled “ghost style.” It suggested an apparition in the “Botan Toro” played by kikugoro.

The photographer handed me a fan.

Alas! It was a Chinese fan in a crude mixture of colour.

He urged me to carry it.

I declined, saying:

“Nobody fans in cool November!”

18th—We had a laugh.

Ada, my sweet singer of “My Gal’s a High-Born Lady,” accompanied me to a matinée of one vaudeville.

This is the age of quick turn, sudden flashes.

The long show has ceased to be the fashion. Modern people are tired of the slowness of old times which was once supposed to be seriousness.

Could anything be prouder than the face of the acrobat retiring after a perilous performance?

Woman tumbler!

I wondered how Meriken ladies could enjoy looking at such a degeneration of woman.

I was glad, however, that I did not see any snake-charmer.

What a delightful voice that negro had! Who could imagine that such a silvery sound could come from such a midnight face? It was like clear water out of the ground.

I was struck by a fancy.

I sprang up.

I attempted to imitate the high-kick dance.

I fell down abruptly.

“Jap’s short leg is no use in Amerikey—can’t achieve one thing. I am frankly tired of mine,” I grumbled.

19th—The Sunday chime was the voice of an angel. The city turned religious.

Mrs. Willis—I had no curiosity about her first name; it is meaningless for the “Mrs.” of middle age—indulged in chat with me.

If I say she was “sociable”?—it sounds so graceful.

She announced herself a bigot of poetry. She was bending to make a full poetical demonstration.

Of course it was more pleasing than a mourning-gowned narrative of her lamented husband. (I suppose he is dead, as divorce is too commonplace.)

But it were treachery, if I were put under her long recital of the insignificant works of local poets.

Tasukatta wa!

A little girl came as a relief.

Dorothy! She is a boarder of Mrs. Willis’, the golden-haired daughter of Mrs. Browning.

(Mrs. Browning was a disappointment, however. I fancied she might be a relative of the poet Browning. I asked about it. Her response was an unsympathetic “No!”)

“O’ hayo!” Dorothy said, spattering over me her familiarity.

It takes only an hour to be friends with the Meriken girl, while it is the work of a year with a Japanese musume.

“Great girl! Your Nippon language is perfect! Would you like to learn more?” I said.

“I’d like it,” was her retort.

Then we slipped to my room.

I wonder how Mrs. Willis fared without an audience!

I was sorry, thinking that she might regard me as an uncivil Jap.

“Chon kina! Chon kina!”

Thus Dorothy repeated. It was a Japanese song, she said, which the geisha girls sung in “The Geisha.”

Tat, tat, tat, stop, Dorothy!

Truly it was the opening sound—not the words—of a nonsensical song.

I presume that “The Geisha” is practising a plenteous injustice to Dai Nippon.

I recalled one Meriken consul who jolted out that same song once at a party.

He became no more a gentleman to me after that.

20th—I pasted my little card on my door.

I wrote on it “Japanese Lessons Given.”

I gazed at it.

I was exceedingly happy.

21st—A gardener came to fix our lawn.

There is nothing lovelier than verdant grasses trimmed neatly. They are like the short skirt of the Meriken little girl.

We women could be angels, I thought, if our speech lapped justly. Women talk superfluously. I do often.

What language did that gardener use?

It must be the English of Carlyle, I said, for its meaning was intangible.

I discovered, by and by, that German English was his honourable choice.

My eyes could express more than my English uttered in Nippon voice. My gestures helped to make my meaning plain.

He became my friend.

He carried a red square of cotton to wipe his mouth, like the furoshiki in which a Japanese country “O’ ba san” wraps her New Year’s present.

And again as he was leaving I saw a red thing around his neck.

Was it not the same furoshiki which served for his nose?

It wouldn’t be a bad idea to play amateur gardener.

The season wasn’t fitting for such a performance, however.

A large summer hat! That was the customary attire.

But my light-hearted straw one with its laughing bouquet was not adapted to November, however gorgeously the sun might shine.

And it’s sheer stupidity to track after a tradition.

I wound a large flapping piece of black crape about my head. (How awfully becoming the garb of a Catholic nun would be! I do not know what is dear, if it is not the rosary. A writhing rope around the waist is celestial carelessness.)

I appeared on the lawn, but without a sprinkler and rake. It would have been too theatrical to carry them.

I gathered the small stones from amid the grasses into a wheelbarrow near by.

Just as my new enterprise was beginning to seem so delightful, the luncheon gong gonged.

My uncle goggled from the hall, and said:

“Where have you been? I was afraid you had eloped.”

“I’ve no chance yet to meet a boy,” I spoke in an undertone.

Afterward I was ashamed that I had been so awkwardly sincere.

22nd—There was one thing that I wanted to test.

My uncle went out. I understood that he would not be back for some hours.

I found myself in his room, pulling out his drawer.

“Isn’t it elegant?” I exclaimed, picking up his dress-suit.

At last I had an opportunity to examine how I would look in a tapering coat.

Gentleman’s suit is fascinating.

“Where is his silk hat?” I said.

I reached up my arms to the top shelf of a closet, standing on the chair.

The door swung open.

Tamageta! My liver was crushed by the alarm.

A chambermaid threw her suspicious smile at me.

Alas!

My adventure failed.

23rd—I mean no one else but O Ada San, when I say “my sweet girl.”

She was tremendously nice, giving a tea-party in my honour.

The star actress doesn’t appear on the stage from the first of the first act. I thought I would present myself a bit later at the party, when they were tattling about my delay.

I delight in employing such little dramatic arts.

I dressed all in silk. It’s proper, of course, for a Japanese girl.

I chose cherry blossoms in preference to roses for my hat. Roses are acceptable, however, I said in my second thought, for they are given a thorn against affronters.

I went to Miss Ada’s looking my best.

They—six young ladies in a bunch—stretched out their hands. I was coaxed by their hailing smile.

Ada kissed me.

I had no charming manner in receiving a kiss before the people no more than in giving one. I blushed miserably. I knew I was bungling.

O Morning Glory, you are one century late!

They besieged me.

None of them was so pretty as Ada. Beauty is rare, I perceive, like good tweezers or ideal men.

I distributed my Japanese cards.

All of my new friends held them upside down.

Is it a modern vogue to be ignorant?

Ada played skilfully her role of hostess, which was a middle-aged part. She didn’t even spill the tea in serving. Her “Sugar? Two lumps?” sounded fit. She divided her entertaining eye-flashes among us.

Tea is the thing for afternoon, when woman is excused if she be silly.

We all undressed our too-tight coat of rhetoric in the sipping of tea.

We laughed, and laughed harder, not seeing what we were laughing at.

I couldn’t catch all of their names.

Such a delicious name as “Lily” was absurdly given to a girl with red blotches on her face.

(A few blemishes are a fascination, however, like slang thrown in the right place.)

Her flippancy was like the “buku buku” of a stream.

Lightness didn’t match with her heavy physique.

“How lovely an earthquake must be!” she chirruped. “Shall I go to Japan just on that account? A jolly moment I had last February. A baby earthquake visited here, as you know. I was drinking tea. The worst of it was that I let the cup tumble on to my pink dress. I prayed a whole week, nevertheless, to be called again.”

Woman has nothing to do with a hideous make-up. Miss Lily should not select a pink hue.

“You are awful!” I said.

I told about the horror of a certain famous Japanese earthquake. They all breathed out “Good heavens!”

There was one second of silence.

Ada struck a gushing melody on the piano.

The lively Meriken ladies prompted themselves to frisk about.

I was ready to cry in my destitution.

One girl hauled me up violently by the hand.

“Come and dance!”

Her arm crawled around my waist, while she directed:

“Right foot—now, left!”

I returned to Mrs. Willis’, my thoughts absorbed in a dancing academy.

“I must learn how to skip,” I said.

24th—I hate the alarm clock, simply because it is always so punctual.

“I was too late” is a delightful expression.

“Mrs. Willis’ breakfast is at quarter-past eight!”

Isn’t that “quarter-past” interesting?

And I can never be ready before nine.

25th—I dragged my uncle off to the Chute to enrich my store of zoology.

“One gape more, Uncle, to count up one dozen!” I said, and pulled his mustache in the car.

It was lucky that no one saw my act.

Poor Oji San! Playing chaperon is not a very promising occupation, is it?

I stood by the “happy family” of monkeys. I tried to descry their point of view in orations.

I gave it up.

The vain Miss Polly worked hard to bring everybody to an understanding with one eternal “Hello, dear!”

I found such grace in the elephant when he waved his honourable trunk.

The stupid Mr. Elephant wasn’t stupid a bit in accepting my present.

How philosophically he gazed at me! Very likely I was the first Jap girl to his audience.

What respectable eyes!

“You’ll bankrupt yourself in peanuts,” my uncle warned.

26th—A white apron on my black dress makes me so cute.

I am just suited to be a chambermaid. Shall I volunteer as a servant?

I bought an apron.

To-day is house-cleaning day.

I kept busy a good while arranging my theatrical costume as a maid.

Wasn’t it fun?

I was ready to scrub the floor, when I heard “kotsu kotsu,” on my door.

It was Annie with a broom.

“I’m your help. Just a moment! I have forgotten the finishing glance in my mirror.”

27th—I have been studying the catechism.

I am afraid to go to church, for the minister may put many a question to me.

Is Miss Ada a dutiful church-goer?

I don’t think so.

She would rather mumble a nigger song than a chapter from the Bible.

I will ask her a few things from the catechism at my first opportunity.

28th—“Hand me your cup after you are done with your tea!” Mrs. Browning requested. “I will ponder on your fortune.”

“How delightful!” I said.

My fortune?

I remembered how I used to scatter my pocket money among the fortune-tellers, pleased to be informed of a lot of nice things.

What meaning she could find in a cup!

I felt like a mother with her children already in bed, when I dropped my spoon into my tea.

I felt mistress of the situation.

Was there ever anything more welcome than to learn your fortune?

“A young American (rich, very rich—indeed) will win your affection. The marriage will be a happy one,” she prophesied.

Is that so?

Life is becoming very interesting.

I wonder where my would-be husband is seeking me.

Shall I advertise in a paper?

How?

If my first-rate picture by Mr. Taber were printed, it would be a whole thing in such a business.

I thought the picture beautiful enough to sell at any stationer’s of U.S.A.

How many thousand could I sell in a week?

Could I make money out of it? Some decent fortune, I mean, of course.

29th—Ho, ho, such a day!

I was aroused by the roar of a milk-wagon early in the morning.

I sought a pin in vain.

I tore my skirt on a sneering nail at the door.

I upset my flower-vase.

I sat by my window. A vegetable pedlar howled to me, “Potatoes? Potatoes?”

I couldn’t recall a sweet dream I had last night.

The clamour of a Chinese funeral passed under my room. The carriages were packed with hired “crying women.” Isn’t it a farce?

I went out. My street-car ran off the track.

A fire-engine deafened me.

I passed by an undertaker’s. It was cold like a grave.

The sight stunned me.

30th—Is my nose high enough?

I bought a pair of “nose spectacles.”

Those with wires to circle the ears, which are Oriental (that is to say old-fashioned), would suit even a noseless Formosa Chinee.

But how many Japs could show themselves ready for nose spectacles?

The Optician asked if they were for myself.

He was a trifle uncertain about my nose, I suppose.

“No! For my friend,” I said.

It was a white lie.

I blushed as if I had committed a heavy crime.

I hoped I had not.

I put my new spectacles on my nose, as soon as I returned to my room. Very well they stayed. Mother Nature was specially kind to me.

But what a depression—also what torture—I felt from their clutch!

I was pleased, however, seeing myself somewhat scholarly.

Aren’t spectacles an emblem of wisdom?

The first requirement to be a critic should be spectacles. The second is a pessimistic smile, of course.

My mirror told me that I looked quite modern.

“Book!” I exclaimed.

I must see what effect I could produce with a book on my lap.

I leaped from the chair to fetch one.

My spectacles dropped from my honourable nose on to the hearthstone. My nose was exceedingly stupid.

Alas, and alas!

The spectacles were crushed to pieces.

I was broken also.

I buried my face in the pillow for some time.

Then I said: “I’m not short in my sight. I have no use for them except for fun.”

I wiped my disturbed eyes with a handkerchief. My finger felt the rude marks printed on both sides of my nose.

Dec. 1st—I bought a Louisiana lottery ticket through Annie.

Like any other domestic girl, she has no key to her mouth. She is like a sentence that has forgotten to add the period.

I begged all sorts of gods to drop the capital prize on me.

Thirty thousand dollars! Think!

How shall I manage with them when I have won?

2nd—If I were a painter!

My eyes were fixed upon the dying sun. Its solemnity was like the passing of a mighty king.

Some time glided by.

My thought was pursuing the sun.

The twilight!

Oh, twilight pacifying me as with the odour from a magical palace!

Hush!

The melody of a piano effused from my neighbour.

The best thing in the world is to play music. The very best is to listen to the profuse melody evoked by a master.

Was it a superb execution?

My soul was dissolved, anyhow, in the rapture.

I left my uncle’s room where I saw the grand sun pass away.

I put me in my bed, because my visionary mood was not to be stirred for the world, and because I wished to dream a romance without the delay of a moment.

But I could not slumber.

And I missed my dinner.

I petitioned my uncle to step out into the street for my beloved chestnuts.

Dear Italian chestnut vendor!

I never pass by without buying.

3rd—We start to-morrow for Los Angeles of Southern California.

Mr. and Mrs. Schuyler have invited us to spend some weeks with them.

The gentleman was the former consul at Yokohama. My uncle is his intimate friend.

My new trunk was brought in from the store.

It bears my name in Roman of commanding type.

I stared at the characters as upon an ancient writing whose meaning could only be imagined.

“Doesn’t ‘Miss Morning Glory’ suggest that the owner is a charming young lady?”

My little smile smiled, as I thought that it would, of course.

A new trunk, I am sorry to say, lacks a historical look. An old one is more gratifying, like old brocade or an old ring.

Au revoir, my Ada!

South-bound train, 4th—I was lavish of my art of “bothering.”

My poor uncle—my eternally “poor uncle” was the victim. I wanted some diversion at any price.

His face scowled as I bored him with my successive questions.

I thought his irritated face fascinating.

When I presented another question, he was droning a genteel snore.

I twisted an edge of a newspaper into a roll. I thrust it into his nose.

There was no doubt about his starting.

“Bikkurishita!” he exclaimed.

Then he begged to be allowed some chance to rest.

This is a “bad year for cucumbers” for him. He made a mistake in accompanying me on Meriken Kenbutsu.

Honestly I have to behave nicely.

My opening question to Uncle was: “What’s the derivation of ‘damn’?”

“Imperialism” was my last.

I have a high regard for the people dignified by using the capital “I” for the personal pronoun.

But if I were the President I should not wish to be addressed with that hackneyed, unromantic “Mr.”

The cartoonists making sport of the President shock me.

How big-hearted the President is!

Those “devils” would be beheaded in the Orient.

Los Angeles, 5th—No one bangs the door at Schuyler’s.

The servants drop their eyes meekly before they speak.

A well-bred atmosphere circulates.

A woman over forty-five is nothing if she isn’t motherly enough to let one feel at home. Mrs. Schuyler’s silence is a smile. I loved her from my first glance. I thought I could ask her to wash my hair some sunny day. I could fancy how pleasant it would be to immerse myself in her chat—such sort of talk as an old-bonneted “how to keep house”—while I was drying my hair in the indolence of a sea-nymph. Modern topic is like black coffee, it is too stimulating. There is nothing dearer than a domestic subject.

I have no hesitation in accepting her as my Meriken mother.

I am positive I would feel more comfortable if I had one in this country.

How good-naturedly she was fattened!

A somewhat stout woman looks so proper for a mother.

I wished I could lean on her plump shoulder from the back in Japanese girl’s way, and play with her hair, and ask a few innocent questions like “What have I to eat for dinner?”

She talked about the Japanese woman, principally praising her shapely mouth.

I felt conceitedly, because I was given one classical little mouth, if I had nothing else to be noticed.

Mr. Schuyler grasped my hand ever so hard. My hand was buried in his palm. His manner was courteously boyish.

His body is erect like a redwood.

Such an old gentleman gives me the impression of another race from the divine realm of everlasting youth. A Jap after fifty is capped with “retired.”

But the work of the American gentleman is only finished when he dies.

Great Meriken Jin!

Mr. Schuyler shows more civility to his servants than to his wife.

Here I can study the typical household of America’s best caste.

6th—“Anata donata?”

I rubbed my dreamy eyes, scanning my room.

Who was the Japanese speaker?

I crept to the door, and opened it slightly.

Not a soul was there.

I heard the trivial clatter of the kitchen stepping up.

I dipped into my bed again. I smiled sceptically, thinking that I must have been dreaming.

“Gokigen ikaga?”

I was addressed again by the same voice.

I said that there was positively some mischief in my room.

I leaped down from the bed.

I inspected my slippers. I made sure there was nothing strange under the pictures on the wall. I tugged at the drawers. I tumbled every blanket. I pried in the pitcher.

I sat on the bed wrapped in fog.

The blind rustled.

The sunbeams crawled in marvellously.

Then I was frightened by another speech, “Nihonjin desu.”

I declared that it flew in from the outside.

I rolled up the blind.

Oya, oya! There was a parrot perching in a cage by my window!

He adjusted his showy coat first, and then sent me his inquisitive eyes.

“Anata donata?” he repeated.

“Morning Glory is my insignificant name, sir,” I replied.

A trifling toss of his head showed his satisfaction in my name. I thought he was trying to set me at ease with his smile.

“Gokigen ikaga?”

“I feel splendidly, thank you, Mr. Parrot!” I said.

Then pressing his head backward he looked haughtily at me with fixed eyes, and announced:

“Nihonjin desu.”

“I’m also a Jap,” I muttered.

He was the most profound Japanese scholar, Mrs. Schuyler said, in all Los Angeles. Mr. Schuyler Jr. brought him from Kobe last spring.

I told her the incident of this morning.

She laughed, she said she expected it.

Bad Mother Schuyler!

17th—Dear Baby! Kawaii koto!

I hugged the baby of Mrs. Schuyler Jr. and kissed it.

Her husband is away in Japan for the tea business.

It was the darling baby, I thank the gods, who received my first kiss.

It’s heavenly to stamp love with a kiss. Lips are the portal of the human heart.

Kiss is sweet.

I say that it marks an epoch in the spiritual evolution of the Japanese when they learn what a kiss is—but not how to kiss.

The baby crawled like a sportive crab. It orationed. It! I felt sorry that “It” would soon be changed to “He” or “She.” It caught sight of a piece of burnt match in the course of its expedition. It turned its way and clinched it with its fingers. It hastened to the mother to exhibit it, and waited patiently with its great game for Mamma’s praise.

I nearly cried in my excitement at such a pathetic revelation.

Lovely thing!

The baby had blue eyes.

My preference wasn’t for blue eyes. I often snapped at them, saying that they were like a dead fish’s eyes.

But how long can I keep up my ill-will, when I look with delight upon the blueness in water, sky and mountain?

Isn’t it precious to see the blue pictures on china?

A blue pencil is just the thing to mark on the margin of a pleasing book.

Blue is a poetical hue.

Robert Burns was blue-eyed.

I recalled the first American I met in Tokio, who seriously questioned whether it was a fact that Japs butcher a blue-eyed baby.

Bakabakashii wa!

Japan has no blue eye.

And Japanese are worshippers of any sort of baby.

If American babies were like Chinese girls!

I would pile up all my coins to buy one.

Meriken baby understood how to smile before how to cry. It is a lady or gentleman already.

I will serve as baby’s nurse if I must support myself.

It’s a high task to be useful to the baby, and watch its growth as a silent astronomer watches the stars.

I wish I could roll the baby’s carriage day after day.

How sweetly the world would be turning then!

Shall I hire Schuyler’s baby for one day?

8th—Is there any more gratifying word than dinner?

I had a “hipp goo’” dinner. (Permit a Chinese-English expression for once.)

Its inviting heaviness was like an honourable poem by Milton.

Schuyler’s house has a Miltonic presence.

Electric light is too imposing.

Candelabra are like a moon whose beams are a lenitive song.

The nude shoulders of Mrs. Schuyler, Jr., crimsoned in the rays from the candelabra.

The exposure of some part of the skin is the highest order of art. How to show it is just as serious a study as how to clothe it.

If I had such supreme shoulders as hers, I would not pause before displaying them.

What falling shoulders are mine!

The slope of the shoulders is prized in Japan. Amerikey is another country, you know.

I appeared at the dinner in my native gown.

The things on the table had a high-toned excellence.

I will not forget to have my initials engraved if I happen to buy any silver.

Coffee was served. I felt that an old age had returned, when eating was only a dissipation.

I’m growing to love Meriken food.

I am glad that I don’t see any musty pudding at Schuylers’, a sight that makes me ten years older.

And another thing I hate is the smell of cabbage.

How pleased I was to see a “chabu chabu” of shallow water in my finger bowl! Just a glimpse of water is tasty.

Our taciturn butler retired from the dining-room with graceful dignity.

The butler has ceased to be a common servant. He has advanced, I suppose, to the rank of an ornament of the Meriken household.

The sister of Mother Schuyler and her husband dined with us.

The funniest thing about her was that she kept a few long hairs on her cheek. They grew from a mole.

It may be good luck to preserve them.

Her husband was surprised when he heard that we do not use knife and fork at home.

Bamboo chop-sticks! How dear!

9th—I have no belief in the earring.

It is a savage mode, like the deformed feet of the Chinese woman.

But why did the Meriken lady discard her veil?

Her face behind the veil would appear like a rose through the Spring mist. It is a charming thing as ever was fashioned for woman.

I have seen no lady with a veil in this town.

I suppose the Los Angeles women confide in their faces.

They strew more liberty in their grace than the San Franciscans.

Their beauty is informal.

The city is enchanting.

I am pleased that I am not shown here so many a “To Let” as in Frisco.

Even the barefooted Arabs, those street sparrows, are quite a picture.

10th—I promised Mrs. Schuyler, Jr., good care of her baby for half an hour.

I carried it firm on my arms.

I jogged out to the garden.

The baby faced toward me and said:

“Bu, bu! Bu, bu, bu!”

I felt grateful, thinking that it counted me among its friends.

I laid its head on my breast.

I sang a little Japanese lullaby:

“Nenneko, nenneko,
Nennekoyo!
Oraga akanbowa
Itsudekita?
Sangatsu sakurano
Sakutokini!
Doride okawoga.
Sakurairo.”

(Sleep, sleep, sleep! When was our baby made? Third month, when the cherry blossoms. So the honourable face of our child is cherry-blossom coloured.)

The breezes billed and cooed upon the grasses. An imperial palm cast its rich shadow.

The affectionate sunlight made me think of a “little Spring” of the Japanese September. Everything inclined to a siesta in the yellow air.

A tropical touch is the touch of passion.

Can you fancy this is the month of December?

I cannot.

After I put the baby to its nurse, I paced around a bronze statue upon the lawn, losing myself in Greek beauty.

Then I snatched a rose.

I pressed it to my nose-tip.

12th—Where’s my painstaking description of Echo Mountain?

I made a pleasant trip there yesterday with Schuyler’s party.

I lost my writing penned last night.

Such a heedless tomboy!

I idled, watching a spider from my window. It was framing a net amid the garden trees. An awfully dignified tom cat glared from under a bush. I was sorry no game came upon the scene to his honour. My profound Japanese scholar was not discouraged by the lack of an audience. He was busy presenting his polite “Gokigen ikaga?”

Then I found what I did with my yesterday’s diary.

Areda mono!

I wiped my oily hands with it and buried it in a trash basket.

I fixed my hair this morning.

Morning Glory San, you have to keep your Nikki in a safe!

Great Carlyle wrote his “French Revolution” twice.

I wish I had been given a slice of his persistency.

13th—A Bishop visited and lunched with us.

Bishop! How I desired to meet one!

It had been my fancy, ever since I read of the venerable Bishop who threw out candle-sticks to Jean Valjean in Hugo’s book.

His name was Myriel.

What is my friend’s name? After a man reaches the bishop’s see, his own name should retire from actual service. People call him “Bishop! Bishop!” as if it were a nickname.

My bishop had a holy face.

“Who is this good man who is staring at me?” I said to myself at first sight, as Napoleon said when he saw Myriel.

A young churchman is unnatural.

The customarily pessimistic face of the Japanese priest causes aversion.

I got what I wanted in my new friend.

If I were his daughter, I would comb his silken hair before he goes to church on Sunday.

I was glad he was not thin.

Ho, ho, ho! He ate meat like anybody else.

He would seem holier if he merely bit a crust of bread, and sipped three spoonfuls of tea.

After luncheon we strolled through the garden arm in arm.

Not a bit I blushed. I was as completely at ease with him as with my papa.

He told me of the beauty of Christ. His soft, deep voice was as from a far-away forest.

I plucked a few stems of violets. I fitted them to his buttonhole.

Such a little thing pleased him immensely.

Dear, simple Bishop!

I digested what he spoke. I declared that Christianity was the sun, while Buddhism was the moon.

The sun is day and life, and the moon night and rest.

How can we live without the sun? The moon is poetry.

14th—The sky became low, its colour frowning gray.

The winds snarled.

December was suddenly calling us.

We sat by a snug fire at evening.

Its yellow flame suggested a preacher uplifting his hands in prayer. The fire flickered in jollity.

“Pachi, pachi, pachi!”

The parlour was not lighted.

The pictures on the wall were impressive in the firelight.

Any woman looks charming at night and by the fireside. I felt happy imagining that I must appear lovely.

The fireplace is so dear, like mamma’s lap.

Mr. Schuyler brought a chess-board and challenged.

I offered me for a fight.

I used to play American chess with a Meriken missionary who lived in my neighbourhood. I thought it fun to beat an old man.

“Namu Tenshoko Daijingu!” I repeated.

The gentleman asked what I muttered.

“Never mind! Only a little spell!” I replied in the lightest fashion.

The chess-board was placed between us.

“Mr. Schuyler, can you sacrifice anything for the game?”

“Whatever you please, my little woman!”

“Well!”

“Well, then!”

“Suppose you make Mrs. Schuyler your stake! My uncle will be mine.”

“Ha, ha! Very well!”

He was a tactician. I fought hard.

Alas, my game was lost!

My second stake was myself.

“It means that I may marry you, doesn’t it?”

“As you please, sir!”

Iyani natta!

He was far superior.

Oya, oya, I was a loser again!

I looked sadly on my uncle, and said:

“Uncle, you cannot return home! We are the property of Mr. Schuyler. Isn’t it really too bad?”

15th—Shall I make a little kimono for Schuyler’s baby?

It would be a souvenir of my visit.

The crape kept in the Jap stores of this town isn’t appropriate for a baby’s “bebe.” My flower-dyed under-kimono should be utilized.

I opened my trunk.

Mother Schuyler brought in a young lady. She was her niece, that is to say the daughter of Mrs. Ellis. Mrs. Ellis is the one with the long hair on her cheek.

I told them of my new drift.

They were surprised at my determination.

Miss Olive applied to be my pupil in Japanese sewing.

What a southern name! Olive perfectly fits for a girl born in the passionate breeze.

Her “Is that so?” or “Don’t you?” fluttered affectionately like golden sunshine.

Mrs. Schuyler bade her servant to move in the machine.

I objected.

Machine-clicking is not Oriental. The “bebe” has to be done in pure Japanese.

16th—I found a hammock on the veranda.

It is the thing for summer, of course.

I never laid me in it before in my life.

I thought that I would see how I would feel.

I hanged it.

I romped in it.

It was delightful. I fancied that we—I and who?—hammocked among the summer breezes. Then a star appeared. He said, “How beautiful the star is!”

What did I fancy next?

Oh, never mind!

I tossed my feet. The skirt fluttered. My new satin slippers—number one and a half—were all seen. I drew up my skirt a little, and made a whole show of my honourable legs.

I prayed that somebody would pass by to fling an adoring glance at them.

No one roamed along. I scorned my frivolity.

The Bible by me wasn’t open at all.

I decided to read it to-day, although religion isn’t so becoming.

My Bishop sent it this morning. Dear old Bishop! He thought me quite a docile “nenne.”

I stretched my body in the hammock.

Alas, ma!

My hana kanzashi with the butterflies was caught by the meshes. The wings of one butterfly were tortured. Yes, I had put a Japanese pin on my hair this morning.

I hoped I could pay a bit more attention to my head all the time.

I was sad for a while.

17th—Good Annie wrote me from Mrs. Willis’.

What a scrawl!

But woman’s bad grammar and infirm penmanship are pathetic, don’t you think so?

It might look better on a thin blue tablet.

But poor Annie chose such thick smooth paper.

Oya! What?

A five-dollar check?

My goodness, I had forgotten all about my lottery! Even the ticket I have lost. It drew out five dollars.

Why not thirty thousand dollars?

It was better than a blank, anyway, I said philosophically.

Now let me send a little present to my home!

A little thing is a deal sweeter.

I ordered fourteen packets of N. Y. Central Park lawn seed from a nursery.

New York Central Park!

Doesn’t it sound grand?

And other flower seeds also.

The dwarf sweet pea is named “Cupid.”

It will be no wonder if my father mistakes it for a kibisho.

Cupid is a handsome boy, not a bullfrog-looking teapot, funny papa!

He is garden crazy. I can imagine how conceited he will be showing around his western sea flowers when they are in bloom.

I asked my uncle to translate the directions.

Isn’t it handy to keep a secretary?

I’ll not miss signing my name on the translation.

My daddy may think it was done by myself.

Woman is a snob.

Now what for mamma?

18th—Mother Schuyler took me to her church.

Such a heathen me!

I felt that I was “sitting on needles,” when I slipped into the Meriken church without glancing at even one page of the Bible. It was as risky a venture as to face an examination before fitting.

The service hadn’t begun.

Many ladies were introduced to me by Mrs. Schuyler.

They talked about—what?—anything but religion.

I was fanned continually by an offensive odor. Some one had left her perfume at home.

Honourable arm-pit smell!

Amerikey cultivates many a disagreeable sort of thing, doubtless.

The ladies seemed to regard the church as another drawing parlor.

My mind was calmed within ten minutes.

Ureshiya!

The Meriken church is not a difficult place at all.

A Japanese church is ever so sad-faced. No woman under thirty is seen there. I laughed at the thought of an “incense-smelling” young girl.

Isn’t it strange that Meriken girls love the church?

Is it because they cannot marry without it?

Sunday amusement doesn’t begin before noon. What would girls do if there were no church where they could burst into song?

How classically the bald head of the minister shone!

There is nothing more pleasing than a sweeping sermon on a bright day.

But my mind strayed, wondering why all those ladies were so homely.

I snatched my hat off, wishing to be different from the rest.

I fancied the reason why their hats were eternally glued to their heads was because their hair was never in first-rate order for exhibition.

Many years ago I used to steal into a Buddha temple, being a little “otenba,” and tap an idol’s shoulder, saying: “How are you getting along, Hotoke Sama?”

Not one idol here!

No incense!

How uninteresting!

How silly I was inventing some clever thing for the occasion when I should be forced to confess! The church was not Catholic.

When we returned home, Mrs. Schuyler asked me what was the text.

“Let me see——”

I made as if I had been a listener to the sermon.

“Dear Mrs. Schuyler, what was it?” I exclaimed as if I had accidentally forgotten.

19th—Miss Olive offered to show me how to play golf.

I went to her home at Pasadena.

Pasadena is a luxurious Winter resort of cheerful aspect.

Its water is blessed.

Even the street cars run like a well-bred gentleman. The dog never growls around. It only wags its tail. No beggars.

America’s outdoor diversion demands a great deal of strength.

What an imbecile “anego!”

After fifteen minutes I found two bean-like blisters on each palm.

I gave up the game.

I bought a golf outfit, nevertheless, in a store on my way home. The sight of a lady carrying it once stamped itself on my mind as so charming.

What attire would be becoming to me?

I said that my waist should be of deep red wool. Skirt? It must also be of wool, of course, with a large checkerboard pattern. Silk isn’t gamesome, is it? And the hat should be a mouse-coloured felt, which must be thrust carelessly by my big gold pin with a coral head.

I well-nigh decided to dye my hair red.

What will my uncle say?

20th—Schuyler’s cook wasn’t acquainted with the art of rice-cooking.

Mother Schuyler said explanatorily that she had never tasted properly cooked rice since the day at Yokohama.

The rice was pasty.

I thought I would boil the rice according to Japanese prescription for to-day’s dinner.

I stepped down to the kitchen.

I put three cupfuls of rice in a saucepan, and dipped my hand in it, and supplied water as much as to my wrist.

I placed it on the splendid fire till the agitated water pushed up the lid. Then I moved it on to a gentle fire. The cooking was done after twenty minutes.

I was honoured by everybody at the dinner. The rice was singularly fine. The grains kept their own perfect shapes.

After the dinner I approached Mrs. Schuyler with ink and paper.

“Will you write your recommendation of my rice-cooking?” I said.

She gazed at me questioningly.

“What a funny girl! What shall I say?”

Then I dictated solemnly thus:

“_To whom it may concern:_

“I highly recommend Miss Morning Glory with her honourable art
of rice-cooking. Her method is Japanese, that is to say, the
best in the world.

MRS. SCHUYLER”

21st:—Without a nephew Mother Schuyler wouldn’t be a complete old dear.

She has one fortunately.

Olive San told me a whole lot about her great brother.

He is a promising artist.

Artist?

Doesn’t an artist affect boorish hair? I was anxious to know how his hair was, because I hated anything long except a frock-coat.

Miss Olive declared him one handsome boy. (I thought how ridiculous is the American girl to praise her brother. It is Japanese etiquette to undervalue one’s relatives in describing them.)

I finished my imaginary sketch of his face before we intruded in his studio.

Olive presented me to him.

He was a comely young man.

What gratified me most about him was his shapely shoes, well-polished.

He knew how to talk with girls.

I was instantly put on unceremonious terms.

How beautifully he once slipped “Miss” in addressing me! His gracefully-sounding “Pardon me, I mean Miss Morning Glory!” pleased me enormously.

I told him that it was a regular humbug to be particular.

“I will call you Oscar, shall I?” I said, winking.

I felt some fervid water oozing down my cheeks. I was blushing.

I was glad that he was not Mr. Ellis, Jr. The word “Jr.” appears to me like a ragged papa’s old coat which is dreadfully out of fashion.

“Will you let me paint you?” he requested.

“Am I beautiful enough, do you think?” I said, dropping my eyelids.

“Only too charming!” he said bravely.

I always think every gentleman whom I meet falls in love with me.

I regarded Mr. Oscar Ellis already as an adorer.

O sentimental Morning Glory!

When I returned to Schuyler’s my mind was completely occupied with an absurd fancy.

I was thinking what I shall do when he proposes to me. Shall I say yes?

For a girl to fall in love with one while she is staying at his aunt’s isn’t romantic a bit, is it?

I don’t care, anyhow, for an artist lover.

It is a worn-out hero in old fiction.

Doesn’t the word “artist” ring like a synonym for poverty?

22nd—Mrs. Ellis invited me to dinner.

I went to Pasadena with Mrs. Schuyler, Jr.

The evening was fragrant.

After the dinner we stepped out to the garden. It was dusky.

By and by, twenty Japanese lanterns were candled among the trees in my honor.

I was in a sprightly bent.

I was whispering a little Jap song, when Oscar led out two donkeys.

Olive sprang upon the back of one in gracious audacity.

“Jump, Morning Glory!” she exclaimed.

I was wavering about my action, when I felt Oscar’s firm arms around my waist. My small body was lifted on to the donkey’s by his careless gallantry.