We finished our meat and vegetables.
I smiled lightly, and said: “Are you ready for the Tokio smile?”
“Just ten minutes yet, my dear!” The poet smoothed such a lengthy gray beard.
I winked to Grandma. We looked upon him slyly.
8th—The poet was hoeing in his vegetable garden.
His attire was theatrical.
His red crape sash laxly surrounding his trousers lacked, I am sorry to say, a large Japanese tobacco bag. The cap with gay ribbons was like one of Li Hung Chang’s. His back carried a bearskin, inside of which some slovenly yellow silk flapped down.
How tall he was!
“Please, don’t dig over there, Mr. Heine, because I buried my poem there,” I said.
“What poem, my lady?” he asked.