“Shall I narrate to you how he started to write?”
“How interesting!” I ejaculated.
“Let me see your things first!” she said, tugging the basket nearer.
“My dear child, they aren’t watercresses, but baby weeds. I don’t consider they are legitimate mushrooms, either.”
She turned upon me with compassionate objection.
“Oya, oya, you don’t say so!” I exclaimed. “Then, no story, Grandma?” I looked up meekly.
11th—We had sipped our supper tea some time ago.
A band from the bay sent up irregularly the melody of the love and prowess of dear mariners.
The white moon rose.
I sat alone on my front step, and watched tenderly by the poppy.