Already the picnic band invades.
To-day I will make myself mistress of a hillside coffee-house.
The poet—the eternally sweet poet—hastened to borrow a tent from a neighbour.
He set it on the greenest spot of grass before my cottage. I must excuse his conceit, he entreated, in showing his skill by baking a cake for me.
“Accept my hundred arigatos!”
I bowed demonstratively.
I pasted a paper—such a bashful brown piece from a butcher’s table—with the sign of
“BISHOPS’ REST.”
The poet tacked “Ten Cents for Coffee and Cake” on the fence by the tent.
The cups (what a shame that their arms were all off) were rinsed, when he showed me an imperial poundcake, declaring it his own manufacture.