I noticed, afterward, a black mass heaped in a ditch. The whole situation grew plain to me. He couldn’t bake, but only burn, in the oven, and had despatched his neighbour for the cake.
Dear Poet!
26th—We pressed the poet to receive some money as just a sign of our gratitude.
Mr. Heine despised our thought.
Honourable gentleman!
I found a tin box. I put the money in—ask me not how much!
I dug a hole by the willow tree beside the lily pond, and buried the money box. I tumbled a stone over it to mark it.
“I’ll write him about it from New York. See, Uncle! Isn’t it unique?” I said.
Uncle wasn’t enthusiastic in approving my idea. He couldn’t check me, however, as the money was mine.
He said he would order an elegant vase from Tokio.