18th—My uncle asked if my great work of poetical inspiration was completed.
“Uncle, I haven’t written a dozen lines yet. My ‘Lotos Eaters’ is to be equal in length to ‘The Lady of the Lake.’ Now, see, Oji San, mine has to be far superior to the laureate’s, not merely in quality, but in quantity as well. But I thought it was not the way of a sweet Japanese girl to plunder a garland from the old poet by writing in rivalry. Such a nice man Tennyson was!” I said.
I smiled and gazed on him slyly.
“So! You are very kind!” he jerked.
19th—I don’t think San Francisco is very far off now. Shall I step out of the ship and walk?
Has the “Belgic” coal enough? I wonder how the sensible steamer can be so slow!
Let the blank pages pass quickly! Let me come face to face with the new chapter—“America!”
The gray monotone of life makes me insane.
Such an eternal absence of variety on the ocean!
20th—The moon—how large is the ocean moon!—sat above my head.