I tore to pieces my “Things Seen in the Street,” and fed the waste-paper basket with them.
The basket looked so hungry without any rubbish. An unkept basket is more pleasing, like a soiled autograph-book.
“I didn’t come to Amerikey to be critical, that is, to act mean, did I?” I said.
I must remain an Oriental girl, like a cherry blossom smiling softly in the Spring moonlight.
But afterwards I felt sorry for my destruction.
I thrust my hand into the basket. I plucked them up. They were illegibly as follows:
“ women coursing like a
’rikisha of ’Hama their children
crying at home left somewhere
their womanliness