My shoes are of superior shape. They have a small high heel.
I’m glad they make me much taller.
A bamboo I set some three Summers ago cast its unusually melancholy shadow on the round paper window of my room, and whispered, “Sara! Sara! Sara!”
It sounded to me like a pallid voice of sayonara.
(By the way, the profuse tips of my bamboo are like the ostrich plumes of my new American hat.)
“Sayonara” never sounded before more sad, more thrilling.
My good-bye to “home sweet home” amid the camellias and white chrysanthemums is within ten days. The steamer “Belgic” leaves Yokohama on the sixth of next month. My beloved uncle is chaperon during my American journey.
27th—I scissored out the pictures from the ’Merican magazines.
(The magazines were all tired-looking back numbers. New ones are serviceable in their own home. Forgotten old actors stray into the villages for an inglorious tour. So it is with the magazines. Only the useless numbers come to Japan, I presume.)
The pictures—Meriken is a country of woman; that’s why, I fancy, the pictures are chiefly of woman—showed me how to pick up the long skirt. That one act is the whole “business” of looking charming on the street. I apprehend that the grace of American ladies is in the serpentine curves of the figure, in the narrow waist.