YOKOHAMA, July, 1911.

Now that I am here, I am trying to decide what to do with myself.
At home each day was so full of happy things and the happiest of
all was listening for Jack's merry whistle as he opened the street
door every night. At home there are always demands, big and
little, popping in on me which I sometimes resent and yet being
free from makes me feel as dismal as a long vacant house with the
For Rent sign up, looks. In this Lotus land there is no _must_ of
any kind for the alien, and the only whistles I hear belong to the
fierce little tugs that buzz around in the harbor, in and out among
the white sails of the fishing fleet like big black beetles in a
field of lilies. But you must not think life dull for me. Fate
and I have cried a truce, and she is showing me a few hands she is
dealing other people. But first listen to the tale I have to tell
of the bruise she gave my pride this morning, that will show black
for many a day.

I joined a crowd on the water 's edge in front of the hotel to
watch a funeral procession in boats. Recently a hundred and eighty
fishermen were sent to the bottom by a big typhoon, and the wives
and the sweethearts were being towed out to sea to pay a last
tribute to them, by strewing the fatal spot with flowers and paper
prayers. White-robed priests stood up in the front of the boats
and chanted some mournful ritual, keeping time to the dull thumping
of a drum. The air was heavy with incense. A dreamy melancholy
filled the air and I thought how hallowed and beautiful a thing is
memory. From out that silent watching crowd came a voice that sent