I started work in the kindergarten this morning.  It has been said that when the Lord ran out of mothers he made kindergartners.  Surely he never did a better job—­for the kindergartners.  Mate, when I stepped into that room, it was like going into an enchanted garden of morning-glories and dahlias.  What a greeting the regiment of young Japlings gave me!  I just drank in all the fragrance of joy in the eager comradeship and sweet friendliness of the small Mikados and Mikadoesses with a keen delight that made the hours spin like minutes.

And would you believe it?  The first sound that greeted my ears after their whole duty had been accomplished in the very formal bow, was—­“Oh—­it is the skitten Sensei (skipping teacher) A skit!  A skit!  We want to skit!” Of course, they were not the same children by many years.  But things die slowly in Hiroshima.  Even good reputations.  Everything was pushed aside, and work or no work, teachers and children celebrated by one mad revel of skipping.

There are many things to do, and getting into the old harness of steady routine work and living on the tap of a bell, is not so easy as it sounds, after years of live-as-you-please.  But it is good for the constitution and is satisfying to the soul.

I once asked my friend Carson from Colorado if he could choose but one gift in all the world, what would it be?  “The contintment of stidy work,” answered the wise old philosopher from out of the West; and my heart echoes his wisdom.

Had a big fat letter from Jack, and the reputation he gives those germs he is associating with, is simply disgraceful.  He gives me statistics also.  Wish he wouldn’t.  It takes so much time and I always have to count on my fingers.

He tells me, too, of an English woman who has joined the insect expedition.  Says she is the most brilliant woman he ever met.  Thanks awfully.  And he has to sit up nights studying, to keep up with her.  I dare say.

I ’ll wager she ’s high of color and mighty of muscle and with equal vehemence says a thing is “strawdn’ry” whether it ’s a dewdrop or a spouting volcano.

I can’t help feeling a little bit envious of her—­out there with my Jack!  Well!  I will not get agitated till I have to.

A note from Sada says Uncle has had another outburst.  He still consents for her to come down here.  Her beautiful ideals have been smashed to smithereens, and the fact that nothing has ever been invented that will stick them together, adds no comfort to the situation.  Her disappointment is heart-breaking.  I cannot make a move till I get her to myself and have a life-and-death talk with her.  I am playing for time.

I wrote her a cheerfully foolish letter.  Told her I was making all kinds of plans for her visit.  I also looked up some doubtful dates—­at least, my textbook on color prints said they were doubtful—­and referred them to Uncle for confirmation, asking that he give instructions to Sada about a certain dealer in Hiroshima who has some pictures so violent, positively I would not hang them in the cow-shed.  That is, if I cared for Suky.  But it is anything for conversation now.