he old gentleman wrote a poem about them
saying he ate one and was keeping the other to take back to his
country home when he returned a month hence. Then he sent us all a
present.

We have had only one catastrophe. In a moment of reckless
adventure my pupils tried a pound cake without a recipe. A pound
cake can be nothing else but what it says. That meant a pound of
everything and Japanese soda is doubly strong. That was a week ago
and we have not been able to stay in the room since.

Good-by! The tailless pink cat and the purple fish with the pale
blue eyes are for the kiddies.

I am inclosing an original recipe sent in by Miss Turtle Swamp of
Clear Water Village:

Cake.

1 cup of _Desecrated_ coconut
5 cup flowers
1 small spoon and barmilla [vanilla]
3 eggs skinned and whipped
1 cup sugar
Stir and pat in pan to cook.

HIROSHIMA, December, 1911.

_Mate_:

I would be ashamed to tell you how long it is between Jack's
letters. He says the activity of the revolutionists in China is
seriously interfering with traffic of every kind. All right, let
it go at that! Now he has gone way up north of Harbin. In the
name of anything why cannot he be satisfied? England is with him.
I do not know who also is in the party. Neither do I care. I do
not like it a little bit. Jealous? The idea. Just plain furious.
I am no more afraid of Jack falling in love with another woman than
I am of Saturn making Venus a birthday present of one of his rings.
The trouble is she may fall in love with him, and it is altogether
unnecessary for any other woman to get her feelings disturbed over
Jack.

I fail to see the force of his argument that it is not safe nor
wise for any woman in that country, and yet for him to show wild
enthusiasm over the presence of the Britisher. No, Jack has lost
his head over intellect. It may take a good sharp blow for him to
realize that intellect, pure and simple, is an icy substitute for
love. Like most men he is so deadly sure of one, he is taking a
holiday with the other.

Of course you are laughing at me. So would Jack. And both would
say it is unworthy. That's just it. It is the measly little
unworthies that nag one to desperation. Besides, Mate, I shrink
from any more trouble, any more heart-aches as I would from names.
The terror of the by-gone years creeps over me and covers the
present like a pall.

There is only one thing left to do. Work. Work a