on the front of my clean shirt-waist.

It was she, you remember, who in all those other years was my
faithful secretary and general comforter. The one who slept across
my door when I was ill and who never forgot the hot water bag on a
cold night. For years she has supported a drunken father and a
crazy mother; has sent one brother to America and made a preacher
of another.

Now she is to be married, she told me in a little note she slipped
into my hand as we walked up the Street of the Upper Flowing River
to the school, adding, "Please guess my heart."

And miracle of the East! She has known the man a long time and
they are in love! I am so glad I am going to be here for the
wedding. It comes off in a few weeks.

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.