Chapter V: Part 5

“I lived many years ago,” she said, “in China. I was a gentleman’s daughter, and my name was Shorei.” A tear fell from her eyes upon Kintaro’s hand. “One year there was a famine, and riots among the peasantry, and my father’s house was burned. We ran away and hid, for we were all afraid of the peasants. We went up into the mountains, and I was taken by a robber. He sold me”--she shuddered--“sold me”--her voice dropped to a whisper--“to a tea-house.”

She was weeping now, and so was Kintaro. “They said I was beautiful, they gave me fine clothes, and they petted me and made much of me. It was there that the painter painted my picture. They tried to make me like the life, but I could not bear it. I died.”

Kintaro started violently and dropped her hand. She looked at him with her sweet, sorrowful eyes.

“I was glad when I was dead,” she said, “for spirits cannot suffer as I suffered. Then I came to your country, and when I saw how you loved my picture, I thought perhaps you would love me.”

She looked at him reproachfully, and he stretched forth his hand to her, but she vanished from his sight.

In the street the lanterns twinkled and the clogs clattered and the children shouted and sang, but Kintaro sat alone, staring at the spot where his scroll lady had been, until the city sank to sleep and the moon went down.

All the next day his thoughts were on his picture lady. He could hardly wait for the coming of night, and he hurried poor little O Matsu about her final work until she retired with her broad red face drawn into a woeful pucker and tears in her beady black eyes.

When he hung up the scroll he noticed that the lips were smiling, and that the eyes seemed a shade less sad. They were looking to-night, not at him, but beyond him at the little desk at which he studied and wrote. On the desk lay a card on which was written in an elegant feminine hand a poem. Eagerly he read it, and the tears sprang to his eyes. It was only a couplet,--

“God’s will it is that here I stay
To love and live with you alway.”

Over and over again he read it, and he held out his hands to the picture. “Is it true?” he asked. “Will you live with me always?”

The soft eyes looked full into his, the beautiful lips smiled. It was enough. His joy was so great that he could not speak, but he sat in a transport until the lamp burned out, and he lay down on his quilt to dream of Shorei.

For six months Kintaro kept up his intercourse with the spirit of Shorei and lived in an ecstasy. One night, late in August, when the crickets were chirping and the whole population of Tokyo was walking the streets for a breath of fresh air before closing the shutters for the night, Kintaro sat, in the restful quiet born of a hot bath and a thin kimono, on the piazza of his little room. Suddenly Shorei came to him, and her face was sad. She sank to the ground weeping, and bowed her head to the floor.

“The end has come,” she said. “I have been so happy with you here that I had hoped it could be always so. But I must go. You will never see Shorei again.”

In vain Kintaro asked why she must leave him. She only said, “To-morrow you shall know;” and then, as she vanished from his sight, he heard her whisper, “We will meet soon again.”

All night he wept, and in the morning, when he laid the _kakemono_ in its cupboard, he felt as if he were burying a dead friend.

Just as he closed the cupboard and was turning away to look about his empty room, Matsu thrust her head through the door. Between her finger-tips she held a letter. She laid it down in front of him, and backed out to bring his breakfast.

Kintaro unrolled the long, thin sheet of paper, and as he read his face clouded. “‘In Tokyo,’” he read; “‘meet her to-day--at the Koyo Kwan.’[54] Impossible! I can’t!” and he thought of Shorei and all she had been to him. Then suddenly those last words came to him, “To-morrow you shall know. We will meet again soon.” It was all so strange; perhaps this would explain it.

Very carefully Kintaro dressed himself that afternoon, and very spruce and handsome he looked in his flowing silk garments when he stepped out of his jinrikisha at the Maple Club Inn, to meet an old friend of his father’s who, accompanied by his wife, was visiting in Tokyo. This friend it was who had undertaken, for the sake of both parties concerned, to bring about a meeting between him and O Fumi San.

There was a feast set in a great upper room, and when Kintaro entered and took his seat in the lowest place, as became his age and rank, he was greeted with smiles and bows from many old friends and neighbors assembled to do honor to the occasion.

The first greetings ended,--no light matter in such a company,--he had time to look about him and see what there was to be seen. On the opposite side of the room, just facing him, dressed in the dainty full dress of the modest Japanese maiden, was a vision from which he could not move his startled eyes. The quaint old-fashioned dress was gone, so was the expression of unutterable sadness, but the face was the face of his lady of the scroll.

“Shorei!” he murmured, scarcely knowing what he said. The beautiful face lighted up. Into the bright eyes flashed just a glance of recognition. “I am Fumi,” said the vision, and they bowed their faces to the floor.

FOOTNOTES:

[52] A scroll to hang on the wall.

[53] The alcove in which pictures are hung in a Japanese room.

[54] The Maple Club Inn.

X

HOW FUMI REMEMBERED

“Even the knot of the rope tying our boats together
Knotted was long ago by some love in a former birth.”

Japanese Folk-Song, translated by Hearn.

TOKYO, February 10.

I am Fumi, of the family of Takeda of Sendai. When I came to be sixteen, my mother said to me, “Fumi, you are too headstrong. You like to run and play out of doors like a boy. Your manners are not quiet and ladylike, but rough and noisy. Even your little sister Michi can sew and draw and play the _koto_[55] and perform the tea ceremony better than you. Soon you will have to be married, and what family will want to receive a spoiled child like you as a daughter-in-law?” My mother shook her head and sighed, and I was very sorry, so sorry that I hid my face and cried.

“Oh, mother!” I said, “what shall I do? It is so hard to be good and quiet. When I sit still a long time sewing, my legs tingle, and I have to run; and when I try to learn the tea ceremony, the old master is so stiff and solemn that he makes me laugh. I am a bad girl, and I cannot be like other girls. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?” and I cried until my sleeves were all wet, and it was my best dress, too.

My mother was very good to me. She patted me gently and said softly, “Poor little girl! Poor little girl! Let us think about it, and I will talk with your father.”

By and by I was tired and my face was hot, and I heard a little noise of scratching and yelping in the garden, for I was sitting close to the veranda. I looked out from behind my sleeves with one eye and saw Shiro digging. Shiro is my dog. He is all white except his ears, and they are yellow. He can’t dig very well because one of his fore legs was hurt when he was a puppy, but he thinks he can, and he was digging and yelping. He expected me to help him, and kept yelping louder and louder, so I called to him that I was coming, and ran out through the house to the door where my clogs were, and hurried as fast as I could to the garden. It was only when I was coming back to the house, all dirty myself, and carrying dirty little Shiro in my arms, that I thought again of what my mother had said. Then I suddenly dropped Shiro, and the tears came to my eyes, and I hung my head for fear some one had seen me. As I passed the parlor which opened out into the garden, I heard my mother talking with a visitor. I looked, and it was Mrs. Yamazaki, our neighbor. They were probably talking of her son Kintaro, who has been studying such a long time in Tokyo. She is very proud of him, and thinks he is the most remarkable person in the world. I hoped that she had not seen me playing with Shiro or coming back all dirty. I am afraid my mother is not so proud of me.

The next day my mother spoke to me again. She told me that I was going to Tokyo to school. My father, through our prince, had gained admission for me to the school for noble girls, and he hoped that I would do my best to use the great advantages that the school would give me. She told me that the girls there were all quiet and ladylike, that no one was ever noisy or headstrong, and that I must try and learn to be like other girls. It was very wrong of me, I know, but I cried again. I did not want to leave my home, and my parents and brothers and sisters, and poor little Shiro.

My mother patted me and comforted me. “It will not be for long,” she said, “only a few months, and you will be very happy after you have made friends among the girls.”

And that is why I am in Tokyo. My mother was right. I am happy and I have many friends. I live with seven or eight other girls in one big house with Mrs. Takahashi, one of our teachers. We walk to school together every day, and we play together on our holidays.

I think that here in Tokyo it is not thought so wicked for a girl to want to run and play. At our school the teachers play with us and teach us many games, and sometimes we have a whole day with nothing but games and gymnastics, and the Empress comes and watches us as we play, and all the parents of all the children come, and we have a very good time. I have seen the Empress smile when we were at our play, so I am sure that it is not wrong.

I have been here ever since last September, and now it is February. I would like to see my home and Shiro, but I am happy, and because I am happy I am going to write every day, or sometimes, anyway, about the things I do, so that when I am at home I can read it all over and remember the dear school life. To-morrow we are invited to go out to Shinagawa, to visit the country house of the Princess Gojo. Her daughter is our friend, and we are to spend the afternoon. It will be beautiful, I know.

February 13.

I have been thinking, it seems to me for years, but it is really only two days, and I cannot think my way out of the strange thing that has happened to me. Perhaps if I write it all down, I shall be able to understand it better.

On February 11, which is the anniversary of Jimmu Tenno, we--that is, all the girls in our house--were invited by Princess Gojo to visit her country house at Shinagawa. We went by train to Shimbashi, and had only a little walk from Shinagawa station to the house. The situation of the place is beautiful, looking out across the bay, and there is a great garden with hills and valleys and lakes and forest trees and green lawns. Here and there an early plum-tree had begun to show its pink and white on its old gray, gnarled trunk. We played tennis, and ran races on the lawn. We climbed all the hills, getting a different view from each. We sat down in the little summer-houses and cooled off after our exercise, for it was a warm, sunny day like spring. At last we were called to the house, and we sat about a great parlor and they brought us tea and cake and _o sushi_.[56]

The princess was very kind and very beautiful. She is tall and slender, and her voice is sweet and her manner very gracious even to me, who am not a nobleman’s daughter, only a poor samurai girl. She spoke to me kindly, and said that she knew me because I was the fastest runner in our school. She told me that the Empress had asked my name at the last day of field sports, because I ran so fast. I felt very much ashamed, and my face grew very hot, and I wondered what my mother would think of me.

When we had finished our tea, the princess asked us if we would like to walk about the house. We were very glad, for as we sat we could see that there were many beautiful rooms, and I had never seen such a great house before. Some of the rooms were foreign and with carpets and furniture, but most of them were Japanese, with floors of many mats and beautiful, shining wood-work, and with flowers and bronzes and paintings and ancient swords and lacquers set out in the _tokonoma_. The princess led and we followed. Uta, my dearest friend, and I went hand in hand, very quietly, looking at all the beautiful things that had been taken out of the storehouses for us to see. Suddenly, as we stood before a _kakemono_ that hung in one of the rooms, a strange feeling came over me. It was a picture of a young girl, very beautiful and sad, dressed in strange flowing garments. Somewhere I had seen that picture before. I looked at it so long that the princess noticed me. “Do you like it, O Fumi San?” she said. “If it were the original, I believe it would be the finest picture in all Japan, but it is only a copy, by a Japanese artist, of a celebrated Chinese picture that is now lost.” Though I heard all she said and answered her, my mind was still at work at the picture. I had seen it before. I knew I had seen it before, but where? And then, slowly, bit by bit, a scene came before my mind. A strange garden--a young artist with a mild, smooth face and dressed in strange garments painting a picture of--_myself_! But I was not Fumi, of the family of Takeda. What was I? Then something seemed to snap in my head and I fell. The next thing I knew, Uta and the other girls were bending over me as I lay on the floor, and I heard the princess say, “Poor little thing! She has run too hard.”

The princess was very kind and sent me home in her carriage with O Uta San to take care of me, and all the way home, as I lay back on the cushions, my mind went over and over the question, “Who was I when I was not Fumi?” Every turn of the wheels, every beat of the horses’ hoofs, every shout of the running grooms, seemed to repeat the question to me.

It was dark when we reached home, and I was hurried off to bed by good Mrs. Takahashi as soon as she heard that I was tired out. There I lay and stared at the ceiling while the girls chattered about me, and then, when all was quiet at last, and dark, except for the glimmer of the night light, I still lay with my eyes wide open, asking the same question. I heard the slow tolling of the bell in the Sho-kon-sha Temple as the hours went by. And at last the answer came.

Whether I was sleeping or waking I do not know, but suddenly I was far away from the familiar little room, standing in a balcony, looking out into a green garden, and was surprised to see that the loose robes in which I was dressed were quite different from what I was used to. A young man stood in the garden below me, looking at me with wistful eyes. “Shorei,” he said, “I will paint your picture, and it will be so beautiful that when I take it to the Emperor and give it to him, he will make me a great lord, and I can marry you.”

My heart was sore, and there was a terrible fear behind me, a fear of something that I could not understand. I looked into his kind eyes, and they made my heart a little restful. “Come soon,” was all I had time to say, for just then a terrible, coarse, fat woman came to me and said, “Make haste, they are waiting for you. You must dance to-night before a great company,” and she dragged me roughly into the house, so roughly that everything went away, and I was once more in my own bed on the matted floor and Uta was sleeping at my side.

Since then it has been coming to me little by little,--the memory of another childhood, far away in some strange land,--the memory of wars and burning houses, and of long hidings in rough mountain caves, and at last of a great fight in which all my friends were killed, and I, a prisoner among robbers, was led to a town and sold. And then the memory of a shameful life,--my cheeks burn at the thought of it,--of dancing before great companies of men, of their drunken smiles, their coarse jokes, their rough caresses. And I remember so clearly how the fat woman who kept the house used to tell me that I was beautiful, and how she tried to treat me kindly because my beauty was making her rich. But sometimes, when I was too sad or weak to be amusing, she would treat me roughly. She would sneer at me, and tell me that I need not think, because I was a gentleman’s daughter, that I was too fine for her work. She had other work in store for me that I would not like as well, if I grew too proud to dance for her guests. The memory of that fear that she kept always in my soul is with me still. How I hated the life! How I longed for escape! I remember that one day I found a sharp sword lying where one of the guests had laid it aside, and I took it and would have killed myself, but the old woman saw it and snatched it from me. After that she watched me carefully, and I could do nothing that she did not see.

As if through the mists of a thousand years I can see him now as he looked the first day he came. He was young, and with a good, kind face, and he did not laugh and shout and try to handle me after the dance. He only looked at me with his kind eyes, though I could see them flash sometimes when the other men grew insulting. And when the weary feast was done, and I lay resting, and wishing I could die before suffering such shame again, I heard his voice talking in low tones to my mistress.

“That dancing-girl of yours is very beautiful,” he said; “I wish to have her for my wife.”

The woman laughed, a great, coarse laugh. “Surely you are a brave fellow!” she said. “Do you know what the girl is worth to me? She brings a stream of gold nightly into this house, and you, young cock, want to take her away for your wife! She shall be no man’s wife until I am paid three thousand pieces of gold,” and she laughed again.

“I am not rich,” he answered, “but within a month you shall have your three thousand pieces of gold;” and I heard his footsteps as he left the room.

Every day for a few days, I saw him in the garden, and he painted at his picture. Then, when it was finished, he came no more. The month went by and he did not come, and I began to fear. And then, one day, I heard his voice in the garden. I remember how sad it sounded, so sad that at first I did not know it.

“Shorei,” he called softly, and I went to my balcony and looked down, and saw him standing, dressed in white and with a dagger in his hand. “I have sent the picture to the Emperor, and I have been waiting now for days and no word has come to me. And to-day I have heard that he by whom I sent it, and whom I thought my friend, has taken the credit of it to himself, and is raised to high honor. I am going away. The next life can be no worse than this,” and he unsheathed the dagger.

“Oh, take me with you where you go,” I cried. “I cannot live here!”

I heard the thumping step of my mistress coming to take me down to the dancing-room. I could not go, and I threw myself down from the balcony. That is all I can remember. Where was I when I was Shorei? And who was he who wanted to buy me in marriage? These questions are running through my head all day. I cannot talk, nor do my school work, nor play. Uta says to me, “What is the matter? Have you had bad news from home? Are you ill? Why don’t you come out and play with us?” But I cannot go. I must sit in my room and think.

February 15.

Where was I? Who was he? Sometimes it seems as if I was on the very edge of knowing, and then it all goes again. Last night, as I lay in bed, my soul was moving, sailing on and on through space, and I thought, “Now I shall see him. Now I shall know.” And then suddenly I felt myself falling, falling, down, down, and I opened my eyes. It was dark, for the night light had burned out. I could not see Uta, but I heard her move and sigh in her sleep.

February 16.

Last night, I seemed to be dancing all night before those men, and they shouted and applauded. And one said, “There is not such another dancer in all the realm of China.” And they shouted all together, “None such in China nor in all the world!” Surely I might have known before, for the princess said that her picture was a copy of one by a Chinese artist.

February 17.

I have seen him again. This was the way. I was so tired that I asked Mrs. Takahashi to excuse me and let me go to bed early. She looked at me very kindly and said, “Yes, you may go. I am afraid you are very tired.” By the time I had made my bed and crept into it, I was shivering, for the night was cold and damp; and I could not sleep, but lay curled up with my head covered. And then, all at once, I saw him. It was not the old balcony, or the garden that I remembered, it was a poor little Japanese room, and he sat on the floor and looked at the _tokonoma_ where I stood. I tried to go to him, but I could not. I could only smile a little, and follow him with my eyes as he moved from one part of the room to another. He did not know me nor speak to me. He only looked at me, and sometimes it seemed as if he was afraid of me. Why was I there? Why was he there? Why could we not talk as we used to do long ago?

February 18.

I have seen him now three nights, in the same little room. He looks at me but does not speak, and I cannot. Sometimes I smile, but often I am so sad that I can only look at him.

February 24.

Every night I go to him. He does not remember me, but perhaps he will some day.

March 10.

Last night, all at once, everything changed. When I first saw him, he was writing. He sat at his little table. Sometimes he looked at me, and then he would sigh and write. At last he came to where I stood. I smiled, for I thought he was going to speak to me. But he did not. He lifted the poem card on which he had been writing and hung it beside me, so close that I could read it. These are the words:

“If from the painted scroll thy lips smile kindly upon me,
What wouldst thou do for me, wert thou here in the body to-night?
To me from what other life comes thy sweet spirit winging?
Stay with me ever, beloved; without thee my soul is alone.”

A painted scroll! That was all I was to him! A beautiful picture to hang in the _tokonoma_! He did not remember me as I did him. That other life, when I was Shorei and he a young painter, was all gone from his memory. He looked at me so sadly when he hung up the poem that I tried to speak, but I could not. Then he put out the light, and went out to his little balcony and sat watching the moonlight and listening to the noises of the street. “Oh, if I could only speak to him!” I thought, “I would tell him who I was, and perhaps he would remember.” And then, suddenly, I felt that I could move and speak. I was floating toward him. I was sitting beside him. I was telling all my story. He held my hand as if to keep me, and I was glad, for I felt that I must soon slip away, it was only his strong desire that was holding me to him. And then, I think it was when I spoke of my death, he drew himself away. I could not stay, and I found myself once more in my own little room with Uta asleep quietly by my side.

March 11.

All yesterday I thought about how I should meet him last night. Would he desire me again? Might I speak to him? or would he send me away as he did before? If he should, how could I bear it? I must speak to him and tell him my heart. And then, I thought, as he had written a poem to me, I would write one to him. Our teacher at school tells me sometimes that I can write prettily. If I could only tell him so that he could read it! I wrote it over and over again and again before I copied it on the card. It was not pretty when it was finished. It only said that I would stay with him always.

I held it in my hand that night when I went to bed, and I wished, oh, how I wished that I might give it to him! I shut my eyes and held it tight, and soon I saw his little upstairs room. The table was covered with papers, and lying on top of all was my little card. How glad I was! He looked at me, but I looked at the desk and smiled. He did not speak. I could not. But after a while he too looked over at the desk and saw the card. When he had read it, he turned to me and his eyes were bright with joy. “Is it true?” he said. “Will you live with me always?” I could not speak, my heart was so full, but he must have known, for he sat and looked and looked at me, until at last I slipped away and left him still looking at my image in the _tokonoma_. This morning the card was not in my hand, nor could I find it in the bed or in the room. I did not dream last night. I really went and gave him my poem!

August 20.

It is a long time since I have written in my diary. Although school has been closed since July, I have been here all summer, for my father and mother have been away up in Hokkaido, and they thought it best for me to stay with Mrs. Takahashi, and learn as much as possible during the summer. I have lessons every day, and it is very dull here in Tokyo, for most of my friends are away, but I am glad I did not have to go, for perhaps if I were elsewhere I could not go, as I do now, every night to see Kintaro and talk with him. It is strange that this young artist, the same who painted my picture when I was Shorei, should be Kintaro Yamazaki of Sendai now. He does not remember when he lived in China, nor does he know that I am Fumi Takeda. He knows me only as Shorei, and though I have told him of the young artist in China, he does not like to hear of him, for he thinks of him always as another man. When I speak of him sometimes Kintaro is sad, sometimes he is cross, but he is never interested.

I have heard our old priest at home say that to most men, when the gates of the new birth open, the gates of the old life close, but to a few the gates of the old life are left ajar, and a wind from the spirit world may open them wide some day, so that the two lives are all one memory. That is the way it is with Kintaro and me. His gates are closed, but mine blew wide open that day at Princess Gojo’s, and now I have remembered all of that old life in China.

August 21.

Such news has come to me to-day! How strange that I never knew it! My mother has written me to say that long ago it was decided between my parents and his parents that Kintaro was to marry me when I grew up. And now, she writes, Mr. and Mrs. Suzuki of Sendai are to be in town for a few days, and they will invite us to a party at the Koyo Kwan, so that we may see each other. What shall I do? Will he know me? If he does not know me, I can never marry him, for I shall know that he cannot care for me while he loves Shorei. I cannot tell him, for if he does not know me as Fumi, I do not want him to marry her because she is Shorei. Oh, if we could only go on as we have always done!

August 24.

My mother writes that Mr. Suzuki is going to invite us for to-morrow. What shall I do?

August 25.

I must meet him this afternoon. I told him last night that he would never see Shorei again. It made me very sad, for to myself I feel almost as real as Shorei as I do as Fumi. He wept and held me, but I slipped away from him.

August 26.

I could not look at him when he came into the room, I was so ashamed. I sat at the end of the room. He did not see me at first, for he was busy bowing to all the guests. It was only when he took his place opposite me that he looked at me. I saw that he knew me. His face grew suddenly bright, and he said very softly, “Shorei!” and I answered as well as I could, for I was nearly choking with joy, “I am Fumi.” That was enough. Now he is my own in this new life, and nothing, not even death, can part us again, I believe.

FOOTNOTES:

[55] A stringed instrument which takes the place in a Japanese girl’s education that the piano does with us.

[56] A dish made of cold rice mixed with a variety of ingredients, and as usual for Japanese entertainments as sandwiches are in America.

GLOSSARY

_Amado_, lit. “rain doors,” the sliding wooden shutters that close the house in stormy weather or at night.

_Amazaké_, a sweet, thick, slightly fermented rice soup.

_Amé_, a sweetmeat made from wheat gluten.

_Ameya_, a seller of _amé_.

_Amma_, a masseur.

_Andon_, a paper lantern used as a night-light.

_Bāya_, a term used in addressing an old woman servant, like “Aunty” or “Mammy” in the South.

_Bon Matsuri_, or _O Bon_, the annual Feast of the Dead.

_Botchan_, “Little Mr. Priest,” the universal title of the small boy, probably on account of his shaven head.

_Bōzu_, Buddhist priest.

_Dori_, street.

_Fudō_, the Buddhist God of Wisdom.

_Furoshiki_, a square of cloth used for wrapping bundles.

_Furugiya_, old clothes dealer.

_Futon_, the heavy quilts used in making a Japanese bed.

_Go chiso_, “honorable entertainment,” applied to especially nice food.

_Go Inkyo Sama_, a title given to an old person who has retired from active participation in the affairs of life.

_Hachiman_, the Shintō God of War.

_Hai_, “Yes,” or “I am listening.”

_Heimin_, the common people as distinguished from the military or samurai class.

_Hibachi_, a fire-box or brazier.

_Inari_, the God of Rice, whose messengers are foxes.

_Jiiya_, a title for an old man servant, used much as “Uncle” is used in the South.

_Jizō_, a Buddhist saint, helper especially of the souls of little children.

_Kakemono_, a scroll to hang on the wall.

_Kitsuné_, a fox.

_Kotatsu_, a fire-box in the floor over which is set a rack, and the whole covered by a heavy comfortable.

_Koto_, a stringed instrument.

_Koyo Kwan_, the Maple Club Inn.

_Kuruma_, a jinrikisha.

_Kurumaya_, a jinrikisha man.

_Kwannon_, the Buddhist Goddess of Mercy.

_Miya mairi_, the presentation of a baby in the temple.

_Mochi_, rice dumpling, a festival dish.

_Montzuki_, the ceremonial dress, made all of one plain color, faced and lined with white, and with the monogram or family crest of the wearer on sleeves and back.

_Niō_, “Two Kings,” Indra and Brahma, who keep guard at the outer gates of Buddhist temples to scare away demons.

_Noshi_, a bit of bright-colored paper folded about a piece of sea-weed and slipped under the string of a present.

_Ōban_, a large, oval gold coin, worth about eighty dollars, now out of use.

_Obi_, sash.

_O Bon_, see _Bon Matsuri_.

_O Jo Sama_, the title used in speaking to or about a young unmarried lady.

_O kaeri_, “Honorable return,” the greeting to a returning guest or member of the family.

_O Mi age_, a present brought back to one who stays at home.

_O Sushi_, a dish made of cold rice mixed with a variety of ingredients.

_O Tottsu San_, Father.

_Rin_, a coin worth about a half mill.

_Saké_, rice wine.

_Samurai_, the military class.

_Sayo de gozaimasu_, “It is honorably so.”

_Sayo nara_, “Good-by,” lit. “If it must be.”

_Shoji_, the light sliding sashes covered with paper which close in a Japanese house.

_Soroban_, the abacus or counting-frame used by merchants throughout the East.

_Tabi_, a mitten-shaped sock worn in the house, and with clogs or sandals out of doors.

_Tadaima_, “Just now!” the response to _O kaeri_.

_Tempō sen_, a large, oval copper coin worth about eight mills, now out of use.

_Tengu_, a wood goblin.

_To chirimen_, lit. “foreign crape,” a thin woolen material used for the cheaper undergarments, sashes, etc.

_Tokonoma_, the alcove in which pictures are hung in a Japanese room.

_Torii_, an erection in the form of a gateway that marks the entrance to a temple or sacred place.

_Uma_, horse.

_Yashiki_, a palace or fine house.

_Yen_, the Japanese monetary unit, worth about fifty cents.

_Yoshitsuné_, a hero of the twelfth century.

The Riverside Press
_Electrotyped and printed by H. O. Houghton & Co._
_Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A._

Transcriber’s Notes

Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

Perceived typographical errors have been silently corrected.

Variations in spelling have been retained as printed.

Footnotes have been moved to the end of each chapter.