Chapter II (1)

One day the Knightly Waste-paper Man was crying his wares through the streets when he saw a crowd about a man who had fallen by the way.

“’Tis but a starving beggar,” said one. But Chobei had learned much in the days when he had walked the streets without a _sen_[10] in his sleeves, and his heart was tender. He hurried to the beggar’s aid and to his surprise found that he was no other than Bun-yemon, the ronin who had helped him to escape from his home, when his lord was angry so long ago. He caused him to be taken up and carried home.

That night Chobei talked long with Tsuiu.

“Gratitude is a sacred duty,” he said. “But for this ronin perhaps we should have been murdered, and now that he has reached this low estate, it is our place to help him, but how?” O Tsuiu San sighed.

“In all these years, my lord,” she said, “we have lived by the favor of the gods, but we have saved nothing. How much should we give Bun-yemon?”

“Not less than twenty-five gold _rio_,[11]” said Chobei. “It is a fortune! There is but one way in which we might obtain it. We might sell Iroka.”

“Sell my daughter!” cried Tsuiu. “My lord, my lord!” and she wept bitterly. Chobei wept also, but at last he said,

“It is terrible for me as well as for you, but do you not see that there is no other way?”

“There is no other way,” said Tsuiu, to whom the will of her lord was law.

Then they told Iroka all the story and she said,

“Honorable parents, there is no other way. Permit me to be sold, for it is an honor for me to become a geisha for the debt of my parents.”

Therefore, with many tears, they sold Iroka and, as she was very pretty, they obtained for her the sum of five and twenty gold _rio_.

This Chobei bore to Bun-yemon who refused to take it; but Chobei, pretending to restore it to his own pocket, slipped it into a lacquered box and departed. After he was gone, the wife of Bun-yemon found the money, and her husband was very angry with her, that she had not watched more carefully.

“This good fellow should never have given me the money,” he said. “He is poor--only a waste-paper man. I will not take it for anything. You must carry it back.”

“But I know not where he lives,” said the wife. “And since you have the money, let me go to the pawnshop and redeem your jeweled sword, that we may sell the sword for a larger sum. Then we can pay back Chobei and still have something for ourselves.”

After much coaxing Bun-yemon at last consented to do this and redeemed the sword. But the pawnbroker’s clerk was angry, for he had expected to own the sword for the small sum which had been lent Bun-yemon. So he accused Bun-yemon of stealing the money and officers came and carried him to prison, setting a watch upon his wife.

She, however, determined to free her husband. The Machi-Bugyo of Yedo was the most righteous of judges and she went straight to him, escaping from the watchful eye of the officers when there was a fire in the neighborhood and every one was much excited. She found the Machi-Bugyo, as he was riding to inspect the firemen, and she knelt in the dust, catching hold of his bridle rein.

“Most noble Machi-Bugyo,” she cried. “Honorably deign to listen. They have taken my husband from me, and they accuse him unjustly. You, who are the friend of the poor, save him!”

The Lord of the city listened, and, being of a good heart, he had compassion upon the wife of Bun-yemon. He ordered the clerk of the pawnbroker to appear before him, and also Bun-yemon. And Chobei, hearing of the trouble, appeared and told that he had given the twenty-five gold _rio_. Bun-yemon was therefore cleared from the charge of theft.

“Go in peace,” said the Machi-Bugyo to him. “The master of the evil clerk shall pay a fine of one hundred gold _rio_, because a master should have only honest servants. The wicked clerk shall be put to death, for he witnessed falsely against an innocent man. The gold shall be given to Bun-yemon who must, with twenty-five _rio_, redeem the daughter of Chobei.

“As for you, Chobei, you have done well in paying your debt of gratitude at so great a cost to yourself; and your daughter is to be commended for her obedience. Take this reward for you both,” and he gave him a hundred _yen_. “Be dismissed, for I have spoken.”

Then were all happy, for Iroka was returned to her parents and Chobei’s friend, Chohachi, was rewarded for his kindness of heart.

The whole matter soon coming to the ears of the Shogun, he commanded the old lord of Chobei to forgive him and restore him to his home. Then was Chobei, whom men again called Shindo, very happy, and he no longer cried “Waste Paper!” through the back streets of Yedo. But there he is not forgotten, for when the women gather to gossip they speak of him with smiles, saying ever of him, “Isuzure wo kite mo kokoro wa nishiki (coat of rags, heart of brocade).”

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Japanese coin equivalent to our dollar.

[9] Good-by.

[10] A Japanese coin equivalent to our cent.

[11] A Japanese ounce.

THE HUNTER AND THE PRIEST

There was once a hunter who dwelt in the village of Kyoto and sought his game upon the mountain of Atagoyama. He was proud of being so mighty a hunter, for he never came empty-handed from the forest; yet at times he felt ill at ease. This was because he made a daily business of killing, and so he was displeasing to the Buddha.[12]

To set his conscience at rest, therefore, he often made offerings of rice and fruit to a certain holy priest who dwelt in a little shrine upon the mountain-side.

The priest was very good. Studying the sacred books he dwelt in the solitude of the forest. He was so far from the homes of men that he would have fared ill had it not been for the visits of the hunter who brought to him supplies of things to eat.

One day the hunter came to the temple.

“Honorable one,” he said politely, “I have brought you a bag of rice. May each grain be a prayer for me.”

“Good friend,” said the priest, “I thank you, and in return I will show you a miracle. For many years I have read and studied and reflected upon the Holy Books and it may be that I am receiving my reward. Know then, that each night the Buddha comes to me, here at the temple, riding upon an elephant. Do you not believe? Then tarry and see.”

Speaking respectfully to the priest, the hunter said, “I long to see this wonderful thing.” But in his heart he said to himself, “This thing can not be true.”

Then he turned to the little temple boy and asked, “Have you seen this marvel?”

“Six times I have seen Fugen Bosatsu and fallen before him,” said the boy; and the hunter marveled again.

Dark and silent was the night, save for the wind spirit who swept through the trees, now whispering softly, now moaning as if in pain. Behind the clouds the moon hid herself, throwing now and again fitful gleams across the little shrine at the door of which knelt the priest and his acolyte. Behind them stood the hunter, his heart filled with unbelief. No word was spoken and only a quick indrawing of the hunter’s breath betokened his amazement as the vision came.

In the east arose a star, which grew and grew until the whole mountain-side seemed light; and then there appeared a snow-white elephant with six huge tusks. Upon his back was a rider, and as the figures neared the temple, the priest and the temple boy threw themselves upon the ground, praying aloud to the Fugen Bosatsu.

But the hunter had no prayer within his soul. This thing seemed to him not holy but accursed, and, springing in front of the priest, he set a shaft, drew his bow to the full, and sent his arrow straight to the heart of the Buddha. Straight to the heart it went, clear to the feathers of the shaft, and lo! a terrible cry rent the air. No longer was there white light over the mountain. All was darkness.

“Demon in human form!” cried the priest. “Is it not enough that you spend your vile life destroying God’s creatures upon the earth? To this sin, must you add that of destroying Buddha himself?”

“Not so,” replied the hunter. “Be not so rash. Judgment of others is far too great a sin for one so holy as yourself. Listen, and I will explain what I have done. I have not destroyed the Buddha. You have been deceived. Do you think it is possible that I could see Fugen Bosatsu? I am a mighty hunter, stained with the blood of living creatures. This is displeasing to the Buddha. Now then, would he reveal himself to me? The boy too is but a lad, and why should he see holy visions? You think because you have read and studied much, and because you are of a pure life and a truthful tongue that the Buddha desires to do you honor and reveal to you Fugen Bosatsu. No, good sir, for were this true, you alone could see the vision and it would not be vouchsafed to two sinful ones beside.

“Indeed, you saw not Fugen Bosatsu, but something deceiving and false; and when the morning comes I will prove to you that I speak the truth.”

So when the morning broke in golden streams across the mountain-top the hunter and the priest looked long and carefully, and they found a spot of blood where had stood the vision of the night. Another and another they found, forming a slender trail which led deep into the forest, and ever the crimson trail grew larger and larger until at last they found a pool of blood beside the body of a huge badger which lay dead, pierced by an arrow.

“See,” said the hunter. “You have been deceived though you are far holier than I. All your study can not teach you what I was taught by common sense.”

FOOTNOTES:

[12] Buddhism does not approve the taking of life.

THE PRINCESS MOONBEAM

A woodman once dwelt with his wife at the edge of the forest, under the shadow of the Honorable Mountain. The two were industrious and good, but though they loved each other they were not happy. No children had come to bless them and this the wife mourned deeply.

The husband pitied her and treated her very kindly, yet still she was sad. As she gazed upon the snows of Fujiyama her heart swelled within her and she prostrated herself and said, “Fuji no Yama, Honorable Mountain, my heart is heavy because no childish arms encircle my neck, no little head nestles in my bosom. From thy eternal purity send some little white soul to comfort me!”

The Honorable Mountain spoke not; yet as she prayed, lo, from its heights there sparkled and glowed a tiny light. Fitful and gleaming it seemed, yet it had a silver radiance as of the moon.

The woodman’s wife beheld it, and she called to her husband eagerly, “Come hither, I pray you. See the strange light which comes from Fuji San. I seem to see a face smiling at me. It is the face of a little child!”

Then her husband smiled at her fancy, but, because he loved her, he said indulgently, “I will go and see what it is.”

“I thank you, my lord; go quickly!” she replied.

So, quickly he went to the forest, and as he neared a mountain stream, with Fuji gleaming cold and white in the moonlight, he saw the strange light, which seemed to hover and rest upon the branches of a tall bamboo. Hastening thither he found there a moon child, a tiny, fragile, fairy thing, more beautiful than any child he had ever seen.

“Little creature,” he said. “Who are you?”

“My name is Princess Moonbeam,” she answered sweetly. “My mother is the Moon Lady, and she has sent me to Earth because every Moon Child must do some good thing, else will its silvery light become pale and wan and be of no avail.”

“Little Princess,” he said eagerly, “the best of good deeds is to comfort a sad heart. Come home with me and be a child to my wife, who weeps for children. Thus will your beams grow bright.”

“I will go with you,” said the little Moonbeam, and, rejoicing greatly, he bore her tenderly to his wife.

“I bring you a treasure,” he said. “The Moon Lady sends you this beam of light to lighten your sad heart.”

Then was his wife much overjoyed and she took the little creature to her bosom and cared for her.

Lovelier grew the Moon Child every year and much she rejoiced the hearts of her foster parents. Her hair was like a golden aureole about her face. Her eyes were deep and tender, her cheeks were pale and delicate, and about her there was a subtle and unearthly charm. Every one loved her, even the emperor’s son, who, hunting in the forest, saw her lighting up the humble cottage with her heavenly light. He loved her dearly and she loved him, but alas! she could not marry him because her life upon the earth could be but twenty years. Then she must return to her home in the moon, for so willed her mother the Moon Lady.

At last the day came when she must go. Her parents wept, and could not be consoled; and her lover, who was now the emperor, could not keep her, although he besought High Heaven to spare her.

Her mother caught her up in a silver moonbeam; and all the way to the Moon the little Princess wept silvery tears. As the tears fell from her eyes, lo! they took wings and floated away looking for the form of her beloved, the emperor, who might see her no more.

But the silver-bright tears are seen to this day floating hither and yon about the vales and marshes of fair Nippon. The children chase them with happy cries, and say, “See the fireflies! How fair they are! Whence came they?”

Then their mothers relate to them the legend and say, “These are the tears of the little Princess, flitting to seek her beloved”; and over all, calm and eternal, smiles the Honorable Mountain.

THE SINGLE LANTERN OF YAMATO

There was a poor woman in Yamato who was very good. She prayed daily at the graves of her parents, although she was very old. Daily she placed there some grains of rice, although she was very, very poor. She went to the temple whenever she was able, and prayed much. She was kind to the poor and gave always to the hungry, so that often she went hungry herself.

“It is better to be hungry than to grow hard of heart,” she said.

Now they made a grand temple in Yamato and all the people were proud and gave to it many _yen_. They gave a lantern of bronze so wonderfully fine that all men wondered, for the workmanship was delicate and beautiful. The lantern makers had sat and wrought upon it for days with matchless skill and patience. The stand was large and the light so small as to seem but a mere glimmer of the light of the world.

Many lanterns were given to the temple and a rich man gave a thousand large ones.

“All men shall see that I am of a generous heart,” he said proudly to himself.

The poor woman was grieved at heart.

“I have nothing to give,” she said. “The gods would accept nothing that I have.” She looked carefully over her poor little house, but alas! There was nothing any one would buy. She had only the barest necessaries and these much worn and used for many years.

At last she bethought herself that she still possessed one thing which she might sell. Her hair was yet long and black. It might not bring much, but it would be worth something.

“I am too old to marry, no one cares how I look,” she said, smiling to herself. “I will sell my hair to make a temple offering.”

So she sold it for a small sum, which happily she found was enough to buy one little temple light. This she joyfully placed upon the shrine.

How tiny it looked beside the rich man’s great ones! Yet its light seemed to her to warm her old heart into fresher life, and she was happy.

That night there was a great festival in the temple. All the lamps were lighted, from the great ones of the rich man to the tiny one which the poor woman had placed there with such loving care.

The whole temple was aglow with light, and all the people praised the rich man and said, “How generous he is! How great!”

But just as they were praising him and admiring the lights, there sprang up a sudden fierce wind. It blew so wild a gust that the light of all the great lanterns of the rich man went out, and all was darkness. Yet not all--for lo! there gleamed through the gloom a tiny light, as bright as the light of day. It was the little light of the poor woman, which with its spark seemed to light the whole great temple, and all the people wondered. Then they looked with care to see whence came the little light and when they found it was the gift of so humble a soul they marveled again. But the priest of the temple, who was old and good and very wise, said, “Do not marvel! In the sight of the All Knowing One, the poor gift of a good heart is more worthy than all the splendor of the rich and proud.”

THE SOUL OF THE SAMURAI

Far upon a Western headland the pine trees waved their arms to the sea and the sea god loved them and dashed his high foaming spray to send them greeting. Giant _torii_[13] rose heavenward, that the Golden Crow, the strange and mystic Hobo Bird, might rest there, in his swift flight toward the sun god.

The sea flowed restless and proud at the foot of the cliffs and the beach was soft and treacherous, and the sea god yearly claimed a victim, when the air was heavy with the sweet scent of the wild pittosporum.

O Nitta San was a great warrior. He fought for Go-Daigo the emperor and was his faithful general. Many a battle he fought and won, though the men of the Hojo Clan were many and strong and fought well. But when he reached the headland of the pines, the soul of O Nitta San was heavy within him.

“The men of the Hojo guard the sea with ships, they watch the hills with archers,” he said to his head man. “They are as many as the waves of the sea. Our fate is in the hands of the gods!”

“The favor of the gods must be won, O Nitta San,” said the head man. “I am of small account, but let me throw myself into the sea, and perchance the sea god may accept the sacrifice and smile upon you, my master.”

“Not so,” replied O Nitta San. “I myself will appease the god of the sea, that he may grant us a passage to conquer the city, for the glory of my master the emperor.”

“Honorably the emperor will reward you,” said the head man bowing low, but O Nitta San shook his head.

“I desire no reward,” he said. “Do you hear the chirp of that bird? In a land where even the wild songsters of the forest cry ‘Chiu,’[14] do not think a Samurai needs a reward.”

O Nitta San turned him to the cliffs, and he raised his hands to the sea god and prayed long and earnestly. Then he drew from its scabbard his sword, and lovingly he gazed upon its keen and shining blade. He raised it toward the clouds and it gleamed in the moonlight like a shimmering serpent.

“Beloved comrade, Soul of the Samurai,”[15] he cried. “Well have you served me in many a fierce battle. You are a friend as well as a servant. Now serve me once again and appease the wrath of the sea god!” For a moment he lovingly laid the sword against his breast, then “God of the Sea,” he cried aloud, “accept my sacrifice and care for the Soul of the Samurai.” And so saying he cast far from him the sword.

It screamed through the air and smote the water, and a myriad sparkling crystals rose into the air. They leaped to encircle the sword, as if lovingly encrusting it with diamonds. It rose upon a wave, it fell, the pearl-like foam covered it, and O Nitta San saw it no more.

But from the sea came a dull murmuring sound, and the waters rolled back from the cliffs and a passageway appeared.

“Kompira has accepted my sacrifice,” cried O Nitta San. “We may pass over in safety to conquest and glory.”

Then the army passed over at the edge of the cliff, and they fought a mighty battle with the Hojo and took the city.

Go-Daigo was glad, and he greatly rewarded O Nitta San who was proud and of a good heart fighting for the emperor.

He offered much rice and millet to Kompira, god of the sea, but never, so long as he lived, did he smile when the sun-crested waves sparkled and broke into diamonds before him, for he murmured to himself, “Oh, Kompira, God of the Sea, deal gently with my offering, be kind to the Soul of the Samurai.”

FOOTNOTES:

[13] An archway placed before certain shrines in Japan; originally a perch for sacred fowl heralding the approach of day.

[14] Loyalty.

[15] In Japan, a title given to the sword.

THE DREAM OF THE GOLDEN BOX

Hojo Tokimasa had two daughters. Musako, the elder, was as beautiful as the eight beauties of Omi. Her hair was as black as polished ebony, her eyes were deep and dark and full of fire, her skin was smooth as ivory. She was clever, too, as well as beautiful. But her sister Ume was the favorite of her father.

Ume was sweet and gentle and her father thought to marry her well, though she had not her sister’s beauty.

One night, Ume dreamed a good-luck dream, that a bird brought her a golden box, and she told her sister, while she arranged the elder’s ebon locks in the early morning.

“That is a dream of good omen,” said Musako. “Give it to me and I will give you in return my golden mirror, into which I have so often gazed.”

Now little Ume did not wish to part with her good-luck dream at all; but, more than anything in the world, she desired to share her sister’s beauty. So she said, as she thrust a superb jade hairpin into place, “I will give you the dream, fair sister, and may it bring you good fortune; and so may I, gazing into your mirror, gain some of your radiant beauty, for to you the gods have been kind.”

Musako smiled at the flattery, and thought much all day upon the happy dream.

Late in the twilight, when the moon shone through the flowering plum tree and the fragrance of the plum blossoms stole over the garden, and the nightingale sang of love in the branches, there came a bold knock at the castle gate.

When the gate was opened and the stranger bidden welcome in the name of the god of hospitality, he spoke simply, “I am Yoritomo. The men of the Taira pursue me, and Kiyomori, their chief, has slain my father and many of my father’s house. You are my father’s friend. Of you I ask shelter.”

“You are welcome,” said Hojo. “Abide with us until safety awaits you without.”

Then Yoritomo thanked him and did remain. Ere long he sent his retainer into Hojo’s presence to act as go-between, and ask him for the hand of his daughter Ume. He had seen her. She was gentle and discreet. She was the favorite of the old man, her father. Why should he not be adopted into the family for her sake?

But his retainer desired ever the best for his beloved master. He had seen the radiant beauty of Musako as she had walked in the arbor of wistaria, herself a fairer flower, even, than the long purple racemes swaying in the breeze. He decided in his own mind that the elder sister was the one for his master.

“The falcon may not mate with the dove,” he said to himself. “O Musako San is far more beautiful than her sister and more clever. She will be a better mate for my glorious master than the gentle dove her sister. I shall request her hand of Hojo San.”

So he demanded O Musako San from her father, and that good man was much distressed.

“Truly I should like to give my daughter to your master,” he said. “But she is promised to a lord of the Taira Clan and I dare not break my word to him.”

Then the retainer returned to Yoritomo very sad. He bore such glowing accounts of the beauty and cleverness of O Musako San that Yoritomo’s curiosity was fired, and by night he stole beneath the window where she sat peering into the garden and wondering when the good-luck bird would fly to her.

How fair she was! And when she saw the handsome youth who gazed so ardently upon her, how kindly her eyes looked upon him! Yoritomo determined that she and no other should be his wife. He stole her upon her very wedding day, not, perhaps, without her father’s knowledge, and through all the troubles of his career, she was his faithful wife.

But gazing into Musako’s mirror, the little sister grew fairer every day, and she wedded a great lord and bore him many sons.

THE PRINCESS OF THE SEA

A beautiful princess lived in the depths of the sea. She was fairer than any mortal maiden, and sweet as she was fair. Her voice was as gentle as the sea waves lapping the strand, her sigh was as soft as the sound of the wind through the reeds of the shore, and her laugh was musical as the tinkle of water through the coral branches.

Her mother was no more, but her father, the old Sea King, adored her and gave her all the treasures of the deep. Her necklace was of coral, her girdle was of pearls, her hairpins were of curiously carved tortoise shell, her kimono was embroidered with feathery seaweed, and her floating _obi_ with delicate traceries of kelp, encircled her slender waist.

The princess lived in a magnificent palace built of mother-of-pearl. All the creatures of the sea had given to its adornment. Pearls gleamed from its walls, amber pillars, like shafts of light, supported its roof, while a million lights gleamed from branching corals. The walls were tinted in exquisite colors and decorated with sprays of seaweed floating in cool green waves in which the fish seemed really swimming, so natural did they appear.

The princess did not always stay in this home, beautiful as it was. She loved the fresh breath of the open sea. It brought the color into her cheeks and made her happy. When she went forth she rode upon a dolphin, who plunged through the sea foam and rode over the crested waves with careless grace.

One day the princess mounted his back for a long ride. The next day and the next she went again and always in the same direction. Then her father noticed that she seemed sad, and he said to her, “Where do you go each day, my daughter? Why is it that you do not stay at home?”

“It is lonely here, my father,” she answered. “I like to ride upon the top of the waves, for there I can watch the strange beings who live upon the land. You talk to me of marrying. Find me a sea-prince like one of those mortals whom I have seen and I will marry him.”

“Whom have you seen?” demanded her father, much astonished, for he did not know that she had ever seen a mortal.

“I know not his name,” said the maiden. “But I have seen him upon the shore. He fishes there and I have heard many of the fishes say how kind he is and how gentle. He is handsome, too. He fishes only for such sea food as he must eat and he puts back into the water all those fish which are not good for him to eat. Oh, my father! I love this youth! He is so great and strong! Bring him to me!” and the little princess clasped her hands together as she looked at her father.

But the Sea King was angry. “It is not fitting that you should think such thoughts,” he said in high displeasure. “A sea princess should not marry a mere mortal. Tarry at home henceforth! No more shall you go to ride upon the dolphin!”

So the poor little princess stayed at home and pined. She missed the fresh air of the upper sea and the sight of the blue sky, but above all she missed the young fisherman. At last she grew weak and ill and her father could endure it no longer.

“Are you pining still for that young mortal?” he asked one day; and she replied,

“Oh, my father, unless I speak with him my heart will break!”

“Go to the shore where he fishes,” said the Sea King. “Change yourself into a sea turtle and allow him to catch you in his net. You say he is of such a wonderful kindness--well, Mortals do not eat such turtles; and so if he throws you down upon the sands to die, I will rescue you, but if he places you again in the water, I give my consent to your bringing him here to my palace.”

This the wily old king said, thinking the fisherman would surely throw the turtle aside; but the princess smiled happily, for she knew he would prove kind.

Now Urashima, for that was the fisherman’s name, knew nothing at all of all this. When therefore next day he found in his net a huge turtle, he said to himself, “Well, my fine fellow, what a pity it is that you are not eatable! You would make a good meal for my honorable parents were you as good as you are big. But since you are not, run along home to your friends,” and he dropped the turtle back into the waves.

What was his surprise to see rise from the sea and come toward him across the crested waves, a huge dolphin, carrying on its back a sea nymph fair as the dawn. She cast upon him a sun-bright glance and said,

“Come with me, oh Mortal! Come to the depths of my sea-girt home and see my palace of emerald and pearl. I was that turtle which you cast into the sea, for I took that form to see if you were of as great kindness of heart as the fishes said.”

Urashima stood spellbound and stared at the vision of loveliness before him.

“Come with me,” said the princess, again. “The coral caves await you,--will you not come?”

“Not for all the wealth of the ocean would I leave my beloved home, but to be with you, loveliest of sea nymphs,” cried Urashima, bewitched by her beauty and loveliness.

He went with her to the depths of the ocean and there memory fell from him, and he forgot his home. He thought only of the princess and basked in the sunshine of her smile.

So they were married and lived happily, and even the old Sea King grew to like Urashima and blessed him before he died.

Urashima had lived in the Dragon Palace of the Princess of the Sea what seemed to him but a short time when memory came to him again. He thought of his father and mother and of his little brothers and sisters, and he grew sad. The princess watched him and her heart sank.

“He will go from me and not return,” she sighed. “Alas! alas! for mortal love!”

Urashima at last said to the princess, “Beloved princess, I have spent these months of our life together in happiness so great that I would that it could last forever. I remember, however, my old home and the dear ones I left there. Give me leave, therefore, to return to earth for but a day, that I may see them once more. They know not where I am. They know nothing of my happiness. Let me go, and quickly I will return.”

“Alas, my beloved, you will never return,” she said. “Never more will your deep sea home see you again,--that my poor heart tells me. But if the yearning for home has seized you, I may not keep you here. Go, but take this with you,” and she handed him a casket made of a single pearl and set with a picture of the princess. “So long as you keep this unopened you may return; but open it, and you will never see me again. Farewell.”

So Urashima returned to earth bearing with him the little casket.

His home seemed strange to him. The village street was not what it used to be; his father’s house no longer stood beneath the tall bamboo; he saw no familiar faces. At last, puzzled and distressed, he asked a passer-by if he knew aught of the people of Urashima.

“Urashima!” he answered in amazement. “He was drowned in the sea, many, many years ago. His people all lie buried on the hill. Their very tombs are lichen-grown with age.”

“Am I dreaming,” cried Urashima. “My Sea Princess, what have you done to me?”

Then seizing the casket he gazed upon the face of the nymph and as he did so a strange desire came over him to see what was within. He opened it just a crack and a thin, gray smoke rose toward heaven, and in the curling clouds he seemed to see the lovely form of the princess, and her eyes gazed sadly at him. Then he looked down at himself in wonder. From a stalwart youth he had become a white-haired old man; and, weeping bitterly, he stretched forth his hands to the sea.

“Ah, my princess, farewell forever. Without thee I faint and die. Thy love alone gave life,” and he sank down upon the sands and was no more.

He had been gone from earth a thousand years.

THE FIREFLY OF MATSUI

Shizoku of Matsui loved a maiden called Kennei-Botaru, for she was bright and sparkling. Late one snowy night he was returning from a wedding party when amidst the tiny snowflakes which were beginning to fall, he saw a strange light flicker and flash before him.

“Kagaribo mo
Hotaru mo hikaru
Genji kama!”[16]

he exclaimed, wondering that the O-botaru (great firefly) should be flitting about in winter snows.

As he gazed upon it, the creature flashed and darted toward him and so annoyed him that he thrust at it with the stick he carried.

Hither and yon it flashed, like a will-o’-the-wisp until at last it darted away into the garden of the house wherein dwelt his betrothed.

The next day he saw his beloved, and she said to him shyly, “Last night I had a strange dream. I thought I had wings and could fly and that I was flying through the night. It was cold and there was snow in the air and I said to myself, ‘Where is my beloved that I may fly to his breast and be warm?’ Then I saw you coming swiftly toward the bridge with your lantern, though the moon shone bright in the heavens. Then I flew to you, but you were not overjoyed to receive me. You struck at me and drove me from you, and I fled in terror into the garden where I hid myself in the heart of a plum blossom, and the snow fell upon me and I was cold. Then I awoke and I was afraid, and something whispered to me ‘His heart is cold to you as was the heart of the plum blossom when the snow fell upon it!’ What means my dream?”

“Indeed, I can not tell,” he made answer. “But I know well you read its meaning wrong. Were I to drive you from me and you to seek another, then would your heart’s resting place be cold as was the plum blossom of your dream. But trouble not yourself, beloved, for never shall I drive you away,” and he smiled upon her and the heart of O Botaru San was comforted.

FOOTNOTES:

[16] “Is that the glimmer of far festal fires,
Or the shimmering of the firefly?
Ah, it is the Genji!”

THE MOUNTAIN ROSE

Ota Dakwan was a noble _daimio_.[17] His castle was filled with retainers who waited upon him, at his least word flying to obey his commands. Men vied with each other to do him honor, bowing low before him as he passed and saying “Behold Ota Dakwan, the Daimio!”

Young maidens blushed at his name and when the moon shone through the lattice, sighed to the nightingale to sing the praises of this splendid warrior.

Honors crowded thick upon him, but of it all he wearied and often sought the forest, there to hunt in solitude. Where the great trees spread their branches and the bamboos and the pines talked together he spent many hours, returning to his castle at night, weary, but with his game bag full.

Often people said to him, “What do you find so wonderful in the forests of the hill country?”

“Sunlight and shade,” he answered, “everglade and waterfall, game to hunt and no one to say me nay; above all, the mighty mountain, cool and aloof as is the spirit of the great;” and at his answer men wondered.

One day Ota Dakwan hunted long upon the mountain-side, so long that he wandered far from home and a great storm of rain came upon him, from which there was no shelter. He was glad, therefore, when in a lonely spot he saw a tiny cottage beside a grove of great bamboos, and he ran to it for shelter.

Within was a young maiden who smiled upon him, but spoke not. She was beautiful as a dream though poorly clad, and he said to her, “Will you lend me a straw rain coat? for every tree in the forest sends down her showers and I shall be drenched before I can reach my home.”

The maiden blushed deeply and without a word hastily left the room. In a moment she returned, her delicate cheeks flushed pink, carrying a _yamabuki_[18] blossom which she placed in his hand, still with no word, only a sigh and a blush.

“What means this?” he asked, much puzzled. “I ask protection from the rain and you give me a flower. Were you not as fair as the first cherry blooms of spring, I could find it in my heart to be angry with you. Speak!” But she only shook her head and sighed, and, angry at last, he turned on his heel and left her, going forth into the rain, the flower still in his hand.

He, the adored of all Yedo, to be laughed at by a mere country maiden who would not even speak to him! At this thought his heart rose within him, but remembering how sweetly she smiled and how like a rose she blushed, his anger melted away.

“She was as the flower she gave me, a mountain rose,” he thought to himself. Then he raised the delicate blossom to his face and its sweet scent was as the breath of morning, fresh and kind. The rain ceased, and hurrying homeward he was met by his head man who greeted him anxiously. To him he told his strange adventure, and the head man said, “The poet says ‘the mountain rose has many petals but it has no seed.’[19] The maiden meant to tell you in poetic vein that she possessed no rain coat. She is the fair, dumb daughter of your lordship’s keeper, and they are very poor.”

“They shall be so no longer,” said the daimio. “For one with so fair a soul should have fairer surroundings, and one upon whom the gods have laid a finger should have kindness from those of this world.”

Then he showed much kindness to her father, and to the maiden, sending to them gifts of rice and tea and rich garments. And oftentimes, when tired with his morning’s hunt, he would rest within the little lonely hut, and Yamabuki would serve him a cup of tea with a shy grace. Whenever he spoke to her it was with kindness and she would smile and blush and sigh a little, while he murmured to himself, “The god of silence laid his finger upon your lips, Yamabuki, little silent one.”

FOOTNOTES:

[17] Lord or knight.

[18] Wild rose.

[19] _Mino_, the Japanese word for “seed,” means also a rain coat.

THE EVIL ONE AND THE RAT

When the Spirit of Creation had finished his work, he came down from Heaven and gazed upon what he had done.

He saw the mountains gleaming pure against the blue, the rivers winding silvery to the sea, the rice fields lying warm and moist in the valleys--and it was good. He gazed upon the trees waving in the wind, the iris fields and the lotus ponds, the cherry blooms and the plum blossoms, and he smiled well pleased.

Then the Evil One appeared to him and with a hateful voice said, “Do not flatter yourself that you have done all well in this world. Indeed you have not. There are many things which are neither pretty nor useful. See how ugly this thistle is, and of what use is the bramble? Had I made things I would have done much better.”

Then the Spirit of Creation was very angry. He thought a thing of wrath and created a rat. It was large and fierce, and it quickly jumped into the mouth of the Evil One and bit out his tongue. Then was the Evil One in great rage and he uttered horrid cries and danced an evil dance upon the grass. He thought to himself, “Since the rats are here, they shall be made to be a torment to the earth,” and he made them increase greatly until they overran the Land of the Ainu.

At this the people were very unhappy. “Oh, Creating Spirit,” they cried, “take away these pests, for they eat our grain and our rice, they gnaw our huts, they frighten our children. Destroy them, oh kind Creating Spirit.”

But the Spirit shook his head. “Not so,” he said, “I may not destroy that which I have once made. But I will create another thing which shall war with the rats, and so you shall be helped in your distress.”

He created straightway cats and the cats warred greatly upon the rats so that they grew less. Then were the people pleased and rejoiced, but an old man said to them, “Speak not evil of the rats, nor of anything which the Creating Spirit has made. It must be that the Creating Spirit is displeased when his works are spoken ill of, for he punished the Evil One for so doing. Besides, everything created is of some use. Even the rat bit off the tongue of the Evil One.”

THE PAINTER OF CATS

Once upon a time a long, long time ago there was a boy who was clever and polite and kind, and it would seem as if he was a very fine boy indeed. But he had one fault. He would draw pictures of cats.

Now that does not appear to be a very bad fault, but the trouble was that Kihachi would not do anything else. He drew cats at school when he should have been studying his lessons. He drew them when all the other children were at play and when it would have been far better for him to have been running and jumping.

When his brothers and sisters were sleeping peacefully at night upon their wooden pillows, Kihachi would arise from his sleeping mat and, stealing to the paper partitions of the little room into which streamed the moonlight, he would draw cats. In the early morning when the sun gleamed over the tiny garden and the dew lay like jewels upon the rice fields, still Kihachi could be found drawing cats.

He drew large cats and small cats, mother cats and kittens. He drew them even upon his clothes, and this caused his mother much annoyance, though she was very patient. When, however, it came to pass that she found a whole family of kittens playing their pranks, in pencil, upon her own best _obi_,[20] she felt that something must be done.

“My lord,” she said to her husband, “this boy and his cats make me too much trouble. I have done everything to cause him to stop, but to no avail. I have even burned him with the _moxa_[21] but still he does not cease. He says he can not. Our other sons are able to help you in the field and our daughter is a great assistance to me in the household. But Kihachi does not work, and his schoolmaster says he will not study. He will do nothing but draw cats. What shall we do with him?”

“It may be that so strange a boy will grow up to be something quite different from us,” said his father. “He is always agreeable. Every morning he says most politely, ‘O hayo, O tat’ San, O hayo, O oka San.’[22] It seems to me _Bot chan_[23] is not bad. Perhaps he would make a good priest. Let us take him to the temple and see if he will not there forget his cats.”

So they took him to the temple and the priest received them with courtesy. “Enter, honorably enter!” he said, and they entered saying, “We have brought to you our youngest boy in the hope that you will graciously permit him to become your acolyte.”

The priest asked Kihachi many questions, very difficult ones, and these he answered so cleverly that the old man said to the parents, “This child is destined to be great. He is very clever. Leave him with me and I will teach him all he needs to become a priest.”

So Kihachi stayed in the temple and he studied very hard. He liked to get up early as the mists were breaking over Fuji San and the temple bells were ringing in the dawn. He loved to sit in the twilight when the flowers of the _yamabuki_ are mirrored in the still marsh waters. He loved to pluck the primrose, flower of happiness, and to twine it with the _nanten_[24] into wreaths for the shrine of Buddha. He liked to read and to study the sacred books and he learned many prayers, but still he liked to draw, and still he drew cats.

He drew them on the margins of the books, on the prayer rolls, on the very _kakemonos_[25] of the temple, and this much displeased the good old priest.

At last he could not stand it any longer and he called the boy to him. Kihachi bowed very low, his hands and forehead touching the floor.

“Bot chan,” said the priest, “you will never make a good priest. You may some day become a great artist, but you will never be anything else. You had better go away from the temple and seek your fortune in the world. Here is a bag of rice for you. Put it in a bundle of your clothes, and go, and may good fortune go with you. I will give you one last bit of advice. When darkness gathers, fear great places, seek small shelter.”

Kihachi thanked the priest and went mournfully away from the temple. It seemed to him as if he was always to be unhappy because of his cats, but he could not help drawing them. He was afraid to go home, for he knew his father would punish him for disobeying the priest. He did not know what to do. At last he thought of a large temple in the next village, and wondered if some of the priests there would not take him for an acolyte.

“At least I can try,” he said, and hurried on, hoping to reach the temple before night.

It was a long way, and his feet grew very sore and he was tired. So it was a great disappointment when he reached the temple to find it deserted. Not a priest was there to offer incense, not an acolyte to ring the temple bells.

“How strange it is that everything is covered with dust! There are cobwebs spun over the altars!” he said. “It seems to me an acolyte is needed. I shall stay at least for the night and perhaps to-morrow the priests may return. They will commend me if I make things very clean.”

He laid down his bundle and began to clean the temple with a will, and soon it was quite free from dirt and dust. Then he sat down and rested, but noticing a large screen with quite a blank space upon it, he drew out his writing box and began to draw cats as hard as he could draw.

He thought nothing of how time was passing until suddenly he noticed it was growing quite dark, and he began to be a little afraid. He looked about him. How huge and deserted seemed the temple hall! How small a boy he was! Then he remembered the old priest’s parting words, “When darkness hovers, fear great places, seek small shelters.” Surely this was a great place! He hunted about hoping to find a small place which might be safer, and, surely enough, there was a tiny recess in the wall with a door which could be slid into place. He entered and found there was just room enough for him to curl up and go to sleep, which he did, for he was so tired that sleep came to him quickly.

He slept soundly, but at last was awakened by a loud noise. It seemed as if a thousand ogres were fighting, and with the noise of the fighting came horrid screams. Kihachi was afraid to make a peephole in the paper partition, and so he lay very still until at last there was a more awful scream than before and the sound of a heavy fall. Then all was still.

Kihachi lay quite still until the morning light began to creep into his cabinet, and then he thought, “I must get up and ring the dawn bell; for when the priests return they will be pleased to find that I have attended to everything.”

So he jumped up and hastened to ring the bell. Pure and clear its tones rang out over the cool morning air, and Kihachi noticed figures in the valley below moving rapidly, and he said, “Here come the priests. I hope they will be pleased with what I have done.”

Then he went to look at the cats he had drawn in the great temple hall the night before. But what a sight met his eyes! Upon the floor of the temple was a pool of blood and beside it the body of a fierce and terrible rat, the largest he had ever seen. It was as large as a cow, indeed it was a monster rat goblin.

“What killed you?” he cried, “there must have been a battle royal here in the night, for I heard sounds as if an army of cats was let loose.”

Then his heart stood still, for he saw that the mouths of all the cats he had drawn were covered with blood!

“My cats killed the rat goblin!” he cried joyfully; and at that moment he heard steps and turning, saw the headman of the village with several other men entering the temple.

“What does this mean?” asked the headman. “Do you not know that this temple is haunted by a terrible rat goblin? Surely you did not spend the night here?”