with the young prince. Such is my decision, but the chief anxiety at
present is concerning the mother of that boy. If she should come back
before this can be achieved, what course of action can we decide on?"

"Leave her to me! I will try to throw dust in her eyes!" suggested
Tonami.

"No, no, that won't do--a great plan often fails through some small
mistake." Then, after a moment's reflection, he added, "Oh, well--I
suppose she must die, too!"

"What!" cried his wife, in alarm.

"Be quiet," admonished her husband. "For the young lord's sake we must
stop at nothing. It is for our master's sake, remember that!"

"Yes, yes, if we are weak we shall fail in our great scheme. Let us
become devils. There is not much difference between pupils and one's
own children. That boy became our pupil at this critical moment--heaven
must have delivered him into our hands as the result of his mother's
sin in a former existence. Oh, well! the same fate may overtake us
before long--" At this point their pent-up feelings gave way, and both
of them shed tears.

Shortly afterwards Gemba and Matsuo arrived at the gate. They were
closely followed by a number of villagers, the parents of the common
pupils in the school. In great excitement, one and all were loudly
clamouring for the safety of their own children.

Matsuo almost laughed. The situation was one of such grim comedy. Each
peasant evidently thought his own son might easily pass for the young
aristocrat!

"Oh, mine is a beautiful boy," shouted one man. "You mustn't make any
mistake between my son and the real victim. Give me my boy--" he turned
fiercely to Gemba.

"You need have no apprehension whatever regarding your children," said
Gemba, calmly addressing the alarmed parents, who now squatted on the
ground with their heads bowed in the dust, "if you want them, you are
at liberty to take them away at once!"

Matsuo, who was in a _kago_,[7] here stepped out, using his long sword
as a stick to lean upon. Both he and Gemba sat on stools, which their
attendants placed ready.

"Just wait a little," said he--"we cannot be too careful even with
these villagers. The reason why I accepted the office of examiner
is because there is no one else who knows the young prince's head
as well as I do. These people allowed the young Sugawara to live in
this village, so very likely they may have sympathy with the ex-Prime
Minister and may claim his son now, pretending that he is one of their
own family, and so aid him to escape! Who knows?"

Then, turning to the agitated peasants, he said to them, "Now, my men,
you may call out your children's names one by one. I will examine each
face carefully. Your own boys shall be safely restored to you, rest
assured of that!"

The schoolmaster and his wife, from the house, overheard all that was
going on, and Matsuo's determined and arrogant demeanour only served to
intensify their fears. It was going to be even more difficult than they
had apprehended.

An elderly man came forward, and in a loud voice, called out:

"Chomatsu, Chomatsu!"

In answer, an ill-favoured, pock-marked boy ran out, his face covered
with smudges of Indian ink.

Matsuo glanced at him.

"The difference is as great as between snow and charcoal. He may go!"
In turn, all the rest of the pupils were searchingly inspected, but not
one bore the slightest resemblance to the ill-fated Kanshusai. When the
pacified villagers had carried away all their offspring in triumph,
Gemba and Matsuo entered the schoolmaster's house.

"Genzo!" began Gemba, in tones of authority, "you promised to behead
the young Sugawara--I will receive that head now!"

Without betraying the least sign of feeling, Genzo replied:

"Yes, but he is the son of the ex-Prime Minister. We cannot slaughter
him like a common boy. Please wait for a short time!"

"Oh, you cannot deceive us," said Matsuo, quickly. "Dallying in this
way is merely pretext for gaining time. But it is useless for you to
attempt to disappear now, the rear of the house is guarded by some
hundred men, and there is no room even for an ant to escape. You may
produce a substitute head, with the explanation that a dead and a
living face have a different appearance. I shall not be taken in by a
subterfuge. Such tricks on your part will only lead to repentance!"

This last thrust hit Genzo hard, but he did not lose his
self-possession and answered Matsuo quietly,

"What a far-fetched idea! Your eyes, after your long illness, may not
be able to see things clearly, but I will surely give you the head of
the young lord you demand."

"Before your tongue is dry," exclaimed Gemba, impatiently, "behead him
at once!"

"It shall be done!" replied Takebe, and went into an inner room. His
wife, who had listened to all that transpired, was in an agony of
anxiety, pale and trembling. Matsuo, with sharp eyes, was looking round
the room.

"It is rather mysterious," he said, suddenly, "eight pupils have gone
home, and yet, there are nine desks. What has become of the owner of
that extra desk?"

Tonami started. She began to explain that there was a new pupil. Matsuo
saw her vacillation. In an undertone, he said: "What a fool you are!
Keep quiet!" Then, realizing how fatal such a mistake would be--Tonami
collected herself and managed to stammer out. "That is the young
Sugawara's desk!"

But her confusion had been noticed by the enemy. Gemba started to his
feet and shouted in furious tones,

"This trifling will cause the frustration of our plans!"

At that moment the sound of a sword broke the silence as it fell
swishing through the air, the screens of the room shook, and before
Matsuo and Gemba could reach the partition which separated the inner
from the outer room, Takebe appeared, carrying a white wooden tray.
A cover hid what was beneath, but a thin trail of crimson blood was
ominously oozing from the edge. Kneeling on the mats before the two
men, he placed his ghastly burden before them.

"There was no alternative, so I was forced to behead the young lord.
May Heaven forgive me! As it is a matter of such importance that there
should be no mistake--please examine it carefully."

With these words, Takebe's hand stealthily fell upon his sword-hilt.
Every fibre was on the alert to cut down Matsuo the moment he realized
the deception that had been practised on him.

"I will certainly do so," replied Matsuo, nonchalantly, then,
addressing some of the soldiers who had followed him into the room, he
peremptorily gave them the command:

"Now surround the Takebe couple!"

From the rear of the house several guards entered and took up their
posts at the porch, and just behind Genzo and his wife.

The strain was almost too great for the poor woman, and she was
well-nigh fainting with the sickening uncertainty of what might be the
last act of that dreadful drama. Gemba, looking on, took note keenly of
the proceedings.

Everything hung on Matsuo's decision. The suspense of the moment was
agonizing in its intensity.

He slowly lifted the blood-rimmed cover from the wooden tray. A boy's
decapitated head was exposed to view. It was the head of little Kotaro.

Takebe's eyes were riveted on Matsuo. Defiantly he swore that Matsuo
should draw his last breath the moment he declared the head to be a
subterfuge. As a tiger ready to spring on its prey, the desperate man
watched the judge on whose next word hung all their lives.

Tonami was praying to the Gods in silent fervour that the truth might
not be discovered, tremblingly she clutched a short sword hidden
beneath her robe, which her husband had surreptitiously handed her, in
preparation for the worst.

Matsuo deliberately examined the head of his own son--carefully and
searchingly from every side he scrutinized the little face, now so
still and pallid, sometimes his eyes blinked to hide the gathering
tears, and once his face contracted with pain, but at last he loudly
pronounced the momentous verdict:

"Oh, there can be no doubt that this is the head of Kanshusai, the
son of the Lord Sugawara." Triumph, at the success of his loyal plot,
conquered every other feeling and he slammed the lid back into place.

Gemba, delighted that there had been no mistake, and that the gruesome
commission had been successfully carried out, accorded words of praise
to Takebe for beheading the boy.

"As a reward for this deed, you will be pardoned for harbouring him
so long! Let us hasten to take the head to Lord Tokihira," he said,
turning to Matsuo.

"Yes, it is better that no time should be lost," responded the latter,
"but as my duty is now finished, may I request to be discharged on sick
leave?"

"Certainly," Gemba replied, "as your mission is satisfactorily
concluded, you may go."

He then took up the tray with the bleeding head, strode to the door,
and calling his attendants, pompously set out at once for Tokihira's
palace. Outside the gate he stopped and mockingly addressed Takebe:
"Ha, ha, ha!" he laughed, "though you take great care of the boy
usually, when your own life is in danger you do not fail to cut off his
head! ha, ha, ha!" and the cruel man, with this parting sneer, went on
his ruthless way. Matsuo silently followed him out of the house and got
into his _kago_.

The husband and wife, now that they were left alone, were quite
exhausted from the emotion and stress of the past hour. They went out
and closed the gates. Both were speechless with joy for some minutes.
The master, sighing with relief, bowed his head and turned to the four
points of the compass, silently returning thanks to the deities whose
help he had invoked.

[Illustration: This is the head of Kanshusai, the son of the Lord
Sugawara.]

"Oh, Heaven be praised!" he exclaimed at last. "The Gods have accorded
their mighty aid to our cause and mercifully caused Matsuo's eyes to be
dimmed, so that he mistook the other boy's head for that of our young
prince. Heaven has clearly interposed to help our lord. Let us rejoice,
my wife!"

"Yes, yes," she answered, "what a terrible strain it has been! In some
unfathomable way the spirit of our lord must have cast a veil over
Matsuo's eyes, or that head may have become a golden Buddha to help our
cause. Though there was a slight resemblance between the two boys, yet
they differ in reality as much as brick from gold. I was so transported
at the success of our plan, that I almost wept aloud with the poignancy
of joy when I saw that Matsuo was deceived."

When the loyal couple had given vent to their feelings, simultaneously
they rushed to the side-room, where they had concealed their precious
charge. The one from the side and the other from the front pushed aside
the screens. Genzo then raised one of the _tatami_ (a padded mat three
feet by six feet), disclosing a cavity in the floor, out of which
rose up the aristocratic form of Kanshusai, safe and untouched by his
enemies. They gazed at him in silence--overwhelmed.

Suddenly, a knocking at the gate and the voice of Kotaro's mother
disturbed them.

"I am the mother of the new pupil. Let me in!"

Startled, they hastily closed the screens. At this turn of events
Tonami was at her wits' end, and knew not what to do for the best. She
ran to and fro across the room like one demented.

Seeing that Tonami was losing her self-control and was about to
burst out into excited speech, her husband enveloped his hand in the
sleeve of his robe and covered her mouth. He held her still with grim
determination.

"Remember what I said a short time ago. It means simply this--nothing
is so precious as our young lord. You weak creature!" he added, with
disdain, as he saw his wife's trepidation. Then he turned and went to
the entrance.

"I fear my naughty boy must be giving you a great deal of trouble,"
said the new-comer, as Takebe let her in, "but what has become of him
now?"

To gain time, Takebe replied, little knowing that he was confronted by
a soul as strong in loyalty to the Sugawara as his own:

"He is in the house playing with the other children--school is over for
to-day, so you must take him back with you."

"Very well," she assented, and started towards the house.

Directly her back was turned, Takebe drew his sword and tried to cut
her down from behind. O Chiyo, a _samurai_ woman, was a trained fencer.
She swiftly comprehended the meaning of Takebe's movement, even before
he drew his sword, the sound, as it left its sheath, confirming what
her alert senses divined. Quick as lightning she darted aside, barely
escaping the deadly weapon as it tried to compass her destruction.
Again and again the desperate man thrust at her. All would be lost even
now, if this woman discovered that her boy had been slain to save their
lord's son. With a box which she carried in her hand, O Chiyo skilfully
parried the blows.

"Wait, wait! What is the matter?" she gasped out. But her frenzied
antagonist was far too excited to listen, and he struck out with such
good-will that the box, which served her as a shield, was speedily cut
in two, and there appeared, unfolding and fluttering in the breeze as
they fell, a little winding sheet, and a sacred banner used for the
dead, bearing in black hieroglyphics, the inscription, "_Namu Amida
Butsu_!" (All hail, Great Buddha!)

Takebe's hand was paralyzed by this unexpected apparition. Bewildered
as to what this could mean, he glanced inquiringly at O Chiyo.

"Was my boy considered worthy to take the place of our young lord or
not?" she asked, meeting his gaze steadily with her clear eyes. "Tell
me the truth!"

At such totally unlooked-for words, Takebe was confounded more than
ever. Was it possible that the enemy he was seeking to destroy had
unexpectedly become a friend?

"Oh, oh!" he stammered, "Did you understand and anticipate all this?"

"Yes, of course," answered the brave mother. "As I anticipated
everything, I prepared and brought these things in Kotaro's box."

"Whose wife are you?" cried the astonished man, as he sheathed his
sword.

Before she could answer a voice from outside the gate chanted a poem:

      _Ume[8] wa tobi_
    _Sakura_[8] _wa karuru_
      _Yono naka ni_
    _Nani tote Matsu_[8] _wa_
      _Tsure na kakuran_.

      In my service
    Plum blossom has fled
      The Cherry has withered
    How then can the Pine be
      Heartless to me?

"Rejoice, my wife! Our boy has done his duty!" When these brief words
conveyed to the heroic woman that the sacrifice had been consummated in
the tragic fate of her cherished son, her brave spirit failed her, and
she fell unconscious to the ground.

"What a poor creature you are!" exclaimed her husband, as he entered
the room.

At the unexpected arrival of Matsuo, the schoolmaster and his wife
were more confused than ever, but with an effort Takebe attempted to
regain his self-possession.

[Illustration: The box, which served her as a shield, was speedily cut
in two, and there appeared, unfolding and fluttering in the breeze, a
little winding-sheet and a sacred banner for the dead]

"I will use more ceremonious speech afterwards. You Matsuo, whom we all
believed a traitor to behave like this! What is the meaning of it all?"

"It is quite natural that you cannot understand. We were three
brothers. All were faithful vassals of Michizane, the Minister of the
Right, to whom my family was deeply indebted. I, Matsuo, latterly
entered the service of Tokihira, and on this account I was disowned
by my father. I dissimulated thus, the better to serve Lord Sugawara.
However, the position proved intolerable, and to get my dismissal
I feigned illness. It was at this juncture that the news of where
Kanshusai was concealed reached the ears of Tokihira. A messenger
informed me that I would be released from office if I would undertake
the mission of securing the head of our young lord. I felt sure that
you would never commit such a crime, but if no substitute could be
procured I knew that you would be desperate. Thinking that the time
had come to repay the debt of gratitude to our generous benefactor, I
consulted with my wife, and we sent our own boy to take the place of
his son. That is why I counted the number of desks, to see if he were
already here or not. Lord Sugawara composed the poem I quoted just
now, showing his discernment of my character. In that poem he asks,
'How can the pine be heartless towards me?' But the world, in general,
interpreted those lines in a contrary sense, and everyone denounced me
as a cowardly deserter. You may imagine, Genzo, how I resented this. If
I had had no son, I must have passed as a traitor all my life. There is
no possession so precious as a son."

O Chiyo, who had meanwhile recovered from her faint, was intently
listening to her husband's explanations with a composed demeanour. But
at these words she could restrain her emotion no longer, and sobbed
aloud.

"Oh, how our Kotaro must rejoice although in another world, to hear
such sentiments from his father. Those words are his best requiem. When
I left him a short time ago, he looked unusually sad--for his childish
mind understood that he was about to die. I intended to go home and
deceive him, saying that I was going to the next village and would
return soon. But I could not go home. Oh! the yearning to see even his
dead face once more was so great that I came back. You may scoff at my
weakness, but my sorrow is well-nigh unendurable. Had our Kotaro been
born ugly, and brought up as a common child, he might not have suffered
such a death. But as he was beautiful, obedient, and good, he was
chosen for the sacrifice. Could I have known his untimely fate I would
never have found fault with him. Oh, my son, my little, little son!"

And the poor woman, overcome with the poignancy of her grief and the
bitterness of her renunciation, fell with her face to the mats, trying
to suppress the rending sobs which seemed to tear her breast asunder.

Here Tonami came close to the sorrowing mother and murmured in tones of
sympathy:

"Only a short hour ago, when my husband had decided that he should be
the substitute for the young prince, Kotaro came up to him and said,
innocently, 'Master, please take care of me!' When I think of this,
though I am but a stranger, I feel as if my heart would break. I can
imagine how desolate his true mother must be to lose such a sweet
child," and the tears fell from her eyes.

"No, no, Tonami! No, no, my wife! You must not weep. It was our own
decision to let him die in the place of our young lord. You, O Chiyo,
ought to be ashamed to give way like this before strangers. But," and
Matsuo turned anxiously to Takebe, "although I carefully explained to
my boy the reason for his fate, and how he should die with dignity,
tell me, did he meet death in a miserable way, or did he die like a
_samurai_?"

"Yes, oh, yes!" Takebe quickly replied. "When I told the brave boy
that his head must be cut off to save our young lord, the child of his
benefactor, he calmly and courageously, without a word, placed his neck
in readiness for the sword--he did not attempt either to hide or to
escape from his impending doom. You must have taught him well--he even
smiled at the last--rest assured of that!"

The schoolmaster could say no more, with strong restraint he tried to
hide his feelings and pretended to laugh, but the forced mirth ended
with a choking sound in his throat.

At this point the stoic father broke down and wept, and as he wiped
away the slow tears, he said, in a low voice: "He was both good and
clever, was our little Kotaro. Even at the age of nine he takes the
place of his parents to prove our gratitude to our lord. He is a filial
child--a fortunate child to be able to do that I The more I think of it
the more it recalls my brother, Sakura Maru. He died without being able
to make any return for the obligation he was under to his lord. How he
must envy our boy!"

"Oh, Kotaro soon followed him to another world!" wailed O Chiyo, and
with these words she burst into another paroxysm of grief.

The young Sugawara, the innocent cause of this tragedy, overhearing the
poor mother's heart-rending sobs, came out from an inner room, pale and
awe-stricken:

"If I had only known that he was going to die for me, I would not have
allowed it--oh--how sad! how sad!" he exclaimed, and with his long
sleeve, he wiped away the tears from his eyes.

Matsuo and his wife turned and bowed to the little fellow while he
spoke. For this boy's sake their family must sink into oblivion and
nothingness, and be no longer remembered among the living; for his sake
there would be no one to keep up the rites of the dead before their
ancestors' tombs or their own, when they should be no more. On this
altar of loyalty to his father's house they had offered all that this
world held for them of joy, hope, and ambition. On this altar they had
laid up for themselves a cheerless, desolate, childless old age. To
this sublime ideal of duty, unhesitatingly, unflinchingly, regardless
of themselves and the acuteness of their sufferings, these simple
martyr-souls had made this great renunciation. That the young lord
should realize this sacrifice they had not in the least expected. His
words surprised them. It was balm to their stricken hearts, that even
in some small measure he could appreciate what they had done for him.

Then Matsuo rose and went to the porch.

"I have brought a present for our young master," and with a whistle, he
summoned a _kago_ that had been waiting in the garden. As soon as the
bearers set it down out stepped the Lady Sugawara.

"Oh, my mother! My mother!" almost shouted the boy, as she quickly
entered the house, her long mantle of gold brocade and crimson linings
flashing colour as she moved.

"Oh, my son, my beloved son!" cried the overjoyed mother, folding the
child to her heart.

The schoolmaster and his wife exclaimed with joy when they realized the
identity of the new-comer After their respectful greetings, Takebe said:

"I have been long striving to discover your hiding place. Where can
your ladyship have taken refuge all this time?"

Matsuo answered for her:

"When her ladyship was hiding in the suburbs, Tokihira's retainers
got scent of her retreat and nearly succeeded in taking her prisoner.
Knowing her danger I disguised myself as a _yamabushi_[9] and managed
to rescue her just in time, so she has been concealed in my house
ever since. Without delay you must now escort her and Kanshusai to
Kawachi,[10]--so that they may once more be a united family, safe from
the pursuit of their enemies."

Then, turning to his wife, he added, "Now let us carry home the body of
Kotaro and begin the preparations for his funeral rites."

But before O Chiyo could answer, Tonami reverently carried the headless
body of the slain child to the _kago_. O Chiyo followed, and kneeling,
placed over Kotaro the white shroud and the sacred banner.

Matsuo and his wife then took off their outer robes, revealing the
white garments of ceremonial mourning in readiness for the obsequies.
Takebe and his wife made a gesture of surprise and deprecation.

"It is against custom that parents should attend the funeral of their
own son. Let us spare you this trial--we will do everything in your
place!" they cried.

"No, no," said Matsuo, loyal unto death, even the death of his only son
for the sake of his lord, "this is not the body of my boy. We are going
to bury our young lord!"

[Illustration: "No, no," said Matsuo ... "this is not the body of my
boy.... We are going to bury our young lord!"]

With these words, Matsuo and his wife took their farewells. Then,
turning in silence, they followed the impromptu bier which bore all
that was left to them of their well-beloved child, and with bowed heads
reverently wended their way towards their now desolate and empty home.
Lady Sugawara, her son, Genzo and Tonami, with tears falling from their
eyes, watched the little procession slowly disappear down the road into
the deepening shadows of the night.

Note.--"The memory of the unfortunate statesman, Sugawara-no-Michizane,
is surrounded by a halo of romance which affords an insight into
Japanese character. He belonged to an ancient family of professional
litterateurs, and had none of the titles which in that age were
commonly considered essential to official preferment. By extraordinary
scholarship, singular sweetness of disposition, and unswerving fidelity
to justice and truth he won a high reputation, and had he been content
with the fame his writings brought him, and with promoting the cause
of scholarship, through the medium of a school which he endowed, he
might have ended his days in peace. But, in an evil hour, he accepted
office, and thus found himself required to discharge the duties of
statesmanship at a time of extreme difficulty, when an immense interval
separated the rich and the poor, when the arbitrariness and extortions
of the local governors had become a burning question, when the nobles
and the princes were crushing the people with merciless taxes, and when
the finances of the Court were in extreme disorder. Michizane, a gentle
conservative, was not fitted to cope with these difficulties, and his
situation at Court was complicated by the favour of an ex-Emperor (Uda)
who had abdicated but still sought to take part in the administration,
and by the jealousy of the Fujiwara representative, Tokihira, a
young, impetuous, arrogant, but highly gifted nobleman. These two men,
Michizane and Tokihira, became the central figures in a very unequal
struggle, the forces on the one side being the whole Fujiwara clan,
headed by the unscrupulously daring and ambitious Tokihira; those on
the other, a few scholars, the love and respect of the lower orders,
and the benevolent tolerance of the self-effacing Michizane. The end
was inevitable. Michizane, falsely accused of conspiring to obtain
the throne for his grandson--an Imperial prince had married his
daughter--was banished to Dazaifu, and his family and friends were
either killed or reduced to serfdom. The story is not remarkable. It
contains no great crises or dazzling incidents. Yet if Michizane had
been the most brilliant statesman and the most successful general
ever possessed by Japan, his name could not have been handed down
through all generations of his countrymen with greater veneration and
affection."--BRINKLEY, "Japan: Its History Arts and Literature," p. 256.

[Footnote 1: In the ancient Imperial Court there were two supreme
Ministers in the Council of State; first the Minister of the Left
(_Sadaijin_--next in rank to the Prime Minister), and second, the
Minister of the Right (_Udaijin_).]

[Footnote 2: The Fujiwara Minister.]

[Footnote 3: _Ronin_, a _samurai_ who has severed relations with his
lord for the sake, generally, of carrying out some plan which would
entail disgrace if unsuccessful.]

[Footnote 4: Where Sugawara was exiled.]

[Footnote 5: _Obi_, the sash or girdle.]

[Footnote 6: _Shoji_, sliding paper door.]

[Footnote 7: _Kago_, a palanquin.]

[Footnote 8: _Matsu_, the first hieroglyphic of Matsuo's name. _Ume_
(plum blossom), and _Sakura_ (cherry), were the names of Matsuo's
brothers.]

[Footnote 9: _Yamabushi_, a wandering priest.]

[Footnote 10: Kawachi: where the friends of Sugawara were the
strongest.]

HOW KINU RETURNED FROM THE GRAVE

In the good old days of long, long, ago, there lived in the city of
Osaka a rich merchant. Fortune had smiled upon his enterprises, and his
business prospered tenfold, until he possessed in abundance all that
this world had to bestow: moreover, he was proud in the possession of a
little daughter, named Kinu, beautiful as a _ten-no-tsukai_, one of the
angels of the Buddhist heaven; her fame spread far and wide, and all
who saw her marvelled at her exceeding loveliness.

In contrast to the opulence and grandeur of this wealthy man, next
door, in a poor and mean house, there dwelt a humble vendor of tobacco,
who was also blessed with an unusually handsome child, a boy named
Kunizo, and who chanced to be of the same age as his little neighbour.

From earliest times Kinu and Kunizo were accustomed to play together
almost daily, and shared all their childish joys and sorrows, so that
gradually a deep and enduring affection sprang up between the two. All
who saw them took great delight in watching the grace and beauty of the
two children, who seemed so well suited to each other, and who made a
perfect picture when seen together.

As, however, the little playfellows grew older, from motives of
prudence, the rich merchant and his wife sought to discourage their
intimacy, and their daughter was gradually removed as much as possible
from the companionship of the lowly neighbour's son.

But although Kinu and Kunizo could no longer enter into each other's
daily life and play as formerly, yet the strong bond of sympathy and
affection that linked them together never grew less, and silently
within their hearts they cherished the remembrance of all the happy
days they had spent in each other's company.

At last, when Kinu reached the age of seventeen, her beauty and charm
had become so celebrated, and the merchant's wealth and position so
well established in the city, that she was sought in marriage by the
son of a great nobleman. The parents, highly elated at the distinction
of such a lofty alliance for their lovely daughter, immediately gave
their consent, and all preliminaries were speedily arranged for the
nuptials to take place at an early date.

Just at that time, Kinu, with some of her girl friends, and under the
escort of her old nurse, paid a visit to the theatre. Her mother,
expecting her to be the cynosure of all eyes as the bride-elect of the
heir of a well-known noble family, attired her daughter in the most
exquisite robes that could possibly be procured. The fashions of that
period were brilliant in hue, and especially suited to Kinu's luxuriant
beauty, so that when she appeared all eyes gazed with admiration and
envy at the radiant vision; indeed, the audience gazed more at her
than at the play.

[Illustration: From earliest times Kinu and Kunizo were accustomed to
play together]

How inexorable are the decrees of Destiny! That day it happened that
Kunizo also visited the same theatre.

From his humble seat in the pit, his eyes followed the direction where
everyone else was turning, and he soon descried his former friend and
playfellow, seated in a prominent place and surrounded by friends and
attendants as befitting her approaching exalted position.

Kunizo felt a great impulse to go and speak to her, but dared not. His
only solace was to gaze with ardent longing at the lovely apparition,
that now seemed as far removed from him as the moth from the star.

Meanwhile, it was not long before Kinu singled out, from amongst the
sea of faces, the familiar features of her dear comrade of earlier
days, and their glances were soon exchanging reciprocally tender
messages across the intervening space.

Memories of their childhood's friendship had long been secretly
smouldering in their hearts, and opportunity alone was needed to fan
the flame into unquenchable passion.

As the lovers gazed at each other in that crowded place, both
their young hearts were carried away beyond the bounds of time and
circumstances, and they realized, with an overwhelming conviction, how
strong were the golden fetters of love that riveted their souls to each
other for all eternity.

That night Kunizo returned to his humble home in a very sad and
downcast frame of mind. His thoughts were busily contrasting the happy
times of those bygone days, when he could frequently enjoy the society
of his beloved Kinu, with now, when, as he bitterly reflected, a gulf
yawned between them, as impassable as that which separates Heaven from
Hell!

And, brooding over the miseries of an unjust world, poor Kunizo fell
sick, and was confined for days to his room.

Meanwhile, the beautiful bride-elect returned to her father's mansion
with her heart strangely agitated. The sight of his handsome face, so
full of hopeless longing, when his eyes sought her in the theatre, had
deeply affected her, and she could not forget him. At last she also
fell ill, and after a time became too weak to leave her bed.

She felt like a poor insect caught in the entangling meshes of a cruel
Fate. The mere thought of the brilliant marriage that had been arranged
by her parents became detestable to her, and tossing on her fevered
pillow, long and earnest were her daily supplications to the powers
above to find her some means of escape.

To the faithful old nurse alone did Kinu dare to confide her tormenting
troubles, and the old woman, sorely distressed at the constant fits of
weeping and increasing melancholy of her stricken foster-child, at last
promised to be the bearer of a message to Kunizo.

Then Kinu embodied her woes in a little poem to which she composed
an accompaniment on the _koto_, and she found much solace singing it
repeatedly to herself in the solitude of her chamber.

The nurse's sympathies being with the hapless pair, she soon found an
opportunity to inform Kunizo of the love-poem that Kinu had dedicated
to him, and the knowledge that his affection was requited brought such
joy to his sad heart that all traces of sickness left him, and he was
able to resume his usual mode of life.

But not so with Kinu. Day and night the image of Kunizo alone filled
her thoughts, and the more fervently she longed to see him the more her
malady increased.

The merchant and his wife were plunged into deep distress and anxiety
concerning the mysterious ailment that had so suddenly attacked their
beloved daughter: the most skilful doctors were hastily summoned to
her bedside, but all their ministrations proved of no avail, and the
love-smitten patient, like a wilted flower, continued to fade and droop.

Now, although Kunizo had grown up amidst poor and obscure surroundings,
yet he had received a good education, and had always cherished a great
devotion to literature, and especially poetry, for the composition of
which he had a natural gift. So when the news reached him that his
lady-love was lying on a bed of sickness, he composed a little poem for
her, revealing the state of his mind, and entrusted it to the care of
the faithful nurse:

                                To O KINU SAMA
    _So near Belovèd, yet long leagues apart_,
    _The ladder to thy Heaven so far and dim_,
       _Its steps I dare not scale_!
    _One night my soul a butterfly became_:
       _Straight to its goal thy presence sweet_,
    _It fluttered softly through the starlit dusk_
       _Behind thy purple tasselled sudare[1]_.
         _What ecstasy was mine_!
                                 From KUNIZO

This message brought great comfort to Kinu's heart, for until then she
had merely guessed Kunizo's affection for her, and had no certain proof
of it. Joyfully she wrote a little stanza in response:

                                 To KUNIZO SAMA
    _What matter that our weary feet_
      _Tread thorny paths and wastes forlorn_
    _If only we together climb_?
      _What matter that a hermit's hut_
    _Is all our shelter from the blast_?
      _Beyond the mists one shining star_,
    _Our heart's true guide bright beckons us!_
      _Earth's dust shake off, and hand in hand_
    _Set out in faith to Love's lone peak!_
                                  From KINU

From that time, day by day, the enamoured pair existed on the exchange
of their love-tokens, while the happiness of being in such constant
and intimate intercourse with her old friend led to Kinu's sudden and
complete recovery.

In the meantime her parents, overjoyed at their daughter's restoration
to health, and in total ignorance of all that was taking place,
hastened to select an auspicious day for the marriage, and began with
enthusiasm the elaborate preparations for the important event.

When the hapless Kinu realized that her destiny was irrevocably sealed,
and that she was condemned to become the wife of another man, she
became almost frantic.

Disobedience and defiance of her parent's wishes being out of the
question, she pondered morning, noon, and night over the dreadful
situation: but it seemed that nothing short of a miracle could prevent
or even delay the marriage ceremony with the hated bridegroom.

After long days and nights of futile scheming, it seemed to her
distraught brain that the only line of action left to her was this:
once arrived at the nobleman's house she determined, on pretence of
illness, to ask permission to isolate herself in her own apartments;
but should he insist on her presence, there would be but one course
left to her to follow, and since it was doomed that she should not be
the Bride of Love, she would become the Bride of Death.

This desperate decision she communicated in her last farewell to the
distracted Kunizo, and as a pledge of finality and her unshakeable
resolve, she wrote the letter in blood, drawn from a self-inflicted
wound on one of her fingers, and tied this ominous missive with a long
tress of her silken, ebony hair.

The fateful day arrived. Passively the unwilling, shrinking bride
submitted to the obsequious attendants, who robed her slender form
in the gorgeous wedding-garments and applied the adornments of art
to enhance her pale beauty, so that when she appeared before them,
the relatives and friends, who had assembled for the occasion, were
enchanted, and all were loud in praise of her surpassing loveliness.

At last the evening came and the hour of departure was at hand. Kinu
took formal leave of her parents, and then, steeling her heart with
the firm resolution to escape from the hateful bondage of this forced
marriage, entered her _kago_, and was slowly borne to the house of the
bridegroom, closely followed by a long procession of her parents, the
go-between, and attendants.

Now, it happened that some years before the young nobleman had formed
a liaison with a woman, a famous _danseuse_ and singer, to whom he
had been deeply attached. According to the custom of those times he
had installed her in his house, and being of an ambitious nature, from
the first she had cherished the hope that in time her devotion would
be rewarded by becoming his legal wife, and the mistress of that noble
house. When, therefore, she learnt of the death-blow to her aspirations
in her lover's approaching marriage to a young bride of peerless
beauty, the shock was so great as to unhinge her reason.

Secretly she nursed her bitter feelings: vainly she hoped that her
agonized prayers to the Gods might be heard, and that the dreaded
marriage might yet be cancelled.

But when the evening of the wedding-day arrived, and the lights of the
bridal procession had already come into view along the road, and were
slowly nearing the house, her fury could no longer be restrained. Mad
with jealousy and disappointment she rushed into the garden, stabbed
herself through the breast, and in a last convulsive frenzy, cast her
bleeding body down the well.

At that moment the massive gates were thrown open, and the bride's
sumptuously lacquered _kago_ appeared, surrounded by a numerous
retinue, carrying lanterns and torches.

Suddenly, an unearthly gust of cold wind arose whirling wildly round
the mansion, and all the lights were extinguished. In the dense gloom
of that moonless night, what was the terror of everyone to behold in
front of them, barring the way before the passage of the bride, the
spectre of the deserted mistress! Shrouded in a cloud of pale-bluish
mist, her ghastly face and blood-stained garments struck terror to the
souls of the petrified spectators--her long dishevelled hair streamed
behind her in the breeze, which was not of this world, and her hands
were uplifted in menace towards the bride, from whose _kago_ a wild and
heartpiercing shriek was heard.

The bridegroom, who with a group of retainers had been impatiently
awaiting the advent of Kinu at the entrance to the house, was a
horrified spectator of the fearful scene. His wrath was uncontrollable.
With drawn sword he rushed to the gate and made a wild attempt to cut
down the wraith of his jealous paramour--but as his sword fell, in a
flash the whole apparition vanished.

Great was the commotion that followed, but by degrees the alarmed
servants and bearers recovered from their fright, the torches and
lanterns were relighted, and the door of the palanquin was opened.

Alas! to all appearances the beautiful bride was dead. Like a white
lily she lay back on her cushions, pale and still.

Physicians were summoned in all haste, but they declared that remedies
were of no avail--life was extinct.

The hapless Kinu had perished. Coming as a climax to the mental anguish
she had suffered, the horror of the ghastly welcome that had greeted
her, was beyond the endurance of her frail spirit, and on the
threshold of her new and dreaded home, it had taken wing.

[Illustration: Her ghastly face and blood-stained garments struck
terror to the souls of the petrified spectators]

The woe of that night was unutterable.

Amidst the general lamentations, Kinu's afflicted parents returned
to their home, bearing with them the lifeless body of their beloved
daughter: all their pride obliterated and their hopes in her brightly
opening future swept away for ever by the tragedy of that fearful night.

Two days later, with poignant grief, the stricken couple laid in the
tomb all that was left of their cherished child, so irrevocably and
cruelly torn from them by a sudden unexpected doom, and they resolved
to dedicate the remnant of their days to her memory.

Kunizo was the first to hear the dire news. With a breaking heart he
had watched his love depart on her ill-starred journey, and, numbed
with despair, from the same spot he witnessed the mournful return of
the procession.

Stupefied at the turn events had taken, he at once determined that her
spirit should not go forth on its way alone into the darkness of the
Land of Shadows, and since their paths had been so ruthlessly parted
in life, compassionate Death should unite them for many lives to come.
However, before he made his final exit from this world of pain, he
would at least gaze once again upon the beautiful face of his beloved
Kinu.

With this resolve, on the night of her interment he found his way to
the cemetery; the coffin was easily disinterred, and with the tools
brought for that purpose, he soon succeeded in wrenching off the lid.
No sooner had this been done than a miracle was wrought. Instead of
lying there a pallid wraith of her former self, as Kunizo so fully
expected to find the corpse of his lost love, with a faint sigh she
raised herself in the narrow coffin, and turned her bewildered gaze
upon her astounded deliverer.

It was indeed true, the sudden rush of cold air had brought back the
wandering spirit of poor Kinu. The hideous events of her wedding night
had completely suspended her animation, and she had fallen into a deep
trance, which had deceived everyone by its faithful semblance of Death.

Who can depict the joy and transports of the young lovers, who after
enduring such torments and vicissitudes, were thus miraculously
restored to each other! Kunizo, almost beside himself with happiness,
did his utmost to minister to his beloved lady, and when she had
sufficiently recovered, he tenderly wrapped her in his outer garment
and carried her in all haste to the house of an aunt, who lived at some
distance, where she could be safely concealed.

This relative was considerably surprised at such a visitation in the
dead of night, and still more so at the almost incredible narrative of
the fugitive couple. However, clearly discerning the will of Heaven in
all that had passed, she willingly afforded them a shelter, and did all
in her power to aid them escape from that part of the country.

Under cover of the darkness they fled, and crossing the sea,
arrived safely in the island of Shikoku. There, in a place called
Marugame, they found another member of Kunizo's family, to whom they
had been directed, who was the prosperous master of a _yadoya_, or inn,
in the vicinity of the famous temple of Kompira,[2] for which that
region had become famous.

[Illustration: Kunizo, almost beside himself with happiness, did his
utmost to minister to his beloved lady.]

The fugitives received a kindly welcome, and then after all their
trials and sorrows, they made their home in that flourishing country
town, annually visited by thousands of pilgrims, Kinu's beauty and
accomplishments winning all hearts and proving of great assistance to
their benefactor. In this way, far from their native place, the united
lovers spent happy years in the joy of each other's company, secure in
their deep affection, which, like the flower of the enchanted bowers
of Horai, the Elysian Isle, fades not, but blooms on fragrant for all
eternity.

Haunted by the fear that they might again be pitilessly separated from
each other, and Kinu forced to fulfil her engagement to the luckless
nobleman, who had been defrauded of his happiness in such a gruesome
and unforeseen manner, they lived in the strictest retirement and never
dared to disclose to their respective sorrowing families the wonders
that had been worked in their behalf.

However, some years later, Kinu's parents, who had all this time been
mourning and inconsolable for their daughter's tragic end, undertook
an extensive pilgrimage age to certain celebrated temples for requiem
services and prayers for the repose and well-being of the soul of their
lost child.

In the course of their journeying they arrived at Marugame, for
the temple of Kompira was included in their tour, and by a strange
coincidence they came to stay at the very inn presided over by Kunizo's
uncle.

When they were shown into the room allotted them, the first object to
meet their astonished gaze was a handsome screen on which was written
a poem in skilled calligraphy. The characteristic handwriting was
the facsimile of Kinu's, and the poem constantly and fondly read at
home--they knew it by heart, for it was one of the treasured relics
left to them by their beloved daughter.

Their imaginations were deeply stirred, and in a state of great emotion
at this strange occurrence, they hastily summoned their host. In a long
interview the astounding story of Kinu's resurrection from the tomb and
the escape of the lovers was revealed to them.

Deep and boundless was their joy and gratitude to Providence at thus
restoring to them, in such an amazing manner, their lost one, whom they
never expected to meet again this side of the _Meido_[3] and at that
happy reunion all shed tears of joy, and also of sorrow, in recalling
the past.

Further separation being out of the question, the old couple insisted
on carrying back with them to Osaka their newly restored son and
daughter, and there they all lived together long and happily: the whole
neighbourhood never ceasing to marvel at the wonderful history of "how
Kinu returned from the grave."

[Footnote 1: _Sudáré_, a curtain of finely slatted bamboo pulled up and
down by silken cords and tassels.]

[Footnote 2: _Kompira_, a deity claimed by both Shintoists and
Buddhists: very popular with travellers and seamen.]

[Footnote 3: _Meido_, Hades.]

A CHERRY-FLOWER IDYLL

About one hundred years ago, in the old capital of Kyoto, there lived a
young man named Taira Shunko. At the time this story opens he was about
twenty years of age, of pre-possessing appearance, amiable disposition,
and refined tastes, his favourite pastime being the composition of
poetry. His father decided that Shunko should finish his education in
Yedo, the Eastern capital, where he was accordingly sent. He proved
himself an apt scholar, more clever than his comrade-students, which
won him the favour of the tutor in whose charge he had been placed.

Some months after his arrival in Yedo, he went to stay at his uncle's
house during convalescence from a slight illness. By the time he was
well again the spring had come, and the call of the cherry-flower
season found a ready response in Shunko's heart, so he determined to
visit Koganei, a place famous for its cherry trees.

One fine morning he arose at dawn, and, equipped with a small luncheon
box and a gourd filled with sake, set out on his way.

In the good old days, as now, Koganei was celebrated for the beauty of
its scenery in the springtime. Thousands of spreading trees formed a
glorious avenue on either side the blue waters of the River Tama, and
when these burst into clouds of diaphanous bloom, visitors from far
and near came in crowds to join in the revel of the Queen of Flowers.
Beneath the shade of the over-arching trees, tea-houses were dotted
along the banks of the stream. Here, with the _shoji_[1] hospitably
open on all sides, tempting meals of river-trout, bamboo shoots,
and fern-curls, and sundry and manifold dainties were served to the
pleasure-seeking traveller.

Shunko rested at one of these river-side hostelries, refreshing
himself with generous draughts from his gourd, and then opened his
tiny luncheon box, the contents of which he supplemented with the
delicate river-trout, fresh from the pellucid waters of the stream and
artistically prepared by the tea-house cuisine.

Under the influence of wine, the homesickness which had been oppressing
his soul gradually took wings; he became merry, and felt as if he
were at home in his own beautiful city of Kyoto. He sauntered along
under the trees, singing snatches of songs in praise of this favourite
flower. On every side the whole world was framed in softest clouds of
ethereal bloom, which seemed to waft him along between earth and heaven.

Lost in admiration at the fairy like beauty of the scene, he wandered
on and on, oblivious of time, till he suddenly realized that daylight
was on the wane. A zephyr sprang up, scattering the petals of the
blossoms like a fall of scented snow, and as Shunko gazed around, he
became aware that the last visitors had gone, and that he was left
alone with only the birds twittering on their way to their nests to
remind him that he, too, like the rest of belated humanity, ought to be
wending his way home.

However, sinking down upon a mossy bank beneath a cherry-tree, he
became lost in meditation. With the aid of a portable ink-box and brush
he composed some stanzas, a rhapsody on the transcendent loveliness of
the cherry flowers.

    SONG TO THE SPIRIT OF THE CHERRY-BLOSSOM[2]

    _Throughout the land the Spring doth hold high Court,_
    _Obedient to the call from far I come_
    _To lay my tribute at thy matchless shrine,_
    _To vow allegiance to the Queen of Flowers._

    _How can I praise aright thy perfume sweet,_
    _The heavenly pureness of thy blossom's snow:_
    _Spellbound I linger in thy Kingdom fair_
    _That rivets me, love's prisoner!_

    _Take this poor bud of poesy to thy fragrant breast,_
    _There let it hang, symbol of homage true:_
    _Ne'er can perfection be acclaimed right,_
    _Much less thy beauties, which are infinite!
    Thy by fragile petals fluttering on my robes_
    _Pluck at my heart, and bind me to thy realm_.
    _With fairy fetters--ne'er can I leave thy bowers_
    _But worship thee for evermore, my peerless Queen of_
        _Flowers_!

Having tied the slip of paper to a branch of the tree in whose shade
he had been reclining, he turned to retrace his steps, but realized,
with a start, that the twilight had merged into darkness, and the pale
gleams of the crescent moon were already beginning to illumine the deep
blue vault above him. During his abstraction he had wandered off the
beaten-track, and was following a totally unknown path which grew more
and more intricate among the hills. It had been a long day, and he was
growing faint with hunger and weary from fatigue when, just as he was
beginning to despair of ever finding an escape from such a labyrinth,
suddenly a young girl appeared from the gloom as if by magic! By the
fitful light of the lantern she was carrying, Shunko saw that she was
very fair and dainty, and concluded that she was in the service of some
household of rank. To his surprise she took his presence as a matter of
course, and politely addressed him, with many bows:

"My mistress is awaiting you. Please come and I will show you the way."

Shunko was still more astonished at these words. He had never been in
this wild and unknown place before, and could not imagine what human
soul could know and summon him thus, at this late hour.

[Illustration: Suddenly a young girl appeared from the gloom as if by
magic!]

After a few moment's silence he inquired of the little messenger, "Who
is your mistress?"

"You will understand when you see her," she replied. "My lady told
me that as you had lost your way, I was to come and guide you to her
house, so kindly follow me without delay."

Shunko's perplexity was only increased by these words, but after
reflection, he told himself that probably one of his friends must be
living in Koganei without his knowledge, and he decided to follow the
fair messenger without further questioning.

Setting out at a swift pace, she guided him into a small valley,
through which a mountain stream was murmuring in its rocky bed. It was
a remote and sheltered spot. Presently a turn in the path led them to a
tiny dwelling, completely surrounded and over-shadowed by a cluster of
cherry-trees in full bloom. The girl stopped before the little bamboo
gate. Shunko hesitated, but she turned to him with a smile.

"This is the house where my mistress dwells. Be so good as to enter!"

Shunko obeyed, and passed up a miniature garden to the entrance.
Another little maiden appeared with a lighted candle, and ushered
Shunko through several anterooms leading to a large guest-chamber,
which seemed to be overhanging the crystal waters of a lake, in whose
depth, like golden flowers, he could see the reflection of myriad
stars. He noticed that the appointments were all of a most sumptuous
description. Cherry-blossoms formed the keynote of the decorations; the
screens were all planted with the flowering branches, clusters of them
adorned the _tokonoma_; while the high-standing candlesticks were of
massive silver, as were also the charcoal braziers, the glow of which
drove out the chill of the spring evening. Beautiful _crêpe_ cushions
were placed beside the braziers, as if in expectation of a welcome
guest; while the perfume of rare incense, mingling with the delicious
fragrance of cherry-blossom, floated through the room.

Shunko was too bewildered and too exhausted by his long wanderings to
indulge in reflections. With the unreal sensations of an errant hero of
a fairy tale, he sank upon the mats and waited, wondering what would
happen next.

Suddenly, the rustle of silken garments arrested his attention;
noiselessly the screens of the room slid back, and the apparition of a
beautiful maiden appeared, exquisitely graceful in her trailing robes.

She was in the prime of youth, and could not have been more than
seventeen years of age. Her dress, in which the skies of spring seemed
to be reflected, was the hue of a rich azure blue, and the _crêpe_
fabric was half concealed beneath sprays of cherry-bloom so deftly
worked, and with such a moonlit sheen upon them, that Shunko thought
that they must have been woven from the moonbeams of the serene far-off
moon for the Goddess of Spring. Her face was so perfect that the
wondering guest was speechless at the loveliness of the vision before
him. Never had he dreamed of such beauty, although he came from Kyoto,
the city of beautiful women.

The fair hostess, noting his embarrassment, laughed softly, as she took
her seat beside one of the silver braziers, and with a gentle gesture
of the hand assigned him the companion place opposite her.

Bowing to the ground, she said:

"Ever have I lived alone in this place with only the river and
the hills for my friends. So that your coming is a great joy and
consolation to me. It is my wish to prepare a feast of welcome for you,
but alas! in the depths of the woods, there is nothing meet for an
honoured guest, but, poor as our entertainment is, I beg you, not to
despise it."

A servant then appeared bearing trays of delicious dishes, with a
golden wine flagon and a crystal cup.

At the sound of her voice, enchantment seemed to weave a subtle net
around the bewildered Shunko; a languorous feeling of delight stole
over his senses, and he yielded himself to the mysterious charm of the
hour.

His lovely hostess proffered to her guest the crystal winecup, and
filled it to the brim with amber wine from the golden flask.

As Shunko quaffed it, he thought never had such delicious nectar
been tasted by mortal man. He could not resist cup after cup, till
gradually all apprehension of the unknown surroundings passed away,
and a strange gladness filled his heart as he succumbed to the charm
of the hour, while servants silently went to and fro bearing fresh and
tempting dainties to lay before him.

While they were conversing happily together the lady left his side, and
seating herself beside the _koto_, began to sing a wild and beautiful
air. Strange and wonderful to relate, the song was none other than
the self-same poem which Shunko had composed that very evening, and
had left fluttering from the branch of the cherry-tree beneath whose
canopy of bloom he had rested. Falling completely under the bewitchment
of his surroundings, Shunko felt that he wished to stay there for
evermore, and a pang smote his breast at the thought that he soon must
separate, if only for a few hours, from his mystic lady of the vale of
cherry-blossoms.

As the last plaintive chord throbbed into silence, a chime in the next
room struck two in the morning.

Laying the instrument aside, she said:

"At this late hour it is impossible for you to return home to-night.
Everything is prepared in the next room. Honourably deign to rest.
Forgive me that I cannot entertain you in a more befitting manner, in
this, our poor home."

Attendants then entering, the screens were drawn aside for their guest,
and he passed into the adjoining chamber, which had been prepared as
a sleeping apartment. Sinking to rest among the silken coverlets and
luxurious quilts, he was soon lost in heavy slumber.

[Illustration: His beautiful hostess, seating herself beside the _koto_
began to sing a wild and beautiful air.]

Suddenly, in the morning, he was awakened by a cold wind blowing across
his face. Day had broken, and the rosy dawn was flushing the horizon
in the east. Slowly returning to his senses, he found himself lying
on the ground beneath the very cherry-tree that had inspired his poem
of the day before; but his wonderful adventure, his charming hostess,
and her waiting maidens were no more! Shunko, lost in wonder, recalled
over and over again the glowing memories of the preceding evening,
but the vision had been so vivid that he felt assured it must have
been something more than the mere phantoms of a dream. An overpowering
conviction crept over him that the lovely maiden had her living
counterpart in this world of realities.

From his earliest childhood he had always offered a special devotion to
the cherry-flowers. Year after year, in the springtime, he had taken
special joy in visiting some place noted for their blossoms. Could it
be that the spirit of the cherry-tree, to whose beauty he had dedicated
his poem, had appeared to him in human form to reward him for his
life-long fidelity?

At last he rose and stretched his cramped limbs, and musing only on the
vanished wonders of the night, wandered aimlessly along. At length he
regained the main road and slowly turned his errant footsteps towards
home.

Although he took up his usual life again, he could not forget his
experiences in the cherry-blossom valley, they haunted him not only
in the silent watches of the night, but in the bright noontide of
day. Three days later he returned to Koganei, with the fond hope of
evoking once again the longed-for vision of the lovely girl who had so
bewitched him with her beauty and her charm.

But, alas for human hopes! In those short days all had changed. What
so ephemeral as the reign of the cherry-flower in the spring! Grey
were the skies that had been so blue and fair; bleak and deserted was
the scene that had been so gay and full of life; bare of blossom,
and stripped of their fairy beauty were the trees, whose petals of
blushing-snow the relentless wind had scattered far and wide.

As before, he rested at the same little tea-house by the river and
waited for the shades of evening to fall. Roaming about in the
deepening twilight, he anxiously sought some sign or token, but vain
were all his efforts to find the valley of dream again. Vanished was
the little dwelling in the shadow of the cherry groves. Nowhere by
unfamiliar paths could he find the fair messenger who had guided him to
the bamboo gate. All had faded and suffered change.

Year after year, in the springtime, did Shunko make a pilgrimage of
loving memory to the same spot, but though his faithfulness was never
rewarded by a sight of her, who had so completely taken possession of
his heart and soul, yet the flower of hope never faded, and firm was
his resolution, that none other than the maiden of Koganei should ever
be his wife.

About five years passed. Then a sudden summons from his home arrived,
bearing the sorrowful tidings that his father had been stricken with
severe illness, and begging him to return without delay.

That very day he made all arrangements, and disposed of his few
student's belongings in readiness to set out at daybreak.

It happened to be the season of autumn when, in the Orient, the deer
cries for its mate in the flaming maple glades of the forest, and a
young man's heart[3] is filled with what the Japanese call _mono no
aware wo shiru_ ("the Ah-ness of things").

Shunko was sad. He yearned for the lovely girl who had so bewitched
him, and in addition to this sorrow his heart was heavy at the thought
of his father's illness.

As Shunko proceeded on his journey his depression increased, and sadly
he repeated aloud the following lines:

    _Cold as the wind of early spring_
    _Chilling the buds that still lie sheathed_
    _In their brown armour with its sting,_
    _And the bare branches withering--_
    _So seems the human heart to me!_
    _Cold as the March wind's bitterness;_
    _I am alone, none comes to see_
    _Or cheer me in these days of stress._

Now it chanced that an old man heard this mournful recital, and took
pity on Shunko.

"Pray pardon a stranger intruding upon your privacy," said the old man,
"but we sometimes take a gloomy view of life for want of good cheer.
It may be that you have travelled far and are footsore and weary. If
that is so, be honourably pleased to accept rest and refreshment in my
humble house in yonder valley."

Shunko was pleased with the old man's kindly manner, and warmly
accepted his hospitality.

After a hearty meal and a long chat with the old man, Shunko retired to
bed.

The youth had no sooner closed his eyes than he found himself dreaming
of Koganei and of the beautiful woman he had met there. A gentle breeze
was full of the scent of flowers. He noticed a cloud of cherry-blossom
falling like a little company of white butterflies to the ground. While
watching so pleasing a scene he observed a strip of paper hanging to
one of the lower branches. He advanced close to the tree to discover
that some one had written a poem on the wind-blown paper.

A thrill passed through him as he read the words:

    _Lingers still the past within thy memory_,
    _East of the Temple let thy footsteps stray_
    _And there await thy destiny!_

Earnestly he repeated the lines over and over again, and awoke to find
himself still reciting the little verse that seemed so full of meaning.
Deeply he pondered over his dream. How could he solve the enigmatic
message it surely bore for him? What did it portend?

The next day he set out on his journey to the west. His father was in
the last stages of his malady, and the doctors had given up all hope
of his recovery. In a few weeks the old man died, and Shunko succeeded
to the estate. It was a sad winter, and the young man with his widowed
mother, were secluded in the house for some months, observing the
strictest retirement during the period of mourning.

But youth soon recovers from its griefs, and by the time that April
had come with the dear beguilement of her blue skies and flowering
landscapes, Shunko, in company with an old friend, set out to assuage
his sorrows in the viewing of his favourite cherry-trees, and to find
balm for his soul in the golden sunshine of spring. His father's death,
and the business of attending to the affairs of succession, had left
him but little leisure for vain regrets, and the family upheaval he had
experienced the last few months had somewhat dimmed the memory of the
mysterious dream, which had come to him the night before his return
home.

But now, with a strange and eerie sensation, he realized that,
unwittingly, Fate had guided their footsteps to the Eastern Mountain,
and that the way they had chosen was _East of the Temple_ Chionin. The
message on the scroll flashed into his mind as he sauntered along:

    _Lingers still the past within thy memory?_
    _East of the Temple let thy footsteps stray,_
    _And there await thy destiny!_

By this time they had reached the famous avenue of cherry-trees,
and the pearly mist of bloom, that seemed to envelope them like a
fragrant cloud, at once recalled to Shunko's mind how striking was the
resemblance this fairy-like spot bore to Koganei.

Just at that moment he espied a small glittering object lying on the
ground at the root of one of the cherry-trees. It proved to be a golden
ring, and engraven on it was the hieroglyphic "Hana," which may be
interpreted as meaning either "Flower" or "Cherry-Blossom."

As the afternoon began to wane they came to a tea-house, which seemed
to look especially inviting, and here they rested and refreshed their
weariness as the shadows gradually lengthened into the twilight.

In the next room were two or three girls' voices talking gaily
together, and their laughter sounded soft and musical as it floated out
into the balmy air of that soft evening of spring.

By degrees Shunko found himself overhearing snatches of their
conversation, and at length he distinctly caught the words:

"The day has been a perfect one except for one little cloud. O Hana
San's ring...."

Then a silvery voice made answer: "The mere loss of the ring is
nothing, but as it bears my name, it grieves me that it should fall
into the hands of a stranger."

At these words Shunko impetuously rose and entered the adjoining
chamber.

"Pardon me," he cried, "but can this be the lost ring?" and he held
out to the little group the trinket which he had found beneath the
cherry-tree that afternoon.

The youngest of the trio, a graceful girl of about seventeen or
eighteen summers, bowed to the ground, murmuring her thanks, while an
elderly woman, who was evidently her foster-nurse, came forward to
receive the missing treasure.

As the young girl raised her head, Shunko felt a thrilling shock of
recognition quiver through his frame. At last the gods had granted his
fervent prayers. Before him, as a living and breathing reality, he
beheld the long sought maiden of the vision at Koganei. The room, its
occupants, and all around him faded away, and his soul was wafted back
through the vista of years to the lonely valley of dreams, so far away.

This, then, was the significance of the mystic writing in the deserted
house, that now he had served his term of probation and was at last
deemed worthy of the beloved one for whom he had waited and longed for
so many years.

The elderly nurse was aware of his embarrassment, and tactfully
attempted to come to his aid. She proffered wine and refreshments, and
made several inquiries as to where he had found the ring and where he
lived.

After replying to these queries, Shunko, who was in no mood for
talking, withdrew with deep obeisances, and slowly wended his way
homewards, lost in abstraction.

Oh, the delight of it! To be alone with his reverie and thoughts of
her, whom he had scarcely hoped to see again, the lady of his dreams!
Both head and heart were in a whirl. And the wonder of his adventure
kept him awake through the midnight darkness. Only at the break of dawn
did he fall into a troubled sleep.

Towards noon his belated slumbers were disturbed by a servant, who came
to announce the advent of a visitor, who urgently desired an interview.
He arose in haste, and there awaiting him in the guest-room was the
foster-nurse of the day before. Rich gifts of silk lay on the mats, and
with the explanation that she had been sent by the parents of her young
charge, she came to express their thanks for the incident of the day
before.

When the formalities of greeting were exchanged, Shunko could no longer
keep silence regarding the subject nearest his heart, and begged the
nurse to tell him, in confidence, all she could concerning O Hana San.

"My young mistress belongs to a knightly family. There are three
children in all, but she is the only girl, and the youngest child.
She is just seventeen years of age, and is quite renowned for her
beauty, which, as you have seen her, you may perhaps understand. Many
have ardently desired her hand in marriage, but hitherto all have been
declined. She cares nothing for worldly things and devotes herself to
study."

"Why does she refuse to marry?" asked the young man, with a beating
heart.

"Ah! there is a strange reason for that!" replied the nurse, and her
voice dropped to a whisper. "Several years ago, when she was not much
more than a child, her mother and I took her to visit the beautiful
Kiyomidzu Temple in the springtime to see the cherry-flowers. As you
know, Kwannon, the Goddess of Mercy of that temple, takes under her
protection all lovers who pray to her for a happy union, and the
railings round her shrine are white with the tying of paper-prayer
love-knots innumerable. O Hana's mother told me afterwards that when we
passed before Kwannon's altar, she had offered up a special prayer for
her daughter's future happiness in marriage.

"While we were walking in the vicinity of the waterfall below the
temple, we suddenly lost sight of Hana for a few minutes. It seems
that, wrapt in wonder at the beauty of the blossoming trees, she had
strayed away, and was listening to the foaming water as it dashed over
the boulders of rock. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew over us. It was icy
cold! We looked round for O Hana San, and you can imagine the fear
that seized our hearts when we found that she had disappeared. In a
frenzy of anxiety I ran hither and thither, and at last caught sight of
her prostrate on the ground at some distance away. She had fallen into
a deep faint near the cascade, and was lying there pale and senseless,
and drenched with spray. We carried her to the nearest tea-house, and
tried every means in our power to restore her to consciousness, but
she remained sunk in a deep swoon all through that long, long day. Her
mother wept, fearing that she was dead. When the sun set and no change
took place, we were lost in the anguish of despair. All of a sudden an
old priest appeared before us. Staff in hand, and clad in ancient and
dilapidated garments, he seemed an apparition from some past and bygone
age. He gazed long at the senseless girl, lying white and cold in the
semblance of death, and then sank on his knees by her side, absorbed in
silent prayer, now and again gently stroking her inanimate body with
his rosary.

"All through the night we watched thus by O Hana San, and never
did hours seem so interminable or so black. At last, towards the
dawn, success crowned the old man's efforts; the spell that had so
mysteriously changed her youth and bloom into a pallid mask, was
gradually exorcised, her spirit returned, and with a gentle sigh, O
Hana San was restored to life.

"Her mother was transported with joy. When she was able to speak, she
murmured, 'Praise be to the mercy of the holy Kwannon of Kiyomidzu!'
and again and again she expressed her fervent gratitude to the queer
priest.

[Illustration: An old priest suddenly appeared ... staff in hand and
clad in ancient and dilapidated garments.]

"In answer he took from the folds of his robe a poem-card, which he
handed to my mistress.

"'This,' said he, 'was written by your daughter's future bridegroom. In
a few years he will come to claim her, therefore keep this poem as the
token.'

"With these words he disappeared as unexpectedly and mysteriously as
he had come. Great was our desire to know more of the meaning of those
fateful words, but though we made inquiries of everyone in the temple
grounds, not a soul had seen a trace of the ancient priest. O Hana
San seemed none the worse for her long swoon, and we returned home,
marvelling greatly at the extraordinary events that had happened to us
that day and night in the temple of Kiyomidzu.

"From that time onwards I noticed a great change in O Hana San. She was
no longer a child. Though only thirteen years of age, she grew serious
and thoughtful, and studied her books with great diligence. In music
she especially excelled, and all were astonished at her great talent.
As she grew in years, her amiability and charm became quite noted in
the neighbourhood: her mother realizes that she is at the zenith of her
youth and beauty, and, many a time, has tried to find the author of the
poem, but hitherto her efforts have been of no avail.

"Yesterday we had the good fortune to meet you, and if you will forgive
my boldness, it seemed to me as though Fate had especially directed
you to my foster-child. On our return home, we related all that had
befallen us to my mistress. She listened to our recital with deep
agitation, and then exclaimed, with joy: 'Thanks be to Heaven I At last
the long-sought for one has come!'"

Shunko felt as if in a trance. Full well he knew that the Gods had
guided his footsteps to their yearned-for goal, and the maiden to whom
he had restored the little golden circlet, was none other than the one
for whom his heart had hungered for many years.

It was, indeed, a supreme Fate that had linked their lives in one.

In taking farewell of the old nurse, Shunko entrusted to her his
message to his bride-elect--the mysterious token of affinity composed
beneath the cherry-tree five years ago.

There was no longer any doubt but that O Hana's destiny was indeed
fulfilled. The bridegroom, foretold by the age-old priest, had come
at last. Her mother's prayer offered up at the temple of the Kwannon
of Kiyomidzu had been heard. Both parents rejoiced at the happy fate
that the Powers above had vouchsafed to their beloved child, an eminent
sooth-sayer was consulted, and a specially auspicious day was chosen
for the wedding.

When the excitement of the bridal feast was over and Shunko was left
alone with his lovely bride, he noticed that her wedding-robe of
turquoise blue, scattered over with embroideries of her name-flower,
was the self-same one that had been worn by his visionary hostess;
and, moreover, comparisons proved that the date of her long trance at
Kiyomidzu was identical with that of his prophetic vision at Koganei.

A great gladness filled the bridegroom's heart, for he felt that in
some mystical way his bride and dream-love were one and the same
incarnate. The spirit of the cherry-tree had surely entered into
Hana when she had lost consciousness at the Kiyomidzu temple, and
En-musubi no Kami, the God of Marriage, had assumed the disguise of
the old priest, and with the magnetic threads of love, had woven their
destinies together.

And Shunko tenderly caressed his bride, saying:

"I have known and loved and waited for you ever since your spirit came
to me from the Kiyomidzu temple."

And he told her all that had befallen him at Koganei.

The young lovers thereupon pledged their love to each other for many
lives to come, and lived blissfully to the end of their days.

[Footnote 1: _Shoji_, the sliding screens which take the place of doors
in a Japanese house.]

[Footnote 2: Rendered into English verse by my friend, Countess
Iso-ko-Mutsu.]

[Footnote 3: At this point there is a break in Madame Ozaki's MS., and
the gap has been filled up by another hand. Madame Ozaki resumes her
story with "A thrill passed through him...." on p. 252.]

THE BADGER-HAUNTED TEMPLE[1]

Once long ago, in southern Japan, in the town of Kumamoto, there lived
a young _samurai_, who had a great devotion to the sport of fishing.
Armed with his large basket and tackle, he would often start out in
the early morning and pass the whole day at his favourite pastime,
returning home only at nightfall.

One fine day he had more than usual luck. In the late afternoon,
when he examined his basket, he found it full to overflowing. Highly
delighted at his success, he wended his way homewards with a light
heart, singing snatches of merry songs as he went along.

It was already dusk when he happened to pass a deserted Buddhist
temple. He noticed that the gate stood half open, and hung loosely on
its rusty hinges, and the whole place had a dilapidated and tumbledown
appearance.

What was the young man's astonishment to see, in striking contrast to
such a forlorn environment, a pretty young girl standing just within
the gate.

As he approached she came forward, and looking at him with a meaning
glance, smiled, as if inviting him to enter into conversation. The
_samurai_ thought her manner somewhat strange, and at first was on his
guard. Some mysterious influence, however, compelled him to stop, and
he stood irresolutely admiring the fair young face, blooming like a
flower in its sombre setting.

When she noticed his hesitation she made a sign to him to approach. Her
charm was so great and the smile with which she accompanied the gesture
so irresistible, that half-unconsciously, he went up the stone steps,
passed through the semi-open portal, and entered the courtyard where
she stood awaiting him.

The maiden bowed courteously, then turned and led the way up the
stone-flagged pathway to the temple. The whole place was in the most
woeful condition, and looked as if it had been abandoned for many years.

When they reached what had once been the priest's house, the _samurai_
saw that the interior of the building was in a better state of
preservation than the outside led one to suppose. Passing along the
veranda into the front room, he noticed that the _tatami_ were still
presentable, and that a sixfold screen adorned the chamber.

The girl gracefully motioned her guest to sit down in the place of
honour near the alcove.

"Does the priest of the temple live here?" asked the young man, seating
himself.

"No," answered the girl, "there is no priest here now. My mother and
I only came here yesterday. She has gone to the next village to buy
some things and may not be able to come back to-night. But honourably
rest awhile, and let me give you some refreshment."

[Illustration: What was the young man's astonishment to see a pretty
young girl standing just within the gate]

The girl then went into the kitchen apparently to make the tea, but
though the guest waited a long time, she never returned.

By this time the moon had risen, and shone so brightly into the room,
that it was as light as day. The _samurai_ began to wonder at the
strange behaviour of the damsel, who had inveigled him into such a
place only to disappear and leave him in solitude.

Suddenly he was startled by some one sneezing loudly behind the screen.
He turned his head in the direction from whence the sound came. To his
utter amazement, not the pretty girl whom he had expected, but a huge,
red-faced, bald-headed priest stalked out. He must have been about
seven feet in height, for his head towered nearly to the ceiling, and
he carried an iron wand, which he raised in a threatening manner.

"How dare you enter my house without my permission?" shouted the
fierce-looking giant. "Unless you go away at once I will beat you into
dust."

Frightened out of his wits, the young man took to his heels, and rushed
with all speed out of the temple.

As he fled across the courtyard he heard peals of loud laughter behind
him. Once outside the gate he stopped to listen, and still the strident
laugh continued. Suddenly it occurred to him, that in the alarm of his
hasty exit, he had forgotten his basket of fish. It was left behind
in the temple. Great was his chagrin, for never before had he caught
so much fish in a single day; but lacking the courage to go back and
demand it, there was no alternative but to return home empty-handed,
before had he caught so much fish in a single day; but lacking the
courage to go back and demand it, there was no alternative but to
return home empty-handed.

The following day he related his strange experience to several of his
friends. They were all highly amused at such an adventure, and some of
them plainly intimated that the seductive maiden and the aggressive
giant were merely hallucinations that owed their origin to the sake
flask.

At last one man, who was a good fencer, said:

"Oh, you must have been deluded by a badger who coveted your fish.
No one lives in that temple. It has been deserted ever since I can
remember. I will go there this evening and put an end to his mischief."

He then went to a fishmonger, purchased a large basket of fish, and
borrowed an angling rod. Thus equipped, he waited impatiently for the
sun to set. When the dusk began to fall he buckled on his sword and set
out for the temple, carefully shouldering his bait that was to lead
to the undoing of the badger. He laughed confidently to himself as he
said: "I will teach the old fellow a lesson!"

As he approached the ruin what was his surprise to see, not one, but
three girls standing there.

"O, ho! that is the way the wind lies, is it, but the crafty old sinner
won't find it such an easy matter to make a fool of me."

No sooner was he observed by the pretty trio than by gestures they
invited him to enter. Without any hesitation, he followed them into
the building, and boldly seated himself upon the mats. They placed the
customary tea and cakes before him, and then brought in a flagon of
wine and an extraordinarily large cup.

The swordsman partook neither of the tea nor the sake, and shrewdly
watched the demeanour of the three maidens.

Noticing his avoidance of the proffered refreshment, the prettiest of
them artlessly inquired:

"Why don't you take some sake?"

"I dislike both tea and sake," replied the valiant guest, "but if you
have some accomplishment to entertain me with, if you can dance or
sing, I shall be delighted to see you perform."

"Oh, what an old-fashioned man of propriety you are! If you don't
drink, you surely know nothing of love either. What a dull existence
yours must be! But we can dance a little, so if you will condescend
to look, we shall be very pleased to try to amuse you with our
performance, poor as it is."

The maidens then opened their fans and began to posture and dance. They
exhibited so much skill and grace, however, that the swordsman was
astonished, for it was unusual that country girls should be so deft and
well-trained. As he watched them he became more and more fascinated,
and gradually lost sight of the object of his mission.

Lost in admiration, he followed their every step, their every movement,
and as the Japanese storyteller says, he forgot himself entirely,
entranced at the beauty of their dancing.

Suddenly he saw that the three performers had become _headless!_
Utterly bewildered, he gazed at them intently to make sure that he
was not dreaming. Lo! and behold! each was holding her own head in
her hands. They then threw them up and caught them as they fell. Like
children playing a game of ball, they tossed their heads from one to
the other. At last the boldest of the three threw her head at the young
fencer. It fell on his knees, looked up in his face, and laughed at
him. Angered at the girl's impertinence, he cast the head back at her
in disgust, and drawing his sword, made several attempts to cut down
the goblin dancer as she glided to and fro playfully tossing up her
head and catching it.

But she was too quick for him, and like lightning darted out of the
reach of his sword.

"Why don't you catch me?" she jeered mockingly. Mortified at his
failure, he made another desperate attempt, but once more she adroitly
eluded him, and sprang up to the top of the screen.

"I am here! Can you not reach me this time?" and she laughed at him in
derision.

Again he made a thrust at her, but she proved far too nimble for him,
and again, for the third time, he was foiled.

Then the three girls tossed their heads on their respective necks,
shook them at him, and with shouts of weird laughter they vanished from
sight.

As the young man came to his senses he vaguely gazed around. Bright
moonlight illumined the whole place, and the stillness of the midnight
was unbroken save for the thin tinkling chirping of the insects.
He shivered as he realized the lateness of the hour and the wild
loneliness of that uncanny spot. His basket of fish was nowhere to be
seen. He understood, that he, too, had come under the spell of the
wizard-badger, and like his friend, at whom he had laughed so heartily
the day before, he had been bewitched by the wily creature.

But, although deeply chagrined at having fallen such an easy dupe, he
was powerless to take any sort of revenge. The best he could do was to
accept his defeat and return home.

Among his friends there was a doctor, who was not only a brave man, but
one full of resource. On hearing of the way the mortified swordsman had
been bamboozled, he said:

"Now leave this to me. Within three days I will catch that old badger
and punish him well for all his diabolical tricks."

The doctor went home and prepared a savoury dish cooked with meat. Into
this he mixed some deadly poison. He then cooked a second portion for
himself. Taking these separate dishes and a bottle of sake with him,
towards evening he set out for the ruined temple.

When he reached the mossy courtyard of the old building he found
it solitary and deserted. Following the example of his friends, he
made his way into the priest's room, intensely curious to see what
might befall him, but, contrary to his expectation, all was empty and
still. He knew that goblin-badgers were such crafty animals that it
was almost impossible for anyone, however cautious, to be able to cope
successfully with their snares and _Fata Morganas_. But he determined
to be particularly wide awake and on his guard, so as not to fall a
prey to any hallucination that the badger might raise.

The night was beautiful, and calm as the mouldering tombs in the temple
graveyard. The full moon shone brightly over the great black sloping
roofs, and cast a flood of light into the room where the doctor was
patiently awaiting the mysterious foe. The minutes went slowly by,
an hour elapsed, and still no ghostly visitant appeared. At last the
baffled intruder placed his flask of wine before him and began to make
preparations for his evening meal, thinking that possibly the badger
might be unable to resist the tempting savour of the food.

"There is nothing like solitude," he mused aloud. "What a perfect night
it is! How lucky I am to have found this deserted temple from which to
view the silvery glory of the autumn moon."

For some time he continued to eat and drink, smacking his lips like
a country gourmet in enjoyment of the meal. He began to think that
the badger, knowing that he had found his match at last, Intended
to leave him alone. Then to his delight, he heard the sound of
footsteps. He watched the entrance to the room, expecting the old
wizard to assume his favourite disguise, and that some pretty maiden
would come to cast a spell upon him with her fascinations.

[Illustration: Suddenly he saw that the three performers had become
_headless_!... Like children playing a game of ball, they tossed their
heads from one to the other]

But, to his surprise, who should come into sight but an old priest,
who dragged himself into the room with faltering steps and sank down
upon the mats with a deep long-drawn sigh of weariness. Apparently
between seventy and eighty years of age, his clothes were old and
travel-stained, and in his withered hands he carried a rosary. The
effort of ascending the steps had evidently been a great trial to him,
he breathed heavily and seemed in a state of great exhaustion. His
whole appearance was one to arouse pity in the heart of the beholder.

"May I inquire who are you?" asked the doctor.

The old man replied, in a quavering voice, "I am the priest who used to
live here many years ago when the temple was in a prosperous condition.
As a youth I received my training here under the abbot then in charge,
having been dedicated from childhood to the service of the most holy
Buddha by my parents. At the time of the great Saigo's rebellion I was
sent to another parish. When the castle of Kumamoto was besieged, alas!
my own temple was burned to the ground. For years I wandered from place
to place and fell on very hard times. In my old age and misfortunes my
heart at last yearned to come back to this temple, where I spent so
many happy years as an acolyte. It is my hope to spend my last days
here. You can imagine my grief when I found it utterly abandoned, sunk
in decay, with no priest in charge to offer up the daily prayers to
the Lord Buddha, or to keep up the rites for the dead buried here. It
is now my sole desire to collect money and to restore the temple. But
alas! age and illness and want of food have robbed me of my strength,
and I fear that I shall never be able to achieve what I have planned,"
and here the old man broke down and shed tears--a pitiful sight.

When wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his threadbare robe, he looked
hungrily at the food and wine on which the doctor was regaling himself,
and added, wistfully:

"Ah, I see you have a delicious meal there and wine withal, which you
are enjoying while gazing at the moonlit scenery. I pray you spare me
a little, for it is many days since I have had a good meal and I am
half-famished."

At first the doctor was persuaded that the story was true, so plausible
did it sound, and his heart was filled with compassion for the old
bonze. He listened carefully till the melancholy recital was finished.

Then something in the accent of speech struck his ear as being
different to that of a human being, and he reflected.

"This may be the badger! I must not allow myself to be deceived! The
crafty cunning animal is planning to palm off his customary tricks on
me, but he shall see that I am as clever as he is."

The doctor pretended to believe in the old man's story, and answered:

"Indeed, I deeply sympathize with your misfortunes. You are quite
welcome to share my meal--nay, I will give you with pleasure all that
is left, and, moreover, I promise to bring you some more to-morrow. I
will also inform my friends and acquaintances of your pious plan to
restore the temple, and will give all the assistance in my power in
your work of collecting subscriptions." He then pushed forward the
untouched plate of food which contained poison, rose from the mats, and
took his leave, promising to return the next evening.

All the friends of the doctor who had heard him boast that he would
outwit the badger, arrived early next morning, curious to know what had
befallen him. Many of them were very sceptical regarding the tale of
the badger trickster, and ascribed the illusions of their friends to
the sake bottle.

The doctor would give no answer to their many inquiries, but merely
invited them to accompany him.

"Come and see for yourselves," he said, and guided them to the old
temple, the scene of so many uncanny experiences.

First of all they searched the room where he had sat the evening
before, but nothing was to be found except the empty basket in which he
had carried the food for himself and the badger. They investigated the
whole place thoroughly, and at last, in one of the dark corners of the
temple-chamber, they came upon the dead body of an old, old badger. It
was the size of a large dog, and its hair was grey with age. Everyone
was convinced that it must be at least several hundred years old.

The doctor carried it home in triumph. For several days the people
in the neighbourhood came in large numbers to gloat over the hoary
carcase, and to listen in awe and wonder to the marvellous stories of
the numbers of people that had been duped and befooled by the magic
powers of the old goblin-badger.

The writer adds that he was told another badger story concerning
the same temple. Many of the old people in the parish remember the
incident, and one of them related the following story.

Years before, when the sacred building was still in a prosperous state,
the priest in charge celebrated a great Buddhist festival, which lasted
some days. Amongst the numerous devotees who attended the services he
noticed a very handsome youth, who listened with profound reverence,
unusual in one so young, to the sermons and litanies. When the festival
was over and the other worshippers had gone, he lingered around the
temple as though loth to leave the sacred spot. The head-priest,
who had conceived a liking for the lad, judged from his refined and
dignified appearance that he must be the son of a high-class _samurai_
family, probably desirous of entering the priesthood.

Gratified by the youth's apparent religious fervour, the holy
man invited him to come to his study, and thereupon gave him some
instruction in the Buddhist doctrines. He listened with the utmost
attention for the whole afternoon to the bonze's learned discourse, and
thanked him repeatedly for the condescension and trouble he had taken
in instructing one so unworthy as himself.

[Illustration: In one of the dark comers of the temple-chamber, they
came upon the dead body of an old, old badger]

The afternoon waned and the hour for the evening meal came round. The
priest ordered a bowl of macaroni to be brought for the visitor, who
proved to be the owner of a phenomenal appetite, and consumed three
times as much as a full-grown man.

He then bowed most courteously and asked permission to return home. In
bidding him good-bye, the priest, who felt a curious fascination for
the youth, presented him with a gold-lacquered medicine-box (_inro_) as
a parting souvenir.

The lad prostrated himself in gratitude, and then took his departure.

The next day the temple servant, sweeping the graveyard, came across a
badger. He was quite dead, and was dressed in a straw-covering put on
in such a way as to resemble the clothes of a human being. To his side
was tied a gold-lacquered _inro_, and his paunch was much distended
and as round as a large bowl. It was evident that the creature's
gluttony had been the cause of his death, and the priest, on seeing the
animal, identified the _inro_ as the one which he had bestowed upon the
good-looking lad the day before, and knew that he had been the victim
of a badger's deceiving wiles.

It was thus certain that the temple had been haunted by a pair
of goblin-badgers, and that when this one had died, its mate had
continued to inhabit the same temple even after it had been abandoned.
The creature had evidently taken a fantastic delight in bewitching
wayfarers and travellers, or anyone who carried delectable food with
them, and while mystifying them with his tricks and illusions, had
deftly abstracted their baskets and bundles, and had lived comfortably
upon his stolen booty.

[Footnote 1: The badger and the fox as tricksters figure largely in
Japanese superstition and folk-lore.]