still taste the golden, rosy-touched loquats they peeled for us. And what a fuss they made over my fair-haired Young America, aged two and a half; how they felt his curls to see if they were real, got flowers and fruit and small cakes, and, finally, little toys, and a globe of goldfish for him to take away with him; and how the whole troupe of light-clad girls, giggling, full of glee, left all their other customers and escorted us down the whole length of those stone steps, and stood bowing and crying “Sayonara” and “Pliss come again,” until we were out of sight. I confess that, on my next visit without the blond boy, they did not remember me, but I hold them in my heart in spite of their sweet perfidy; for the garden, with its trees, its roses, and its view of one of the loveliest harbours in the world, remains the same.
On the road to Mogi, too, there are a number of tea-house gardens which are landmarks in one of the happiest days I ever spent. June was in perfection,—and what is so rare as a day in June, if it is sunny and bright, in Japan! The red covers on the big settees under the trellis were laid to help one enjoy the Azaleas in full bloom, and the little table to which our tea was brought had an arrangement of white Irises in a flat, pale green dish, and the smallest of goldfish, like little orange butterflies, swam about, as if flying, in the clear water at their feet. If I had not the heart to ask them to take
