eyes fall on the flowers. Then for long he sits in silent contemplation, taking into his soul something that is fine and pure and good, that emanates like perfume from them. Oh, the jewel of serenity and peace in the Lotus, or the poorest twig, so viewed!
It is a matter of moment, the choice of a gift as well as the arrangement. Once, in buying an offering for a Japanese friend at a nursery garden in Yokohama, I had to give the courteous elderly man who was serving me the most intimate details of her character, station in life, age, and appearance (to which, no doubt, he added his own views as to mine), before he would suggest what would be appropriate from the national point of view. Finally (and partly in consideration of my American birth) the choice fell upon a delightful dwarf Maple, very old, very quaint—and the Lady from California said, “Very ugly and very expensive.” In another book I relate the adventures that befell me and the Maple tree, but suffice it here to say that my friend was delighted, and delicately hinted that my taste in gifts was as that of her own nation. And so the grave little old man got none of the credit for the subtle international compliment.
If I had only thought to send her a poem I should have cleared my conscience and probably have got a charming Japanese verse in return; for every one in Japan writes poems, from the
