then the clouds swept across the desolate sky, the mists fell, and we were left scrambling stupidly among the rocks again, and in a land of shadows. The vision was gone.
There are other festivals, of which I have not space to speak—that of the Autumn Equinox; that of the Seamstresses on the Seventh Night of the Seventh Moon, when the Bamboo is the votive plant, and the star Vega is adored and invoked by all, down to the babies; that of the Housewives, later on in October; and, in November, several Shinto festivals, or matsuri. In that month also comes the Fête of Chrysanthemums (Kiku-no-Sekku, the ‘Ninth Day of the Ninth Moon’), when the Emperor gives a garden-party, like in all ways to that of the Cherry Blossoms, to view the pots of autumn flowers. I have never had the good fortune to see it, but my parents and sister told me that, bar the interest attending a foreign party and an unfamiliar crowd of people, the flowers were no better than, if as good as, those at Chrysanthemum shows at home.
Last of all the year, and best of all in some ways, is the Maple-viewing, the feast of the Maple leaves.[1] Then all the world makes holiday outdoors again for the last time; up and down the mountain slopes the people go in swarms, climb rugged hill paths, descend rocky valleys, to admire, near and afar off,
- ↑ See Frontispiece.
