in jars for the place of honour on the takenomo, where the ‘Three Friends of Winter’—the Plum, the Bamboo, and the Pine—appear together.
The Plum-blossom Viewing is, with the Japanese people, almost a sacrament. To it is brought none of the rather boisterous joy and merriment of the Cherry-blossom Feast. Nor is it wholly because of the cold, which to them is as nothing when under the spell, the emotion, of the hour. Huddled up in their wadded kimonos, drinking hot tea and saké at the pretty little booths always erected for the purpose near the groves of trees, or rubbing numb and aching hands over the glowing coals of a hibachi, they care nothing for the temperature; for the awe of earth’s awakening, the wonder and amazement of the yearly miracle, is upon them. Even the children are touched by the sense of mystery, it would seem, and their usual strenuous gaiety is subdued. They look at their little brother the Spring in hushed astonishment.
The father whose newborn child is placed in his arms regards it with pride, with tenderness, with yearning, and with some possible dislike, but with wonder always. This is his child, his own, who has drawn down into the shadow of death the woman he loves, and for whom the woman he loves made the sacrifice gladly and thankfully.
“Trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our Home.”
