I heard many songs as the day waned, and I listened, reclining on the cushion
the maid brought me, while the geisha told me of her lover. Together we looked
out across the waters watching the bamboo-ribbed sails that were filling in the
evening wind — and one of those junks, whose sails glowed red and gold in the fad-
ing sunlight, held the man who was loved by the dainty Haru San.
\Vhen the paper lanterns glowed mellow and the high-pitched voices of geisha mingled with twang of samisen and tinkling of koto; when the rice-paper panels of the hamlet homes silhouetted the feasting villagers who sat behind them, the fisherman would come. And Haru San would be glad. Together we tossed broken biscuits to the gold fish which swam in the pool below the balcony, a pool bounded by quaint grottos and crumbling stone lanterns, lilliputian hills and tiny shrines like miniatures of temples — a little world with minute landscape cramped into the smallest space. What a land, this of Japan, this dreamland where colors fade only to blend with those more beautiful, where art lives unalloyed by the cankers of modern vulgarism !
How we dreamed; the temple gongs had resounded hollowly over the water, but they were lost in the common sound of song, music, and laughter. There were no temples, there was no world beyond that blue-gray hill across the lake; there was naught else but the teahouse of the Stork — and Haru San.
Night came, moonbeams danced on the lake, fires showed faintly on distant shores, and glimmering lights shone dimly like far-away fireflies to warn the junk- men to steer clear. The dream was ending, for with the night came the villagers, young men whose fathers had been lords in the recent feudal days. Samurai whose two swords were laid away, farmers and storekeepers — all speaking of one thing, the war just begun.
There were various rumors to tell. One said the Eokoku from the dewy land were coming to Korea in millions; another that more warships had been sunk by torpedoes; still another that the entrance to Port Arthur — Eiojunkou — was now securely blocked. One told of the Tenshi Sama's dream of victory, others of omens the priests had noted, of how the doves had flown from the temple of Hachiman as they did when the war against China was begun.
The conversation of the habitues of the House of the Stork was all of the war; the conversation of all this quiet land was of war, and excitement had no part in that conversation.
From the balcony I watched them and the butterflies flitting among them with loaded trays, and, as I watched and listened, a sworded policeman, quaint with his white-braided uniform and brass buttons, came seeking several of tlie younger men. To those he sought he gave pink papers — the "doinrei" — which called them to the colors to give their lives for the Mikado.
Alone, looking over the still lake, watching its inky sheen and the shimmer of the lights, I sat smoking, reminiscently searching in memory's picture book for a face, when, in the dull glow of the paper lantern that swung some yards away, I saw Haru San and her lover.
In his hand he held a pink paper.
The railway station was thronged. Its cemented pavement clacked loud with the clatter of thousands of stilt-like geta, bands flared noisily, brassily. Crowds surged with lofty banners swinging from tall bamboos, banners that were many hued and oddly inscribed with parting greetings to the soldiers; bright red-streaked standards and the Hino-maru, with its blood-red ball on a snow-white field, fluttered in the noon-day glare.
"Banzai — banzai. Nippon Teikoku Banzai — Banzai — San-ju-shi Eentai Banzai."
Again and again the thousands took up the cry. Japan, imperial country, for ten thousand years — His Majesty — the thirty-fourth regiment for ten thousand years. The bands were noisier, and, how odd, they were playing "The Battle Hymn of the
