QUESTIONS FOR STUDY

I love to steal a while awayFrom every cumbering care.

It was written in 1829, by Deodatus Dutton.

Roman supper:—The Romans were noted for the extravagance of their evening meals, at which all sorts of delicacies were served.

John Stuart Mill:—An English philosopher (1806-1873). He wrote about theories of government.

Polly:—The author's wife.

the day of my destiny:—A quotation from Lord Byron's poem,Stanzas to Augusta[his sister]. The lines run:—

Though the day of my destiny's over,And the star of my fate hath declined,Thy soft heart refused to discoverThe faults that so many could find.

sack-cloth and ashes:—In old Jewish times, a sign of grief or mourning. See Esther, 4:1; Isaiah, 58:5.

Bordeaux:—A province in France noted for its wine.

The author is writing of the ninth and tenth weeks of his work; he now has time to stop and moralize about his garden. Do not take what he says too seriously; look for the fun in it. Is he in earnest about the moral qualities of vegetables? Why cannot the bean figure in poetry and romance? Can you name any prose or verse in which corn does? Explain what is said about the resemblance of some people to cucumbers. Why is celery more aristocratic than potato? Is "them" the right word in the sentence: "I do not pull them up"? Explain what is meant by the paragraph on salads. Why is the tomato a "parvenu"? Does the author wish to cast a slur on the Darwinian theory? Is it true that moral character is influenced by what one eats? What is the catechism? What do you think of the author's theories about scarecrows? About "saving men from any particular vice"? Why does raising one's own vegetables make one feel generous? How does the author pass from vegetables to woman suffrage? Is he in earnest in what he says? What does one get out of a selection like this?

My Summer on a FarmA Garden on the RoofThe Truck GardenMy First Attempt at GardeningRaspberryingPlanting TimeThe Watermelon PatchWeeding the GardenVisiting in the CountryGetting Rid of the InsectsSchool GardensA Window-box GardenSome Weeds of our VicinityThe ScarecrowGoing to Market"Votes for Women"How Women RuleA Suffrage MeetingWhy I Believe [or do not Believe] in Woman's SuffrageThe "Militants"

My First Attempt at Gardening:—Tell how you came to make the garden. Was there any talk about it before it was begun? What were your plans concerning it? Did you spend any time in consulting seed catalogues? Tell about buying (or otherwise securing) the seeds. If you got them from some more experienced gardener than yourself, report the talk about them. Tell how you made the ground ready; how you planted the seeds. Take the reader into your confidence as to your hopes and uncertainties when the sprouts began to appear. Did the garden suffer any misfortunes from the frost, or the drought, or the depredations of the hens? Can you remember any conversation about it? Tell about the weeding, and what was said when it became necessary. Trace the progress of the garden; tell of its success or failure as time went on. What did you do with the products? Did any one praise or make fun of you? How did you feel? Did you want to have another garden?

The Scarecrow:—You might speak first about the garden—its prosperity and beauty, and the fruit or vegetables that it was producing. Then speak about the birds, and tell how they acted and what they did. Did you try driving them away? What was said about them? Now tell about the plans for the scarecrow. Give an account of how it was set up, and what clothes were put on it. How did it look? What was said about it? Give one or two incidents (real or imaginary) in which it was concerned. Was it of any use? How long did it remain in its place?

Votes for Women:—There are several ways in which you could deal with this subject:—

(a) If you have seen a suffrage parade, you might describe it and tell how it impressed you. (b) Perhaps you could write of some particular person who was interested in votes for women: How did she [or he] look, and what did she say? (c) Report a lecture on suffrage. (d) Give two or three arguments for or against woman's suffrage; do not try to take up too many, but deal with each rather completely. (e) Imagine two people talking together about suffrage—for instance, two old men; a manand a woman; a young woman and an old one; a child and a grown person; two children. (f) Imagine the author of the selection and his wife Polly talking about suffrage at the dinner table.

My Summer in a GardenCharles Dudley WarnerBeing a Boy" " "In the Wilderness" " "My Winter on the Nile" " "On Horseback" " "Back-log Studies" " "A Journey to NatureA.C. WheelerThe Making of a Country Home" "A Self-supporting HomeKate V. St. MaurFolks back HomeEugene WoodAdventures in ContentmentDavid GraysonAdventures in Friendship" "The Friendly Road" "New Lives for OldWilliam CarletonA Living without a BossAnonymousThe Fat of the LandJ.W. StreeterThe Jonathan PapersElizabeth WoodbridgeAdopting an Abandoned FarmKate SanbornOut-door StudiesT.W. HigginsonThe Women of AmericaElizabeth McCrackenThe Country HomeE.P. PowellBlessing the Cornfields (inHiawatha)H.W. LongfellowThe Corn Song (inThe Huskers)J.G. WhittierCharles Dudley Warner (inAmerican Writers of To-day, pp. 89-103)H.C. Vedder

He sang above the vineyards of the world.And after him the vines with woven handsClambered and clung, and everywhere unfurledTriumphing green above the barren lands;Till high as gardens grow, he climbed, he stood,Sun-crowned with life and strength, and singing toil,And looked upon his work; and it was good:The corn, the wine, the oil.He sang above the noon. The topmost cleftThat grudged him footing on the mountain scarsHe planted and despaired not; till he leftHis vines soft breathing to the host of stars.He wrought, he tilled; and even as he sang,The creatures of his planting laughed to scornThe ancient threat of deserts where there sprangThe wine, the oil, the corn!He sang not for abundance.—Over-lordsTook of his tilth. Yet was there still to reap,The portion of his labor; dear rewardsOf sunlit day, and bread, and human sleep.He sang for strength; for glory of the light.He dreamed above the furrows, 'They are mine!'When all he wrought stood fair before his sightWith corn, and oil, and wine.Truly, the light is sweetYea, and a pleasant thingIt is to see the Sun.And that a man should eatHis bread that he hath won;—(So is it sung and said),That he should take and keep,After his laboring,The portion of his labor in his bread,His bread that he hath won;Yea, and in quiet sleep,When all is done.He sang; above the burden and the heat,Above all seasons with their fitful grace;Above the chance and change that led his feetTo this last ambush of the Market-place.'Enough for him,' they said—and still they say—'A crust, with air to breathe, and sun to shine;He asks no more!'—Before they took awayThe corn, the oil, the wine.He sang. No more he sings now, anywhere.Light was enough, before he was undone.They knew it well, who took away the air,—Who took away the sun;Who took, to serve their soul-devouring greed,Himself, his breath, his bread—the goad of toil;—Who have and hold, before the eyes of Need,The corn, the wine,—the oil!Truly, one thing is sweetOf things beneath the Sun;This, that a man should earn his bread and eat,Rejoicing in his work which he hath done.What shall be sung or saidOf desolate deceit,When others take his bread;His and his children's bread?—And the laborer hath none.This, for his portion now, of all that he hath done.He earns; and others eat.He starves;—they sit at meatWho have taken away the Sun.

He sang above the noon. The topmost cleftThat grudged him footing on the mountain scarsHe planted and despaired not; till he leftHis vines soft breathing to the host of stars.He wrought, he tilled; and even as he sang,The creatures of his planting laughed to scornThe ancient threat of deserts where there sprangThe wine, the oil, the corn!

He sang not for abundance.—Over-lordsTook of his tilth. Yet was there still to reap,The portion of his labor; dear rewardsOf sunlit day, and bread, and human sleep.He sang for strength; for glory of the light.He dreamed above the furrows, 'They are mine!'When all he wrought stood fair before his sightWith corn, and oil, and wine.

Truly, the light is sweetYea, and a pleasant thingIt is to see the Sun.And that a man should eatHis bread that he hath won;—(So is it sung and said),That he should take and keep,After his laboring,The portion of his labor in his bread,His bread that he hath won;Yea, and in quiet sleep,When all is done.

He sang; above the burden and the heat,Above all seasons with their fitful grace;Above the chance and change that led his feetTo this last ambush of the Market-place.'Enough for him,' they said—and still they say—'A crust, with air to breathe, and sun to shine;He asks no more!'—Before they took awayThe corn, the oil, the wine.

He sang. No more he sings now, anywhere.Light was enough, before he was undone.They knew it well, who took away the air,—Who took away the sun;Who took, to serve their soul-devouring greed,Himself, his breath, his bread—the goad of toil;—Who have and hold, before the eyes of Need,The corn, the wine,—the oil!

Truly, one thing is sweetOf things beneath the Sun;This, that a man should earn his bread and eat,Rejoicing in his work which he hath done.What shall be sung or saidOf desolate deceit,When others take his bread;His and his children's bread?—And the laborer hath none.This, for his portion now, of all that he hath done.He earns; and others eat.He starves;—they sit at meatWho have taken away the Sun.

Seek him now, that singing Man.Look for him,Look for himIn the mills,In the mines;Where the very daylight pines,—He, who once did walk the hills!You shall find him, if you scanShapes all unbefitting Man,Bodies warped, and faces dim.In the mines; in the millsWhere the ceaseless thunder fillsSpaces of the human brainTill all thought is turned to pain.Where the skirl of wheel on wheel,Grinding him who is their tool,Makes the shattered senses reelTo the numbness of the fool.Perisht thought, and halting tongue—(Once it spoke;—once it sung!)Live to hunger, dead to song.Only heart-beats loud with wrongHammer on,—How long?...How long?—How long?Search for him;Search for him;Where the crazy atoms swimUp the fiery furnace-blast.You shall find him, at the last,—He whose forehead braved the sun,—Wreckt and tortured and undone.Where no breath across the heatWhispers him that life was sweet;But the sparkles mock and flare,Scattering up the crooked air.(Blackened with that bitter mirk,—Would God know His handiwork?)Thought is not for such as he;Naught but strength, and misery;Since, for just the bite and sup,Life must needs be swallowed up.Only, reeling up the sky,Hurtling flames that hurry by,Gasp and flare, withWhy—Why,...Why?...Why the human mind of himShrinks, and falters and is dimWhen he tries to make it out:What the torture is about.—Why he breathes, a fugitiveWhom the World forbids to live.Why he earned for his abode,Habitation of the toad!Why his fevered day by dayWill not serve to drive awayHorror that must always haunt:—...Want...Want!Nightmare shot with waking pangs;—Tightening coil, and certain fangs,Close and closer, always nigh ......Why?...Why?Why he labors under banThat denies him for a man.Why his utmost drop of bloodBuys for him no human good;Why his utmost urge of strengthOnly lets Them starve at length;—Will not let him starve alone;He must watch, and see his ownFade and fail, and starve, and die.. . . . . . ....Why?...Why?. . . . . . .Heart-beats, in a hammering song,Heavy as an ox may plod,Goaded—goaded—faint with wrong,Cry unto some ghost of God...How long?...How long?...How long?

Search for him;Search for him;Where the crazy atoms swimUp the fiery furnace-blast.You shall find him, at the last,—He whose forehead braved the sun,—Wreckt and tortured and undone.Where no breath across the heatWhispers him that life was sweet;But the sparkles mock and flare,Scattering up the crooked air.(Blackened with that bitter mirk,—Would God know His handiwork?)

Thought is not for such as he;Naught but strength, and misery;Since, for just the bite and sup,Life must needs be swallowed up.Only, reeling up the sky,Hurtling flames that hurry by,Gasp and flare, withWhy—Why,...Why?...

Why the human mind of himShrinks, and falters and is dimWhen he tries to make it out:What the torture is about.—Why he breathes, a fugitiveWhom the World forbids to live.Why he earned for his abode,Habitation of the toad!Why his fevered day by dayWill not serve to drive awayHorror that must always haunt:—...Want...Want!Nightmare shot with waking pangs;—Tightening coil, and certain fangs,Close and closer, always nigh ......Why?...Why?

Why he labors under banThat denies him for a man.Why his utmost drop of bloodBuys for him no human good;Why his utmost urge of strengthOnly lets Them starve at length;—Will not let him starve alone;He must watch, and see his ownFade and fail, and starve, and die.. . . . . . ....Why?...Why?. . . . . . .Heart-beats, in a hammering song,Heavy as an ox may plod,Goaded—goaded—faint with wrong,Cry unto some ghost of God...How long?...How long?...How long?

Seek him yet. Search for him!You shall find him, spent and grim;In the prisons, where we penThese unsightly shards of men.Sheltered fast;Housed at length;Clothed and fed, no matter how!—Where the householders, aghast,Measure in his broken strengthNought but power for evil, now.Beast-of-burden drudgeriesCould not earn him what was his:He who heard the world applaudGlories seized by force and fraud,He must break,—he must take!—Both for hate and hunger's sake.He must seize by fraud and force;He must strike, without remorse!Seize he might; but never keep.Strike, his once!—Behold him here.(Human life we buy so cheap,Who should know we held it dear?)No denial,—no defenceFrom a brain bereft of sense,Any more than penitence.But the heart-beats now, that plodGoaded—goaded—dumb with wrong,Ask not even a ghost of God...How long?When the Sea gives up its dead,Prison caverns, yield insteadThis, rejected and despised;This, the Soiled and Sacrificed!Without form or comeliness;Shamed for us that did transgressBruised, for our iniquities,With the stripes that are all his!Face that wreckage, you who can.It was once the Singing Man.

No denial,—no defenceFrom a brain bereft of sense,Any more than penitence.But the heart-beats now, that plodGoaded—goaded—dumb with wrong,Ask not even a ghost of God...How long?

When the Sea gives up its dead,Prison caverns, yield insteadThis, rejected and despised;This, the Soiled and Sacrificed!Without form or comeliness;Shamed for us that did transgressBruised, for our iniquities,With the stripes that are all his!Face that wreckage, you who can.It was once the Singing Man.

Must it be?—Must we thenRender back to God againThis His broken work, this thing,For His man that once did sing?Will not all our wonders do?Gifts we stored the ages through,(Trusting that He had forgot)—Gifts the Lord requirèd not?Would the all-but-human serve!Monsters made of stone and nerve;Towers to threaten and defyCurse or blessing of the sky;Shafts that blot the stars with smoke;Lightnings harnessed under yoke;Sea-things, air-things, wrought with steel,That may smite, and fly, and feel!Oceans calling each to each;Hostile hearts, with kindred speech.Every work that Titans can;Every marvel: save a man,Who might rule without a sword.—Is a man more precious, Lord?Can it be?—Must we thenRender back to Thee againMillion, million wasted men?Men, of flickering human breath,Only made for life and death?Ah, but see the sovereign Few,Highly favored, that remain!These, the glorious residue,Of the cherished race of Cain.These, the magnates of the age,High above the human wage,Who have numbered and possesstAll the portion of the rest!What are all despairs and shames,What the mean, forgotten namesOf the thousand more or less,For one surfeit of success?For those dullest lives we spent,Take these Few magnificent!For that host of blotted ones,Take these glittering central suns.Few;—but how their lustre thrivesOn the million broken lives!Splendid, over dark and doubt,For a million souls gone out!These, the holders of our hoard,—Wilt thou not accept them, Lord?

Would the all-but-human serve!Monsters made of stone and nerve;Towers to threaten and defyCurse or blessing of the sky;Shafts that blot the stars with smoke;Lightnings harnessed under yoke;Sea-things, air-things, wrought with steel,That may smite, and fly, and feel!Oceans calling each to each;Hostile hearts, with kindred speech.Every work that Titans can;Every marvel: save a man,Who might rule without a sword.—Is a man more precious, Lord?

Can it be?—Must we thenRender back to Thee againMillion, million wasted men?Men, of flickering human breath,Only made for life and death?

Ah, but see the sovereign Few,Highly favored, that remain!These, the glorious residue,Of the cherished race of Cain.These, the magnates of the age,High above the human wage,Who have numbered and possesstAll the portion of the rest!

What are all despairs and shames,What the mean, forgotten namesOf the thousand more or less,For one surfeit of success?

For those dullest lives we spent,Take these Few magnificent!For that host of blotted ones,Take these glittering central suns.Few;—but how their lustre thrivesOn the million broken lives!Splendid, over dark and doubt,For a million souls gone out!These, the holders of our hoard,—Wilt thou not accept them, Lord?

Oh in the wakening thunders of the heart,—The small lost Eden, troubled through the night,Sounds there not now,—forboded and apart,Some voice and sword of light?Some voice and portent of a dawn to break?—Searching like God, the ruinous human shardOf that lost Brother-man Himself did make,And Man himself hath marred?It sounds!—And may the anguish of that birthSeize on the world; and may all shelters fail,Till we behold new Heaven and new EarthThrough the rent Temple-vail!When the high-tides that threaten near and farTo sweep away our guilt before the sky,—Flooding the waste of this dishonored Star,Cleanse, and o'ewhelm, and cry!Cry, from the deep of world-accusing waves,With longing more than all since Light began,Above the nations,—underneath the graves,—'Give back the Singing Man!'

It sounds!—And may the anguish of that birthSeize on the world; and may all shelters fail,Till we behold new Heaven and new EarthThrough the rent Temple-vail!When the high-tides that threaten near and farTo sweep away our guilt before the sky,—Flooding the waste of this dishonored Star,Cleanse, and o'ewhelm, and cry!

Cry, from the deep of world-accusing waves,With longing more than all since Light began,Above the nations,—underneath the graves,—'Give back the Singing Man!'

and it was good:—Genesis, 1:31: "And God saw all that he had made, and, behold, it was very good."

the ancient threat of deserts:—Isaiah, 35:1-2: "The desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose."

after his laboring:—Luke, 10:7, and 1st Timothy, 5:18: "The laborer is worthy of his hire."

portion of his labor:—Ecclesiastes, 2:10: "For my heart rejoiced in my labor; and this was my portion of all my labor."

the light is sweet:—Ecclesiastes, 11:7: "Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun."

How long:—Revelation, 6:10: "How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost thou not judge and avenge our blood on them that dwell on the earth?"

when the sea:—Revelation, 20:13: "And the sea gave up the dead which were in it."

rejected and despised:—For this and the remainder of the stanza, see Isaiah, 53.

Titans:—In Greek mythology, powerful and troublesome giants.

Cain:—See the story of Cain, Genesis, 4:2-16.

searching like God:—Genesis, 4:9: "And the Lord said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not! Am I my brother's keeper?"

Temple-vail:—At the death of Christ, the vail of the temple was rent; see Matthew, 27:51.

Read the poem slowly and thoughtfully. The "singing man" is the laborer who, in days gone by, was happy in his work. People were not crowded into great cities, and there was more simple out-door labor than there is now, and less strife for wealth.

Above the vineyards: In Europe, vineyards are often planted on the slopes of hills and mountains. What ancient country do you think of in connection with "the corn [grain], the oil, the wine"? Were the laborers happy in that country? What were the "creatures" of man's planting (second stanza)? What was the "ancient threat" of deserts? Of what kind of deserts, as described here? Of what deserts would this be true after the rainy season?Laughed to scorn: Does this mean "outdid"? Mentally insert the wordsomethingafterstillin the second line of the third stanza. If the laborer in times gone by did not sing for abundance, what did he sing for (stanza three)? The verses in italics are a kind of refrain, as if the laborer were singing to himself.So is it said and sungrefers to the fact that these lines are adapted from passages in the Bible.This last ambush: What does the author mean here by suggesting that the laborer has been entrapped? Who are "they" in the line "'Enough for him,' they said"? How did they take away "the corn, the oil, the wine"? How did they take away "the air and the sun"?Who now has the product of the workman's toil? What are "the eyes of Need"? Is it true that one may work hard and still be in need? If it is true, who is to blame? What are "dim" faces? Why does the author begin the wordManwith a capital? What effect does too much hard work have upon the laborer? What is "the crooked air"? Who is represented as sayingWhy? How does the world forbid the laborer to live? Why are there dotted lines before and afterWhyandWhatandHow long? Who are meant byThemin the line beginning "Only lets"? Why does the author say that the prisons are filled with ill-used laborers? What does she mean by saying that the prisoners are "bruised for our iniquities"? What is gained here by using the language of the Bible?The all-but-humanmeans "almost intelligent"—referring to machinery. Does the author mean to praise the "sovereign Few"? Who are these "Few magnificent"? Are they really to blame for the sufferings of the poor?Himselfin the line beginning "Of that lost," refers to God. What is meant here by "a new Heaven and a new Earth"? What is "this dishonored Star"? What conditions does the author think will bring back the singing man? Are they possible conditions?

Re-read the poem, thinking of the author's protest against the sufferings of the poor and the selfishness of the rich. What do you think of the poem?

The Singing Man and Other PoemsJosephine Preston PeabodyThe Piper" " "The Singing Leaves" " "Fortune and Men's Eyes" " "The Wolf of Gubbio" " "The Man with the HoeEdwin Markham

At last, from the verge of an enormous ridge, the roadway suddenly slopes down into a vista of high peaked roofs of thatch and green-mossed eaves—into a village like a colored print out of old Hiroshige's picture-books, a village with all its tints and colors precisely like the tints and colors of the landscape in which it lies. This is Kami-Ichi, in the land of Hoki.

We halt before a quiet, dingy little inn, whose host, a very aged man, comes forth to salute me; while a silent, gentle crowd of villagers, mostly children and women, gather about the kuruma to see the stranger, to wonder at him, even to touch his clothes with timid smiling curiosity. One glance at the face of the old inn-keeper decides me to accept his invitation. I must remain here until to-morrow: my runners are too wearied to go farther to-night.

Weather-worn as the little inn seemed without, it is delightful within. Its polished stairway and balconies are speckless, reflecting like mirror-surfaces the bare feet of the maid-servants; its luminous rooms are fresh and sweet-smelling as when their soft mattings were first laid down. The carven pillars of the alcove (toko) in my chamber, leaves and flowers chiseled in some black rich wood, are wonders; and the kakemono or scroll-picture hanging there is an idyl, Hotei, God of Happiness, drifting in a bark downsome shadowy stream into evening mysteries of vapory purple. Far as this hamlet is from all art-centres, there is no object visible in the house which does not reveal the Japanese sense of beauty in form. The old gold-flowered lacquer-ware, the astonishing box in which sweetmeats (kwashi) are kept, the diaphanous porcelain wine-cups dashed with a single tiny gold figure of a leaping shrimp, the tea-cup holders which are curled lotus-leaves of bronze, even the iron kettle with its figurings of dragons and clouds, and the brazen hibachi whose handles are heads of Buddhist lions, delight the eye and surprise the fancy. Indeed, wherever to-day in Japan one sees something totally uninteresting in porcelain or metal, something commonplace and ugly, one may be almost sure that detestable something has been shaped under foreign influence. But here I am in ancient Japan; probably no European eyes ever looked upon these things before.

A window shaped like a heart peeps out upon the garden, a wonderful little garden with a tiny pond and miniature bridges and dwarf trees, like the landscape of a tea-cup; also some shapely stones of course, and some graceful stone lanterns, or tōrō, such as are placed in the courts of temples. And beyond these, through the warm dusk, I see lights, colored lights, the lanterns of the Bonku, suspended before each home to welcome the coming of beloved ghosts; for by the antique calendar, according to which in this antique place the reckoning of time is still made, this is the first night of the Festival of the Dead.

As in all other little country villages where I have been stopping, I find the people here kind to me with a kindness and a courtesy unimaginable, indescribable, unknown in any other country, and even in Japanitself only in the interior. Their simple politeness is not an art; their goodness is absolutely unconscious goodness; both come straight from the heart. And before I have been two hours among these people, their treatment of me, coupled with the sense of my utter inability to repay such kindness, causes a wicked wish to come into my mind. I wish these charming folk would do me some unexpected wrong, something surprisingly evil, something atrociously unkind, so that I should not be obliged to regret them, which I feel sure I must begin to do as soon as I go away.

While the aged landlord conducts me to the bath, the wife prepares for us a charming little repast of rice, eggs, vegetables, and sweetmeats. She is painfully in doubt about her ability to please me, even after I have eaten enough for two men, and apologizes too much for not being able to offer me more.

"There is no fish," she says, "for to-day is the first day of the Bonku, the Festival of the Dead; being the thirteenth day of the month. On the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth of the month nobody may eat fish. But on the morning of the sixteenth day, the fishermen go out to catch fish; and everybody who has both parents living may eat of it. But if one has lost one's father or mother then one must not eat fish, even upon the sixteenth day."

While the good soul is thus explaining I become aware of a strange remote sound from without, a sound I recognize through memory of tropical dances, a measured clapping of hands. But this clapping is very soft and at long intervals. And at still longer intervals there comes to us a heavy muffled booming, the tap of a great drum, a temple drum.

"Oh! we must go to see it," cries Akira; "it is theBon-odori, the Dance of the Festival of the Dead. And you will see the Bon-odori danced here as it is never danced in cities—the Bon-odori of ancient days. For customs have not changed here; but in the cities all is changed."

So I hasten out, wearing only, like the people about me, one of those light wide-sleeved summer robes—yukata—which are furnished to male guests at all Japanese hotels; but the air is so warm that even thus lightly clad, I find myself slightly perspiring. And the night is divine,—still, clear, vaster than the nights of Europe, with a big white moon flinging down queer shadows of tilted eaves and horned gables, and delightful silhouettes of robed Japanese. A little boy, the grandson of our host, leads the way with a crimson paper lantern; and the sonorous echoing of geta, thekoro-koroof wooden sandals, fills all the street, for many are going whither we are going, to see the dance.

A little while we proceed along the main street; then, traversing a narrow passage between two houses, we find ourselves in a great open space flooded by moonlight. This is the dancing-place; but the dance has ceased for a time. Looking about me, I perceive that we are in the court of an ancient Buddhist temple. The temple building itself remains intact, a low, long peaked silhouette against the starlight; but it is void and dark and unhallowed now; it has been turned, they tell me, into a schoolhouse. The priests are gone; the great bell is gone; the Buddhas and the Bodhisattvas have vanished, all save one,—a broken-handed Jizo of stone, smiling with eyelids closed, under the moon.

In the centre of the court is a framework of bamboosupporting a great drum; and about it benches have been arranged, benches from the schoolhouse, on which the villagers are resting. There is a hum of voices, voices of people speaking very low, as if expecting something solemn; and cries of children betimes, and soft laughter of girls. And far behind the court, beyond a low hedge of sombre evergreen shrubs, I see soft white lights and a host of tall gray shapes throwing long shadows; and I know that the lights are thewhitelanterns of the dead (those hung in cemeteries only), and that the gray shapes are the shapes of tombs.

Suddenly a girl rises from her seat, and taps the huge drum once. It is the signal for the Dance of Souls.

Out of the shadow of the temple a professional line of dancers files into the moonlight and as suddenly halts,—all young women or girls, clad in their choicest attire; the tallest leads; her comrades follow in order of stature. Little maids of ten or twelve years compose the end of the procession. Figures lightly poised as birds,—figures that somehow recall the dreams of shapes circling about certain antique vases; those charming Japanese robes, close-clinging about the knees, might seem, but for the great fantastic drooping sleeves, and the curious broad girdles confining them, designed after the drawing of some Greek or Etruscan artist. And, at another tap of the drum, there begins a performance impossible to picture in words, something unimaginable, phantasmal,—a dance, an astonishment.

All together glide the right foot forward one pace, without lifting the sandal from the ground, and extendboth hands to the right, with a strange floating motion and a smiling, mysterious obeisance. Then the right foot is drawn back, with a repetition of the waving of hands and the mysterious bow. Then all advance the left foot and repeat the previous movements, half-turning to the left. Then all take two gliding paces forward, with a single simultaneous soft clap of the hands, and the first performance is reiterated, alternately to the right and left; all the sandaled feet gliding together, all the supple hands waving together, all the pliant bodies bowing and swaying together. And so slowly, weirdly, the processional movement changes into a great round, circling about the moon-lit court and around the voiceless crowd of spectators.

And always the white hands sinuously wave together, as if weaving spells, alternately without and within the round, now with palms upward, now with palms downward; and all the elfish sleeves hover duskily together, with a shadowing as of wings; and all the feet poise together with such a rhythm of complex motion, that, in watching it, one feels a sensation of hypnotism—as while striving to watch a flowing and shimmering of water.

And this soporous allurement is intensified by a dead hush. No one speaks, not even a spectator. And, in the long intervals between the soft clapping of hands, one hears only the shrilling of the crickets in the trees, and theshu-shuof sandals, lightly stirring the dust. Unto what, I ask myself, may this be likened? Unto nothing; yet it suggests some fancy of somnambulism,—dreamers, who dream themselves flying, dreaming upon their feet.

And there comes to me the thought that I am looking at something immemorially old, something belongingto the unrecorded beginning of this Oriental life, perhaps to the crepuscular Kamiyo itself, to the magical Age of the Gods; a symbolism of motion whereof the meaning has been forgotten for innumerable years. Yet more and more unreal the spectacle appears, with silent smilings, with its silent bowings, as if obeisance to watchers invisible; and I find myself wondering whether, were I to utter but a whisper, all would not vanish forever, save the gray mouldering court and the desolate temple, and the broken statue of Jizo, smiling always the same mysterious smile I see upon the faces of the dancers.

Under the wheeling moon, in the midst of the round, I feel as one within the circle of a charm. And verily, this is enchantment; I am bewitched, by the ghostly weaving of hands, by the rhythmic gliding of feet, above all by the flittering of the marvellous sleeves—apparitional, soundless, velvety as a flitting of great tropical bats. No; nothing I ever dreamed of could be likened to this. And with the consciousness of the ancient hakaba behind me, and the weird invitation of its lanterns, and the ghostly beliefs of the hour and the place, there creeps upon me a nameless, tingling sense of being haunted. But no! these gracious, silent, waving, weaving shapes are not of the Shadowy Folk, for whose coming the white fires were kindled: a strain of song, full of sweet, clear quavering, like the call of a bird, gushes from some girlish mouth, and fifty soft voices join the chant:—

Sorota soroimashita odorikoga sorota,Soroikita, kita hare yukata.

"Uniform to view [as ears of young rice ripening in the field] all clad alike in summer festal robes, the company of dancers have assembled."

Again only the shrilling of the crickets, theshu-shuof feet, the gentle clapping; and the wavering hovering measure proceeds in silence, with mesmeric lentor,—with a strange grace, which by its very naïveté, seems as old as the encircling hills.

Those who sleep the sleep of centuries out there, under the gray stones where the white lanterns are, and their fathers, and the fathers of their fathers' fathers, and the unknown generations behind them, buried in cemeteries of which the place has been forgotten for a thousand years, doubtless looked upon a scene like this. Nay! the dust stirred by those young feet was human life, and so smiled and so sang under this self-same moon, "with woven paces and with waving hands."

Suddenly a deep male chant breaks the hush. Two giants have joined the round, and now lead it, two superb young mountain peasants nearly nude, towering head and shoulders above the whole of the assembly. Their kimono are rolled about their waists like girdles, leaving their bronzed limbs and torsos naked to the warm air; they wear nothing else save their immense straw hats, and white tabi, donned expressly for the festival. Never before among these people saw I such men, such thews; but their smiling beardless faces are comely and kindly as those of Japanese boys. They seem brothers, so like in frame, in movement, in the timbre of their voices, as they intone the same song:—

No demo yama demo ko wa umiokeyo,Sen ryo kura yori ko ga takara.

"Whether brought forth upon the mountain or in the field, it matters nothing: more than a treasure of one thousand ryo, a baby precious is."

And Jizo, the lover of children's ghosts, smiles across the silence.

Souls close to nature's Soul are these; artless and touching their thought, like the worship of that Kishibojin to whom wives pray. And after the silence, the sweet thin voices of the women answer:—

Oomu otoko ni sowa sanu oya wa,Oyade gozaranu ko no kataki.

"The parents who will not allow their girl to be united with her lover; they are not the parents, but the enemies of their child."

And song follows song; and the round ever becomes larger; and the hours pass unfelt, unheard, while the moon wheels slowly down the blue steeps of the night.

A deep low boom rolls suddenly across the court, the rich tone of some temple bell telling the twelfth hour. Instantly the witchcraft ends, like the wonder of some dream broken by a sound; the chanting ceases; the round dissolves in an outburst of happy laughter, and chatting, and softly-voweled callings of flower-names which are names of girls, and farewell cries of "Sayonara!" as dancers and spectators alike betake themselves homeward, with a greatkoro-koroof getas.

And I, moving with the throng, in the bewildered manner of one suddenly roused from sleep, know myself ungrateful. These silvery-laughing folk who now toddle along beside me upon their noisy little clogs, stepping very fast to get a peep at my foreign face, these but a moment ago were visions of archaic grace, illusions of necromancy, delightful phantoms; and I feel a vague resentment against them for thus materializing into simple country-girls.

Lafcadio Hearn, the author of this selection, took a four days' journey in a jinrikisha to the remote country district which he describes. He is almost the only foreigner who has ever entered the village.

Bon-odori:—The dance in honor of the dead.

Hiroshige:—A Japanese landscape painter of an early date.

kuruma:—A jinrikisha; a two-wheeled cart drawn by a man.

hibachi:—(hi bä' chi) A brazier.

Bonku:—The Festival of the Dead.

The memory of tropical dances:—Lafcadio Hearn had previously spent some years in the West Indies.

Akira:—The name of the guide who has drawn the kuruma in which the foreigner has come to the village. (See page 18 ofGlimpses of Unfamiliar Japan.)

yukata:—Pronouncedyu kä' ta.

geta:—Pronouncedgēē' ta, notjēē' ta;high noisy wooden clogs. (See page 10 ofGlimpses of Unfamiliar Japan.)

Buddhist:—One who believes in the doctrines of Gautama Siddartha, a religious teacher of the sixth century before Christ.

Buddha:—A statue representing the Buddha Siddartha in a very calm position, usually sitting cross-legged.

Bodhisattvas:—Pronouncedbō di säht' vas;gods who have almost attained the perfection of Buddha (Gautama Siddartha).

Jizo:—A Japanese God. See page297.

Etruscan:—Relating to Etruria, a division of ancient Italy. Etruscan vases have graceful figures upon them.

soporous:—Drowsy; sleep-producing.

crepuscular:—Relating to twilight.

Kamiyo:—The Age of the Gods in Japan.

hakaba:—Cemetery.

lentor:—Slowness.

"with woven paces,"etc. See Tennyson'sIdylls of the King: "With woven paces and with waving arms."

tabi:—White stockings with a division for the great toe.

ryo:—About fifty cents.

Kishibojin:—Pronouncedki shi bō' jin.(See page 96 ofGlimpses of Unfamiliar Japan.)

Sayonara:—Good-bye.

Read the selection through rather slowly. Do not be alarmed at the Japanese names: they are usually pronounced as they are spelled. Perhaps your teacher will be able to show you a Japanese print; at least you can see on a Japanese fan quaint villages such as are here described. What sort of face has the host? How does this Japanese inn differ from the American hotel? Does there seem to be much furniture? If the Americans had the same sense of beauty that the Japanese have, what changes would be made in most houses? Why does the foreign influence make the Japanese manufactures "uninteresting" and "detestable"? If you have been in a shop where Japanese wares are sold, tell what seemed most striking about the objects and their decoration. What is meant by "the landscape of a tea-cup"? Why does the author say so much about the remoteness of the village? See how the author uses picture-words and sound-words to make his description vivid. Note his use of contrasts. Why does he preface his account of the dance by the remark that it cannot be described in words? Is this a good method? How does the author make you feel the swing and rhythm of the dance? Do not try to pronounce the Japanese verses: Notice that they are translated. Why are the Japanese lines put in at all? Why does the author say that he is ungrateful at the last? Try to tell in a few sentences what are the good qualities of this selection. Make a little list of the devices that the author has used in order to make his descriptions vivid and his narration lively. Can you apply some of his methods to a short description of your own?

A Flower FestivalA PageantThe May FêteDancing out of DoorsA Lawn SocialThe Old Settlers' PicnicThe Russian DancersA Moonlight PicnicChildren's Games in the YardSome Japanese People that I have SeenJapanese Students in our SchoolsJapanese FurnitureAn Oriental Store in our TownMy Idea of JapanJapanese PicturesA Street CarnivalAn Old-fashioned Square DanceThe Revival of Folk-DancingThe Girls' DrillA Walk in the Village at NightWhy We have Ugly Things in our HousesDo we have too much Furniture in our Houses?What we can Learn from the Japanese

An Evening Walk in the Village:—Imagine yourself taking a walk through the village at nightfall. Tell of the time of day, the season, and the weather. Make your reader feel the approach of darkness, and the heat, or the coolness, or the chill of the air. What signs do you see about you, of the close of day? Can you make the reader feel the contrast of the lights and the surrounding darkness? As you walk along, what sounds do you hear? What activities are going on? Can you catch any glimpses, through the windows, of the family life inside the houses? Do you see people eating or drinking? Do you see any children? Are the scenes about you quiet and restful, or are they confused and irritating? Make use of any incidents that you can to complete your description of the village as you see it in your walk. Perhaps you will wish to close your theme with your entering a house, or your advance into the dark open country beyond the village.

My Idea of Japan:—Suppose that you were suddenly transported to a small town in Japan: What would be your first impression? Tell what you would expect to see. Speak of the houses, the gardens, and the temples. Tell about the shops, and booths, and the wares that are for sale. Describe the dress and appearance of the Japanese men; of the women; the children. Speak of the coolies, or working-people; the foreigners. Perhaps you can imagine yourself taking a ride in ajinrikisha. Tell of the amusing or extraordinary things that you see, and make use of incidents and conversation. Bring out the contrasts between Japan and your own country.

A Dance or Drill:—Think of some drill or dance or complicated game that you have seen, which lends itself to the kind of description in the selection. In your work, try to emphasize thecontrast between the background and the moving figures; the effects of light and darkness; the sound of music and voices; the sway and rhythm of the action. Re-read parts ofThe Dance of the Bon-odori, to see what devices the author has used in order to bring out effects of sound and rhythm.

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