I
"These," said Manyemon, putting on the table a roll of wonderfully
written Japanese manuscript, "are Vulgar Songs. If they are to be
spoken of in some honorable book, perhaps it will be good to say that
they are Vulgar, so that Western people may not be deceived."
*
Next to my house there is a vacant lot, where washermen _(sentukaya)_
work in the ancient manner,--singing as they work, and whipping the wet
garments upon big flat stones. Every morning at daybreak their singing
wakens me; and I like to listen to it, though I cannot often catch the
words. It is full of long, queer, plaintive modulations. Yesterday,
the apprentice--a lad of fifteen--and the master of the washermen were
singing alternately, as if answering each other; the contrast between
the tones of the man, sonorous as if boomed through a conch, and the
clarion alto of the boy, being very pleasant to hear. Whereupon I
called Manyemon and asked him what the singing was about.
"The song of the boy," he said, "is an old song:--
_Things never changed since the Time of the Gods:_
_The flowing of water, the Way of Love._