Our dwelling is open all the night through, and the lamps burning before
the gilded Buddha bring us the company of the insect inhabitants of
every garden in the neighborhood. Moths, mosquitoes, cicalas, and other
extraordinary insects of which I don’t even know the names--all this
company assembles around us.
It is extremely funny, when some unexpected grasshopper, some
free-and-easy beetle presents itself without invitation or excuse,
scampering over our white mats, to see the manner in which Chrysantheme
indicates it to my righteous vengeance--merely pointing her finger at
it, without another word than “Hou!” said with bent head, a particular
pout, and a scandalised air.
There is a fan kept expressly for the purpose of blowing them out of
doors again.