WHILE the husband assisted the children and nurse to alight from the
jinrikishas, Mrs. Kurukawa the second stood looking about her.
She was a little woman, possibly thirty-five years old. Her face was
expressive, showing a somewhat shy and timid nature. Her large, brown
eyes had a look of appeal in them as she turned them towards her
husband. He smiled reassuringly and put an affectionate hand upon her
arm. Immediately her momentary restraint and fear left her.
“Is this the famous Plum Blossom Avenue?” she asked, indicating the
budding trees under which they now passed, and which served as an
exquisite pathway through the garden.
“This is Plum Blossom Avenue,” replied her husband, “and as you see, I
keep my promise. You know I cabled to Japan to have the plum blossoms
all in bud for us when we should arrive.”
“How good of you!” she laughed. “Just as if you didn’t know they bloom
at the end of March! But where are the children? You also promised that
they would be under the trees waiting for us.”
Mr. Kurukawa looked a bit worried.
“It’s strange,” he said. “Ah, here come my mother and father-in-law.”
His first wife’s father and mother hastened down the path to meet them.
To the delight of the little American children, the old man and woman
favored them with the most wonderful bows they had ever seen. In fact,
the boy afterwards insisted that the old man’s bald head had literally
touched his own boots.
The new wife held out both her hands with a pretty impulse.
“Oh,” she said, “I have heard all about you—how very, very good you have
been to the children.”
The old couple did not quite understand what she said, but feeling
assured that it was something complimentary, they began a fresh series
of bows, repeating over and over again one of the English words they had
learned.
“Thangs, thangs, very thangs.”
Mr. Kurukawa now inquired anxiously for his children. He had certainly
expected they would be at the gate to meet them. The grandmother
explained that only a moment before the two little boys had been with
her, and she had sent immediately for the little girls. But just as they
came to the door the little boys had run away in fright, and were now
shyly hiding somewhere.
“Gozo? What of Gozo?”
The two old people looked at each other. They did not know what to say.
“Pray come into the house, my son,” said Madame Sano. “We can better
speak there.”
They had been talking in Japanese. Noting her husband’s look of worry,
Mrs. Kurukawa anxiously inquired the reason. Without explaining, he led
her into the house. As they entered they were startled by the strange
sound that greeted them. It was like the sharp sigh of a wind in an
empty house. In reality it was the panic-stricken flight from the
hallway of the children of Mr. Kurukawa.
Grouped closely together, the four children and Miss Summer had
retreated to the far end of the hall, where they awaited the advent of
the dreaded “barbarian” step-mother, for such Gozo had made them believe
she must be. For many months they had conjured up in imagination
pictures of their step-mother and her children.
They had seen but one foreigner in their town, the missionary, who had
been their teacher. Him they had held in as much awe and fear as they
would a strange animal.
Now their father appeared in the hall, holding by the arm what seemed to
the children a most extraordinary looking creature, while behind them
came, hand in hand, the strangest-looking little boy and girl, with eyes
so big that Plum Blossom thought them like those of a goblin. The face,
however, which frightened them most was that of the Irish nurse, who
bore the baby in her arms. The children gazed only a moment at this
outlandish group; then with one accord they fled, each in a different
direction.
The strangers coming from the out-door sunlight into the darkened hall
had barely time to see the children ere they were gone. They had a hazy
glimpse of a patch of color at the end of the hall, and then its sudden,
wild dispersion. For a moment they stood looking about them in blank
astonishment. Suddenly Mr. Kurukawa, who was ebullient with humor and
good-nature, burst into laughter. He laughed so hard, indeed, that his
wife, the children, and the nurse joined him. This unusual mirth in the
house brought the children cautiously back, too curious and inquisitive
to withstand the novelty of the situation.
Through the paper walls little fingers were cautiously thrust; little
black eyes peered at the new-comers from behind these frail
retrenchments.
When his mirth had subsided, Mr. Kurukawa favored his wife with a sly
wink, and then quick as a flash he pushed back one of the shojis,
disclosing the little figure behind it. He lifted it up by the bow of
its obi. Something strange stuck closely to it and invited the gaze of
Mrs. Kurukawa. It was the corset!
At the same time the father perceived it, and, pulling it off, held it
aloft.
“Ah, ha!” he cried, “here is surely a little flag of truce.”
He threw it aside and caught the little, trembling Plum Blossom in his
arms, hugging her tightly. She hid her face in his bosom. After a time
he set her down upon the floor.
“This,” he said, “is Plum Blossom. In America she would be called
Roly-poly—she is so fat, and, like her father, good-natured,” and he
pinched her cheek. “Go now,” he bade her, “and kiss your new mother.”
She went obediently, but with fear in her eyes, towards Mrs. Kurukawa.
The latter knelt and held out both her arms. She was crying a bit, and
possibly it was the tears and the sweet sound of her voice that won Plum
Blossom. She tried to remember the speech she had learned, but the only
words that came to her lips were:
“Come agin,” and this she kept mechanically reiterating. “Come agin—come
agin—come agin.”
Here it is painful to relate that the young son of Mrs. Kurukawa chose
to make himself heard in uncouth American slang. Billy spoke almost
reflectively, as if he had heard that “Come agin” somewhere before.
“Come agin, on agin, gone agin, Finnegan!” said Billy, promptly.
“Oh, Billy, hush!” said his mother, reprovingly, but Plum Blossom’s face
radiated. Here was a kindred spirit, one who had repeated her own words.
“Come agin,” and then possibly finer ones.
Meanwhile, Iris, showing first a curious little topknot, gradually
projected her head, and then her whole body through the dividing doors.
She stood in the opening greedily watching Plum Blossom. Half hidden
behind her scanty little skirt, the small, fat face of Juji peered.
Though no one so far had seen him, Juji, with the usual consciousness of
two and a half years, was alternately showing and then hiding his face,
being divided between a desire to stand joyfully on his head, or indulge
in one of his famous roars. Iris, edging farther into the room, drew him
after her. Mrs. Kurukawa perceived them. On the instant Juji sank to the
floor, impeding the further progress of his sister by clinging to her
legs.
“Oh, the darling little boy!” cried the little American girl, and ran to
him to lift him up. Juji’s lip began to protrude ominously. Plum Blossom
sprang into the breach.
“Juji! Juji!” she cried, in motherly Japanese, “don’t cry! Good boy!
Give nice present to—l-lady!”
Whereupon Juji held out a grimy little hand, from which Plum Blossom
extracted a crumpled paper package. She presented it to Mrs. Kurukawa
with a smiling bow.
“Peanut!” said she, in English; “nize. For you!” She had remembered the
words now.
“Oh, thank you, thank you, darling,” said Mrs. Kurukawa. Wishing to show
her delight in the gift, she added:
“Come, we will all have some.”
She emptied the contents into her lap, then stared for a moment.
Gradually her astonishment changed to laughter.
The package contained only shells. Juji had eaten the peanuts.
Plum Blossom and Iris felt completely disgraced. Iris, from the shelter
of her father’s arms, whither she had gone, now flew towards the wicked
Juji.
“Oh, the bad boy!” she cried.
Juji’s lip broke. One of his terrific roars ensued. He was borne from
the room by the humiliated little girls.
“And now,” said Mr. Kurukawa, rubbing his hands and speaking in a loud
voice: “Where are my sons? Taro!” he called.
Promptly the boy answered. He came literally tumbling into the hall,
which, with the panels pushed aside, had now become a large room.
Taro’s eyes evaded his father. For some time he had been watching
intently the American boy from his peep-hole in the paper shoji. As he
appeared at the call of his father, his eyes were still riveted upon his
hated rival. Suddenly he made a catlike spring in the boy’s direction
and landed sprawling on Billy’s chest. For the astonished Billy, tripped
unawares, was lying on his back. A great flame of indignation, and yet
almost unwilling admiration, stirred within the heart of the prize
fighter of a certain Chicago school.
Could it be possible that this little mite of a Jap was sitting
victoriously on his chest? He growled and moved a bit, but Taro, wildly
trying to keep in mind the few jiu-jitsu tricks he had lately learned,
touched the boy’s arm in a sensitive place.
Billy rose like a lion shaking off a troublesome cub. As Taro caught him
about the calf of his leg, Billy reached down and took the little
Japanese boy by the waist and coolly tucked him under his arm; then he
marched up and down, singing at the top of his voice:
“Yankee Doodle came to town,
Riding on a pony—
Took a little Jappy Jap
Who was a bit too funny!”
Here it may be well to explain that Billy, besides being the prize
fighter of his school, was also the class poet.
Mrs. Kurukawa rescued the little “Jappy Jap” from her big son’s hands,
and gave the latter a reproving look, saying:
“Oh, Billy, is that the way to treat your little brother?”
“Well, mother,” protested Billy, “he did get funny, now didn’t he,
father?” He appealed to Mr. Kurukawa, who was patting the ruffled head
of the discomfited and conquered jiu-jitsu student.
Taro’s expression had undergone a change. In his little black eyes a
gleam of respect for Billy might have been seen. Suddenly he nodded his
head significantly, and made a motion of his hand towards the garden,
signifying in boy language the invitation:
“Come outside. I’ll show you some things.”
Out they wandered together, excellent friends at once.
“Sa-ay,” said Taro, pausing on the brink of his own private
garden brook, “you—you,” he touched Billy with a stiff little
finger—“_you_—Gozo!”
Billy was at a loss to understand what “say—you—Gozo!” could mean, but
he liked the look on Taro’s face, so grinned and said: “Me—Gozo.” Taro
nodded. He had paid Billy the highest compliment in his power, likening
him to the hero of the Kurukawa family, the great, elder brother Gozo.
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