OCTOBER forced the little family in-doors. It was a bleak month, cold
and chilly this year. There is a general superstition in Japan that this
desolate month, when the gods are all absent, will bring disaster to all
who observe events connected with home joys. The Kurukawas were
Christians, and had no faith in these childish superstitions;
nevertheless, they instinctively felt the contagion of the general
feeling of dreariness everywhere. Nearly every afternoon they were wont
to gather together in the great ozashiki, and there they would talk of
the war, or listen to tales of their ancestors’ valor told by the
grandfather, a garrulous story-teller when once upon a theme that
pleased him. It is true his English was at times almost unintelligible,
and he chose the most gory subjects for his tales, but he held his
listeners spellbound. Indeed, Marion, high-strung and excitable as she
had been, became quite hardened and used to stories of bloodshed.
“I believe, mamma,” she said, “_I_ could see a great fight now without
closing my eyes.”
The gloominess of the month was broken by a great letter from the
father. It had been written September 5th, during the action at
Lyago-yang. He told the family little or nothing of the war itself
beyond simple descriptions of his companions and of Russian prisoners he
had seen. There was no word of the hardships, no word of the battles
fought, and he was now a veteran. He wrote that at night when he closed
his eyes he could see them all so clearly, as they had looked in their
cherry gowns on that day of the flower festival. It seemed now so far
away that he sometimes wondered if he were the same man who, covered
with cherry-blossom petals, told them the foolish story of “The Widow of
Sanyo.” There were messages for each child individually. Finally he
wrote that he had not seen Gozo, but that he knew of his whereabouts.
Soon he hoped to be with him.
The children rushed for their little writing-desks. Soon, heels doubled
under, all of them were busily engaged in writing to father. Mrs.
Kurukawa, too, writing at her desk, described the absorbed group about
her. After a time the various epistles were read aloud by their authors.
With her little lisp Plum Blossom read her letter:
“HONORABLE FADDER,—We got you proud ledder. Oh, how happy we
feel! I kees this ledder ride this one place. Please kees me bag
agin. I lig kees. I am now chamber-maid and Marion she also
chamber-maid and Iris also. House never so clean before. We keep
light all time burn for you and Gozo. Juji burn his liddle
finger with match. When we hear of grade victory we blow plenty
fire worg and Juji burn match. Thas something for him. I am now
soon 13 years ole. Kees agin that spot as I do.
“Your most obedient and filialest
“daughter foraver,
“P. B.”
As soon as Plum Blossom ceased, Iris began reading. Her letter proved to
be, however, an almost exact copy of her sister’s, for, sitting close to
Plum Blossom, she had simply copied her sister’s letter bodily, thus
saving herself the labor of composition. They all laughed when she
re-read Plum Blossom’s letter. Marion read hers shyly.
“DEAR FATHER,—Please come back soon. I pray for you every night.
Have you got my Bible still? I hope you read it. Do you remember
Miss Lamb in Chicago? She used to be my Sunday-school teacher,
and when you became my papa she told me to be sure to urge you
to read the Bible, for that was the way to convert the heathen,
and I told her you were not a heathen, but my own dear father,
and the best man in the world. But I don’t know why I
condescended to write about Miss Lamb at this time. It makes my
letter so long.
Dear father, I do love you. Mamma cries for you at night.”
She was interrupted here by a protest from the family. Father ought not
to be told of tears. So she scratched that sentence out laboriously, and
then continued:
“I know she cries at night, because her eyes show it, and it’s
because she loves you so. So please come back to her at once
and—”
Billy interrupted this time. “How much longer is it?” he asked, gruffly.
Marion continued, her face flushed:
“—and this is all, dear father, and I hope you will win the
fight, only please, please don’t kill anybody or let any one
kill you. Your own little ‘Yankee girl,’
“MARION.”
“P. S.—Give my best love to Gozo, and tell him I pray for him,
too, and, please, also, would you lend him the Bible I gave you
sometimes?”
It was Taro’s turn. He began reading in Japanese, put was forced to
translate:
“AUGUST FATHER,—I would like much to be with you and fight. I
could kill ten Russians now for Samurai Komatzou has taught me
some great tricks. Billy says I would make a giant Russian look
like ‘30 cents.’ Billy also wants to be Japanese soldier. We
hope war lasts till we grow up so your two dutiful sons may
enlist. I sign myself now your unworthy son,
“TARO.”
Billy’s letter was characteristic.
“DEAR FATHER,—Are there any drummer-boys our age? Have _you_
killed any Russians yourself? How did you do it? Did you shoot
him or run your sword through his bowels like that ancestor you
told us about did? Do you use my jack-knife any? I hope it’s
useful. I wish I was grown-up. Say, would you ask Gozo, when you
see him, to send me some Russian buttons. He sent one to Marion.
It was all rusty, and she gave it to me, as Taro told there was
blood on it. Taro and I worked very hard this summer in the
garden, but it’s great sport. We pretended we were digging
trenches, and whenever we found stones we said they were
bullets, and we piled them up together, and after a time had
lots of ammunition. Say, there’s a French boy living out here,
and he told Taro that after a time there’d be no Japs left,
because Japan was so small, and he said we’d all be killed off,
and he said that the regiments would have to have boys in them
soon, because his father said so. Is it true, and if so, can’t
Taro and I come at once? Taro licked the Frenchy till he
squeaked for mercy, and his father came out and jabbered a lot
of gibberish, and he got terribly excited and said, ‘Insoolt to
France!’ and everybody laughed at him. Well, this is all. We
want the French boy to play war with us, but he’s like
Rojestvensky, he bluffs—but we’ll catch him yet. Say, father,
write something about the fight and if you’re wounded anywhere.
Aff., “BILLY.”
“Talk about long letters,” said Marion.
“Oh, well,” said Billy, “_I_ had something to say. Besides, if it’s true
what the Frenchy says, Taro and I will be soldiers soon, too, and father
ought to know.”
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