THERE was a long silence from the soldier in Manchuria. The Kurukawas,
like many other families in Japan, watched for the mail each day with
greedy feverishness. But the autumn passed away and there was no further
word from Kurukawa. He had told his wife she must expect these long
silences. There were reasons that she must understand for such
interludes. A soldier’s letter cannot be had every day. And so she
waited with the patience worthy of a brave woman. But when December was
ushered in with a little drift of snow, and she knew that winter was
coming, her thoughts wandered unceasingly to that one out there in the
frozen Manchuria, and, brooding over it, her strength gave way. Nights
passed; alone with a terrified imagination further exhausted her.
Suddenly she decided that she must go at once to Tokio and make inquiry
of the Minister of War of the fate of her husband. Leaving Juji and the
baby at home, she took the three little girls and two older boys with
her. She told the children nothing of her fears. They believed the trip
to Tokio was made for the purpose of making purchases for the Christmas
and New-Year’s season.
“When you come back,” had said the smiling old grandmother, “the
honorable house will be quite new and fresh for New-Year’s.”
The children were excited by the prospect of a visit to Tokio. The
Japanese children had never been in the large town. Thus it actually
fell to Billy and Marion to describe Tokio to them, for they had passed
two days in the city.
The little party arrived at the Shinbasi Station, where they took
jinrikishas and rode through the bewildering streets to the Imperial
Hotel. As it was past six o’clock, the children after dinner went
straight to bed, thoroughly tired out. But Mrs. Kurukawa sought to see
some one who could allay her anxiety. There were only two clerks left in
the War Office at this hour. They were excessively polite and even
sympathetic, going over all the lists of the dead and wounded they
possessed. There were two Kurukawas among the wounded, but neither was
her husband. She felt that a great load had been lifted from her, and
with a happier heart she drove back to the hotel. For the first time in
many days she slept in peace.
Early in the morning she was awakened by the children. They were crowded
at the windows, looking out upon the streets and chattering.
“I’m going to buy all my gifts to-day,” announced Marion, “because if we
don’t buy early all the best things will be snapped up,” she added,
wisely.
Taro said, reflectively: “I’m going to wait till second January.”
“Second January!” cried Billy. “Why, that’s after Christmas!”
Taro nodded.
“I nod give Christmas presents. I give only New-Year’s gift.”
“Oh, Taro!” cried Marion. “Why, we’re going to have a Christmas-tree!
Who wants to wait till January second?”
“But thad is day the otakara (treasure-ships) are on streets,” explained
Plum Blossom.
“Yes,” said Iris, “and in Tokio he has beau-tee-ful presents.”
“Mother says we’ll be home for Christmas. So how can you wait till
January second?”
The little Japanese children’s faces fell.
“Tha’s true,” admitted Iris, dejectedly.
“Oh, well,” said Plum Blossom, consolingly, “the toshironschi is open in
December, and I wan’ take home wiz me plenty mochitsuki” (nice pastry).
“Are you dressed, children?” asked Mrs. Kurukawa, coming into the room.
They were in their quaint blue linen Japanese night-dresses, a queer
little group, all barefooted.
They dressed quickly, busily talking and planning as they did so. The
day was to be spent in the stores of Tokio. Never were there more
enticing stores to shop in, the children thought. They got out their
little savings, rolled up in paper handkerchiefs in their sleeves, and
counted them over and over.
Billy had the most money, nearly twenty dollars in all. He had not saved
a penny, but becoming desperate as the Christmas season advanced, he had
sold nearly all his American clothes to various susceptible Japanese
youth of the town. One paid him two dollars for a sailor hat. A young
man of eighteen years now wore the twelve-year-old Billy’s short
trousers under a kimono. Three of his shirts had been purchased by Miss
Summer, which she proudly wore on festival occasions. Even his
suspenders had proved marketable, and also his heavy shoes and rubbers.
When he had asked his mother’s permission to “give” his clothes away she
had laughed and told him that by the time he ceased to wear kimonos
again he would be too large for the American clothes he now possessed,
and so had lightly given her consent. But she was quite distressed when
she learned he had sold them. Billy, however, was equal to the occasion,
and soon persuaded her that he had done right. “It would have been wrong
to make the proud Japanese accept second-hand American clothes as
charity.” So Billy was now rich, and accordingly avaricious. He wished
he had a hundred dollars instead of twenty dollars; then he could buy
cameras and guns and such things which cost plenty of money, but since
there was such a large family, and since the Japanese had to have
presents at New-Year’s as well, he couldn’t afford costly ones. In any
event he wanted them all to know that he was not going to spend more
than half his money, as he was saving the other half for something for
himself—he wouldn’t tell what.
Ten dollars was Taro’s total, but he had in addition an unopened bank
half full of sen (pennies). He had been saving all summer, and would
have had a larger sum, but he had generously contributed two yen to the
support of an old coolie whose sons were at the war and whom his mother
was befriending. Billy, too, had made a like contribution, though he
said nothing about it now. Taro, however, could not forget that two yen.
“If I had thad two yen more I could buy fine present for you, Billy, but
I have only liddler got—I gotter buy for girls first. Mebbe I buy you
something if I have aeny left.”
“Well, you’d just better,” snorted Billy, “and you know what I want.”
Taro grunted discontentedly, but made no rash promises.
“How much have you got?” Billy asked Plum Blossom, who had her money
arranged in a neat row.
“Three yen and—” she began counting the sen again.
“And you, Iris?”
“Jus’ same Plum Blossom,” said Iris, who had not bothered to count.
“Why, no, you silly, you haven’t. I’ll count for you.” Iris possessed
three yen and seventy-five sen, about two dollars and a quarter.
Marion had seven dollars; two dollars she had saved, and five dollars an
aunt had sent her “to buy a pretty kimono with.”
“But I have lots of kimonos,” said Marion, “so I’ll buy Christmas
presents instead, as it’s more blessed to give than to receive,” she
added, piously.
“All right,” grinned Billy. “You must not expect to _receive_ much,
sis.”
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