“HURRY down to Takashima, Taro, and tell him he must send us without
fail two large cases of the best and brightest fire-flies. Now,
remember, they must be delivered by to-morrow morning at latest.”
“Can’t we bring them back, grandma?” queried Taro.
“No, oh no, you might break the netting and the flies escape. Where is
Beely?”
“Here I am, gam,” answered the boy from his place on the back piazza. He
was engaged in pasting carefully in a scrap-book several newspaper
pictures of his step-father.
“Beely,” said Madame Sano, speaking now in English, “you must go down to
the river and get all the white pebbles and shells you can find. Fill up
your sleeves full.”
“Aw right, gam,” said the boy, obediently, though he left his
fascinating book reluctantly.
“What d’ye want with them, gam?”
“For the flower-beds I desire. You would not have them look shabby when
your honorable father comes.”
Billy sauntered off on his errand, whistling, overtook Taro, and they
raced down the street, Taro in the lead.
“Marion!” the grandmother called up the little stairway. In answer to
the call she came running.
“Yes, gramma.”
“Where’s those bamboo palms?”
“I’ll get them. Do you want them now?”
“Ride away.”
“All right.”
Madame Sano took them from her and showed the little girl how to dust
the eaves with them.
“Bamboo means long life,” she explained. “I always clean the house with
them, and the gods will deign long life to give.”
“The gods!” gasped Marion, reproachfully. “Oh, grandmamma!”
Madame Sano’s withered little face turned rosy. She had been from
girlhood a Christian, as she was proud to say.
“I speak, my child,” she explained, “only poetically, not religiously.”
“Oh,” said Marion, dubiously; then after a moment of silent work she
stopped and regarded the old woman earnestly.
“Dear grandma, you _aren’t_ a heathen, are you?”
“Dear grandma” grunted, but went on with her work, her little old face
puckered into a rather disdainful expression.
“_Are_ you, grandma?” pleaded Marion.
“Little girls make foolish question,” she answered finally, crossly.
“Well, _are_ you a Christian, dear grandma?” persisted Marion.
“Certainly I am,” replied the old lady, with dignity.
Marion kissed her impulsively, whereupon she declared that the little
girl was honorably rude, and no help at all.
“Join your sisters for flowers,” she ordered.
“Shall we want so many flowers for the house, grandma?” asked Marion.
“No, no, no. Only one small bunch for house.”
“Then why—?”
“The flowers are for the honorable picnic booth. It must have plenty.”
“O—o-h! Why, grandma, it’s just covered heavy with wistarias now—”
“Such a talk-child! Hush! Go at once.”
The little girl obeyed this time, though she thrust a mischievous face
back between the shoji for a moment.
“Grandma,” she called, “I’m going to take a wagon along and fill it.
Will that be enough?”
“Go, go, naughty one!” and the naughty one fled.
On this day the Kurukawa house seemed alive with busy ones. In every
room some one was moving about. Many of the old servants had been
recalled. From the top to the bottom of the house work was in progress.
The shoji of the entire upper floor had been pushed aside, making a sort
of roofed pavilion of this upper level. The little balconies were heaped
with flowers and green trailing vines were threaded in and out among the
railings. The long, bare expanse of exquisite matted floor needed no
relief of furniture. This cool interior was the most attractive place
imaginable. From all sides the breezes swept in, making it delightfully
cool. Madame Sano bustled about the place throwing mats about.
Here the family would dine this day. The outlook was picturesque, for
one could see the blooming country and the blue fields and hills, and
nestling in its heart the little village.
This was the floor on which the children slept. It was only the work of
a few minutes to slip the sliding-walls back into place again. Japanese
beds need no making. On the second floor Madame Sano had been most busy.
How the chamber of the okusama shone! The long, white, foreign bed
seemed not at all out of place in the room. It was the only furniture
Mrs. Kurukawa had brought with her. She used the little toilet-boxes of
Japan, and there were several bamboo chairs and one small rocker her
husband had bought for her in Yokohama.
The room was sweet with the odor of some faint perfume. Perhaps it was
only the sandal-wood of the toilet-boxes, or the odor of sweet-smelling
incense which had recently been burned to purify the house. There was
not a speck of dust on the floor. Even Madame Sano, from whose sharp
little eyes nothing seemed to escape, seemed satisfied as she drew the
sliding-doors in place and descended to the lower floor.
In the guest-room a maid was polishing something round and dark golden
in color. It was very ancient and beautiful, an old hibachi, highly
prized by the master of the house. A serving-boy stood waiting at the
tokonoma. He handed Madame Sano reverently the things he had brought
from the go-down.
She did not put the kakemona in place, but left it on a stand, for there
was much else to see before she could spare the time for the tokonoma,
always the last and pleasantest task. Besides, she had promised Plum
Blossom the task of flower arrangement in the ancient house, and the
hanging of the scroll.
A visit to the kitchen revealed the fact that the cook and four
assistants were deep in the preparation of a meal which promised to be
perfect in its excellence.
Madame Sano felt and smelled of every bit of fish and meat, of fruit and
vegetable, to see that everything was fresh. She condescended to speak a
word of praise to the cook, an old man long in the service of the
family.
“Choice marketing is an art, excellent Taguchi. Worthily you excel.”
The cook bowed with the grace of an old-time courtier, his face wreathed
in smiles. Did the elderly grandmother believe that the okusama would
deign to be satisfied?
The okusama would be honorably pleased, indeed, Madame Sano assured him.
She left the kitchen helpers in a glow, and outside the door listened,
her old face smiling to their happy chatter within.
One said:
“Hah! the master always liked his fish just so. If I give one more beat
to the fish it will be spoiled. These cakes are ready now for frying.”
“The master,” said another, “has not eaten civilized food for many
moons. These rice-balls will water his palate.”
A woman’s voice broke in shrilly.
“Okusama will ask for the sugar-coated beans first of all. Look at
these, fresh as if growing. Think of the pleasure of her tongue.”
“Talk less, work more,” came the admonishing voice of the old chief
cook. For a moment there was silence, then a woman’s voice broke into
song, and the song she sang was of war, furious, glorious war!
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