IN THE SUBURBS
A Novel Experiment--Removal--Our New House--Angling--Tomo-chan’s
Visit.
We were now to remove to the suburbs. Father got a better position with
a firm quite far from our house, and it was thought expedient for us to
do so for his convenience.
There was one thing which made me dislike this change. And it was
about Tomo-chan. We should be separated, and might not see each other
so often; all the more so as we had grown to be quite intimate and
congenial by this time and had great fun in indulging in some novel
experiment now and then. This last was by no means of a scientific
nature. Still we went at it with something of scientific spirit to see
whether a certain innovation was applicable or not.
Here is one such experiment we tried. Tomo-chan heard from one of
her friends, whose sister recently came home from America, that in
that enlightened country when a lady and a gentleman take a walk
together, the latter offers his arm to the former, who, of course,
never hesitates to take it. Tomo-chan thought it was a fine idea, and
asked me if we might try it. Well, I had no objection if it were only
dark enough to make the trial. So one evening, under the shade of
cherry-trees, we hooked our arms. Our cumbersome sleeves were somewhat
in the way, but still we got on famously. After that, whenever we were
in the dark, a hint would come from Tomo-chan to walk in that fashion,
and I was only glad to accept it. Curiously enough it was the girl who
suggested it every time!
Of course we were not uniformly successful. I well remember the evening
of that memorable day of the total eclipse. My uncle’s enthusiasm
greatly abated as the event of the day passed, and as we alighted from
the train and stood before a fruit-vender’s stall, he now appeared
to be much interested in a large watermelon. Unable to resist the
temptation, he bought one and had me carry it. So I held it under my
arm and walked on. The street was not crowded and the night was dark,
and I went on behind my uncle with Tomo-chan beside me, when a touch
was felt at my unoccupied arm. It was the well-known hint, and in no
time Tomo-chan and the watermelon were hanging from my arms. It was
not an easy thing to walk in that way, especially behind the back of
my uncle, who might turn round to see us at any moment. Then I found
that even a watermelon had a bit of jealousy in it, for every minute
it would get heavier and more unmanageable as my mind inclined more
and more to my fair companion. The point was soon reached when it was
no longer endurable for the watermelon, and at my unguarded moment
it jumped out of my arm to commit suicide. The bounce at once made
my uncle turn and wring his hands for anger at my carelessness. I
was equal to the occasion, however. Quickly extricating myself from
Tomo-chan, I pounced at the sulky thing before a word was spoken, and
saved it from any harm. So we went on as before. Only both my arms were
now taken by the watermelon, and poor Tomo-chan dragged on crestfallen.
But such fun we could no longer have now that we were to be separated
for a time at least, and we parted with heavy heart.
The removal was a curious affair. On five or six carts, everything in
the house from paper screens to a kitchen stove was piled up. There
was an old pomegranate-tree in the back yard which we had brought from
the country some six or seven years ago. And of course we dug it up
carefully and loaded it on the cart. Also we did not forget to pull
down long poles for drying purpose and add them to the heap, together
with two or three round stones for pressing pickles. The train of the
carts pulled by coolies then moved slowly on through the city, and it
was after dark before we could unload them at the destination.
The new house was in a charming spot. Just back of us was a low hill
thickly wooded with tall oaks and criptomerias; to the left across
a brook stretched a tilled field, fringed in the far distance with
bamboo bushes and elm groves; to the right and on the hill the eye
could command the western horizon where Fujiyama hung low like an azure
fan against the golden sky. The birds sang, the flowers bloomed, the
fire-worms glowed, and I never felt a change so delightful, coming as I
did from a town where boys believed that Indian corn either grew on a
tree, or sprang, like bamboo shoots, from the ground without planting.
My school came to be much nearer; the potted trees of my father
increased; a baby was added to our family; and, as the sun and the moon
moved on peacefully, we were all well contented with our lot.
There was not much to be recorded for our purpose in those days
except the angling my father and I had occasionally in a river. His
was always a calm turn of mind, and the soothing, restful pastime of
fishing suited him immensely. I love to picture him sitting under the
sheltering pine-tree by a quiet river bank, and handling the rod and
line, while quaint ripples of smiles came and went across his face as
the nibbling fish gave his line a tantalizing pull. Once, when it was
the season of smelt in the month of May, we went over to a stream about
two miles off. The scene around there was lovely. The mass of fresh
leaves covered the open field, and along the slope of the bank, with
stunted willows here and there, myriads of dandelions like golden stars
studded the green. And the breeze was fanning leisurely the warmth of
the May sun. The stream was shallow, and was singing and foaming on the
pebbly bed.
“Let’s see what we can do about here,” said my father, as he selected
a spot where the water was going on in a cataract. And we cast our
flies and tried our luck. But, after awhile, having no success, I began
to doubt if my father had chosen the right spot, and so I thought
that I had better follow up the river and see if they bit. I left my
father to his fortune and started on my adventure. I did not know that
smelt-fishing was such a dull business, for, wherever I went, there was
the foaming pool, the steady flow, and there were practically no bites.
Yes, there was one, but I only fished a piece of some rotten wood or
dripping moss! I wondered what my father was doing, and, not without a
smile over his probable ill-luck, I went back, when I found him still
standing in the same spot. I doubted if he was not going to take root
there. I at once inquired about his success. “No, nothing remarkable,”
he gently replied, dreaming on the sparkling water. I went to his
basket dipped in the river, and lifted the lid, when a large prisoner,
disturbed by the jar I gave, snapped violently! After all, I thought,
he was of a piece with Izaak Walton.
So days passed, and more than a year rolled on since our removal. It
was now the latter part of October, when one day we had unexpected
visitors. They were my aunt and Tomo-chan. This was not their first
visit since we came here, but I had always been out and had had no
chance to meet them. Still, they did not come very often, and so my
aunt, with many bows, apologized for her negligence to call, while
my mother, with equal courtesy, was not behind the guest in heaping
up apologies for neglect on her part. Then, as tea and cakes were
produced, inquiry after the health and condition of each member of the
family issued from both sides, and was answered modestly, followed
by amiable comment from the inquirers. Then, with equal lightness of
heart, the season was talked over, the recent events, and, indeed,
anything of timely interest.
While such a talk was going on my eyes were secretly on Tomo-chan. I
was surprised at her change. I left her a mere child only a year and
a half ago, but the bud of yesterday was the flower of to-day. With a
snowy neck and rosy cheeks, her ebony hair done up stylishly, she sat
in striped silk of light azure and dove-gray. She no longer looked
at me straight, but, except for furtive glances, her eyes sought her
jewelled hands, idly occupied in clasping and unclasping on her knees.
A glow of bashfulness was beaming from her as most eyes sought their
focus in her.
As the talk was about to become more personal, my mother suggested
that Tomo-chan might go out with me as a guide to look around the
place, which was beautiful at that time. My aunt seconded the motion,
and asked me to take the trouble of doing so. So there was no need of
hesitation, and in the next moment we were out for a walk on a country
road.
At first we were speechless. She appeared to me no longer approachable
with the familiarity of “Tomo-chan.” But as the autumnal breeze cooled
down her bashfulness, and the beauty of the scenery was absorbing her
attention more and more, I ventured to falter:
“Tomo-chan!”
“Yes?”
She looked at me with her eyes beaming with laughter, and there was the
same old innocent childhood, but where was the bashfulness?
“Do you find this beautiful?” I asked.
“Yes, certainly.”
“It wasn’t so beautiful yesterday.”
“You mean to say that you had a sudden frost last night that tinged the
leaves?” she archly asked.
“Why, more sudden than that; it got to be lovelier this very afternoon.
We’ve had something better than a frost.”
“How is it possible?” She laughed.
“No stranger than that you are changed so _beautifully_ in a year.”
I said what I should not have said, for she blushed to the roots of her
hair, and I repented of my forwardness.
“But come along, Tomo-chan. I’ll show you what you have not seen yet.”
And I took her over the hill and pointed to the faint shadow of the
peerless mountain.
“Why, Fujiyama!” she exclaimed. “Oh, how lovely! Could you see that
every day from here?”
“Not in rainy weather.... But she wanted to see you to-day, as
everybody else did, and waited there from morning.”
“I wish you would thank her for that, Sakae-san.”
“You ought first to thank him who told her about your coming.”
“Oh,” she smilingly said, “but don’t tell me his name now, as I want to
repay him afterwards--abundantly.”
I touched her dimple as she said so, and then we went to the secluded
part of the hill where the crimson branches of maples were projecting
from the green background, the red frosted “crows’ melons” festooned
high on the criptomerias, and the wild chrysanthemums were blooming
lavishly. In such a charming spot Tomo-chan was a child of thirteen,
and wanted me to take “crows’ melons”--I wonder if she remembered the
watermelon incident?--and to gather chrysanthemums, and laughed and
sang to her heart’s content. She was her old very self. As the setting
sun was resting on her shoulder, I decked her hair with wild flowers,
and whispered in her ear that she would remember evermore the day we
spent together. She nodded, and smiled the sweetest of smiles.
THE END.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Archaic spelling that may have been in use at the time of publication
has been preserved.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
End of Project Gutenberg's When I Was a Boy in Japan, by Sakae Shioya