_
"Whether brought forth upon the mountain or in the field, it matters
nothing: more than a treasure of one thousand ryo, a baby precious is."
And Jizo, the lover of children's ghosts, smiles across the silence.
Souls close to nature's Soul are these; artless and touching their
thought, like the worship of that Kishibojin to whom wives pray. And
after the silence, the sweet thin voices of the women answer:--
_Oomu otoko ni sowa sanu oya wa,
Oyade gozaranu ko no kataki._
"The parents who will not allow their girl to be united with her lover;
they are not the parents, but the enemies of their child."
And song follows song; and the round ever becomes larger; and the hours
pass unfelt, unheard, while the moon wheels slowly down the blue steeps
of the night.
A deep low boom rolls suddenly across the court, the rich tone of some
temple bell telling the twelfth hour. Instantly the witchcraft ends,
like the wonder of some dream broken by a sound; the chanting ceases;
the round dissolves in an outburst of happy laughter, and chatting, and
softly-voweled callings of flower-names which are names of girls, and
farewell cries of "Sayonara!" as dancers and spectators alike betake
themselves homeward, with a great _koro-koro_ of getas.
And I, moving with the throng, in the bewildered manner of one suddenly
roused from sleep, know myself ungrateful. These silvery-laughing folk
who now toddle along beside me upon their noisy little clogs, stepping
very fast to get a peep at my foreign face, these but a moment ago were
visions of archaic grace, illusions of necromancy, delightful phantoms;
and I feel a vague resentment against them for thus materializing into
simple country-girls.
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