Apcar, Diana Agabeg. Home Stories of the War. by dianaapcar.org archive

Home Stories of the War Dedicated to the Japanese People

Content I. The Only Son II. The Mother of the Kondo III. Commander Masao Sakurai and His Father IV. The Kurumaya V. Blacksmith VI. The Village VII. In the Shrine Apostrophe

I. The Only Son I.

The steamers were flying before Nakajima Itchiro’s house; long steamers of white cloth suspended from bamboo poles topped with a pine branch; his friends had come and each one put up his offering at his door, each steamer bore words of congratulation written under the crossed flags painted on the top; from Nakajima’s son was called to the colors his country had need of him so his parents were preparing to send him off. All day long the stream of friends poured in offering congratulations for the honor of the event, and bringing presents of sweets, fish, sakè,1 postcards, etc., etc. He was an only son, an only child, but when the order came Nakajima bowed his head in silence; the country had need of him that was enough. The mother had hurried away to an inner room at the first news of the summons, the mother’s tears would come, but then the country had need of him, so even a mother’s tears must be dried up quickly, and later she could smile and bow to her friends, as they smiled and bowed to her with expressions of all manner of good will and good wishes. The last day had arrived. The day before Nakajima had sent out thankful acknowledgements of sweet fish sakè etc., etc., and now all his friends waited at his house, and with steamers flying, and flags waving, and shouts of “banzai”2 (the reservist soldier in silk kimono and distinguishing red badge tied across his breast in the front rank) the little crowd that had turned out to do him honor, marched him round the town and to the nearest shrine where he put aside his kimono3 and the red badge and put on his soldier’s uniform, and his friends prayed for his success in battle. The people in the streets cheered him ‘banzai’ and finally he was marched to the railway terminus from whence he was to proceed to his destination. Other reservists were going to join the colors, so other sympathizing friends, fathers and mothers, wives and children, brothers and sisters were al crowded to cheer them off. Every where little red and white flags fluttered, even the babies that were carried pick a back fluttered them in 1

sakè, rice wine.

Banzai, hurray.

Kimono,

robe or dress

their little fists: the railway station was in a state of permanent decoration in honor of the country’s defenders; presents of sweets cigarettes, etc., etc., were pressed upon them; the band played war songs; the children shouted ‘banzai’ the cheer was taken up by the elders; red and white flags waved from the platform, red and white flags waved frantically in response from the car windows ‘Banzai’! and they were gone. Some silent tears which woman’s love could not repress and the decorous crowd walked quietly away: hearts were sad, but the country had need of the heart’s sacrifice, therefore such sacrifice should be without regrets. The train sped on carrying its precious freight; along the line the people stood and waved flags and shouted ‘Banzai’ which always received vociferous response from those for whom it was given: the red and white flags fluttered from the houses along the line; every where red and white flags fluttered, and red and white lanterns illuminated the night. Across the fields the peasants stopped in their labor and lifted up their arms an they shouted ‘banzai’ and along the sea-‐‑line, fishermen and fisher boys stood up in their white sailed skiffs to shout ‘banzai’ ⎯ ‘Banzai! Banzai!’ the cheer echoed along the green hills, and by the shore where the white sea-‐‑foam danced in the restless spray, and until the cliffs of Dai Nippon faded out of sight. Nakajima returned to his house, he sat by the fire meditative; somewhere in his heart something had been wrenched off, but his composed face showed no signs of the struggle within; he was thinking; mechanically his hand sought the pipe in his waist band, filled its little bowl with tobacco and lit it at the hibatchi 4 fire, he puffed out a few whiffs and then beat the ashes out on the hibatchi; his thoughts found expression in words. “It is the highest honor for a man to serve his country in her need” he said turning to his wife: on her face there was an abstracted expression, in her eyes an absent far away look: she was looking back through memory to the past when the patter of childish feet, the circling of childish arms round her neck, and the joyous pipings of a childish voice had gladdened her heart: the son had been a common bond of sympathy between them, but in her heart there were memories that had never found any place in his, in her life there were experiences such as he had never known; however the country had need of him, and a Japanese mother bears sons to serve their country. The days passed on, regularly at meal hours his mother placed his cup and chop 4

hibachi

charcoal brazier.

sticks on the ozone when she laid out her own and her husband’s, and his cushion in his accustomed seat on the tatami,5 as she had done daily before he had gone away. Thoughts of his dangers and privations frequently made her leave her meal untasted, and broke her sleep in the night hours; in feverish dreams she saw the red and white flags fluttering, and heard the people call out ‘banzai.’ One picture was ever before her waking or asleep. Her son in his soldier’s uniform as he stood with his comrades in the railway car waving his country’s flag to her. The fierce fight was raging before Port Arthur, that was where he had gone, one more unit to swell the number of those whose Herculean task it was to break through the impregnable defenses of the most impregnable fortress in the world. They had received one postcard. Just a line to say that he was well; another followed; and then after a longer interval, a postcard from a comrade to tell them that he had died fighting bravely for his country, and his body was one of those that piled up the ramparts under cover of which his comrades fought. “My son has died well” said Nakajima: the wolf of natural anguish was tearing at his vitals, but the cloak of outward composure was tightly drawn over “thou and I” he said addressing his wife “must be thankful that our son has died for his country’ she bent her head low until her face fell over her knees. All the years of love were laid down at the country’s shrine, she had borne him and reared him, and given him up for the country’s cause, the highest sacrifice of which the human heart was capable had been completed, she had no words to utter, they died away on her lips. The stream of sympathizing friends poured in bringing their gifts of condolence, Nakajima bowed and smiled and to all their expressions of sympathy answered ‘my son has died well: it is the highest honor for a man to die for his country.” The friends who had so proudly marched him round the town shouting ‘banzai’ now gathered to pay the last honors in assisting at his funeral rites; it was a custom of the country; and when the last honors were paid, his mother placed his photograph on the tokonoma6 where daily she put flowered and fruit and sweets and a cup of rice. It was the only comfort left to her now. 5

tatami, mat

used as flooring in Japanese homes

tokonoma,.niche

used for floral arrangements or other décor.

The next day after the funeral ceremony Nakajima offered the half of all his fortune to the War Fund.

II. The Mother of the Kondo Her husband had died when she was a comparatively young woman leaving her a widow with two sons. He was descended from a long line of Japan’s grim old warriors, and she herself was the daughter of a samurai, and it was his dying wish that his sons should be reared for the service of his country. He had fought with distinction in the war with China, and come home proud of honors conferred on him for distinguished service in the field, but he had never recovered from a vital wound that he had received, and shortly after his return home his health failed and he died. The forcible wrestling of Port Arthur from his country’s possession, and the loss of their hard won fruits of victory had preyed bitterly on his mind “The time will come” he had said to his wife on his deathbed “ when we will have to fight again, fight a fight for our national existence. And for the honor of Dai Nippon: rear your sons in such manner that when the time comes they will fight like lion’s whelps for their country-‐‑ even the she wolf loves her cub” he had said to her “and the heart of a woman yearneth over the child that has lain in her bosom, but it will be their duty to serve unto death for their country; teach your sons to do their duty.” Hanako Kondo bowed her head and remembered, and so she had taught her sons, and so she had reared them. 1904 had come and the war-‐‑cloud that had so long been hanging over the country had burst at last. Hanako Kondo’s soldier sons were called to their duty, and made haste to depart. First the eldest son had gone to join his regiment, and shortly after the second had followed; both she had bade a tearless farewell and had smiled as the last “banzai” has burst from the assembled crowd. On the day after the second son had left, she had returned to her empty honse; the rooms were full of memories, so she had walked out into the garden in the spring sunshine. How often they had played there as children, and back through the mist of years she could see them sitting on that bridge, with their little legs dangling down, throwing crumbs to the carp swimming below; the carp were still there swimming in the friendly waters of their home-‐‑ but those children-‐‑ their fate lay before them through

the blood and strife and din of battle. It seemed to her as if the spring sunshine had passed out unto darkness, and blossoming Nature had withered into shriveled leaves. It was a moment’s weakness quickly overcome, for the husband (their father) and the long line of samurai whose blood ran in her veins, would have condemned the heart’s weakness in such a case; her faithful servant came out to meet her mistress, her eyes red with weeping, but on Hanako Kondo’s face was an expression of beatified calm, of a battle fought and won. She was not idle after her sons were gone; it was a time when the country needed the active co-‐‑operation of the whole nation, when women at home had their work to do, and so she continued with other ladies of her class in unceasing labors for the comfort of those who were fighting their country’s battles, and for the distressed families left behind. It was in the month of May when the bloom of the wisteria hangs in long rich purple clusters, and the thick knotted vine in the garden drooped low its trails of regal splendor; she remembered how the seat under the vine was a favorite resort of her eldest son; she spoke of him that morning to her servant “ How Todashi would have liked to sit here now” she said; the tears rolled down her servant’s cheeks, and both mistress and servant walked silently away, for the faint sweet fragrance of the purple flowers seemed to press down on their hearts with a weight of pain. The splendor of the vine drooping, and the purple petals lay scattered on the ground when the news came of that fierce battle of Nanshan, and of the last fiercest assault when the heights were carried at the point of the bayonet: shortly after followed the information-‐‑Lient Todashi Kondo was one of those who had bravely fought and bravely died in capturing the eminence. Throughout the night she sat on folded knees on the tatami, her faithful servant a few paces away, once a long anguished cry escaped her and the faithful servant shivered and shook; but the next day she could meet sympathizing friends with a smile, and to their expressions of regret reply that “her son had died for his country, and she was thankful he had died with success.” Her friends and family were very solicitous about her, but she continued in her daily work without any outward signs of grief or any expressions of regret; only the faithful servant knew of that deep heart-‐‑struggle as together they sat in the silent room during the hours of the night.

The months passed on; the fair face of Nature had mellowed from the fresh smile of Spring into the warmer blush of Summer: the rice waved green in the fields slowly ripening into gold-‐‑ the laden trains were carrying their freight of soldiers to the front, the red and white flags were waving, and the red and white lanterns glowing, and the loud ‘banzais’ rending the air; and far off on the desolated plains of Manchuria, the great battle of Liaoyang was being fought. The news came to the country, and the heart of the nation quivered with great pride. For ten days and nights their soldiers had fought unceasingly; they had broken through the defenses of barbed wire and piked trench, and raised their country’s flag in glorious victory. The news came to Hanako Kondo even as the first had come-‐‑ Sub Lieut Takashi Kondo had fought and died; he had died in the trench, one of the many who with a last effort gave up their bodies as a bridge to their comrades to pass over. “ I am thankful” said Hanako Kondo “ My son has died twice for his country.” Deep was the sympathy that gathered round her, all who knew her realized that she had given up much for the country-‐‑ ten years ago her husband had come home after fighting his country’s battle to die of his wounds; and now, both her sons had died on the field. She accepted all the expressions of sympathy and regret with a smile; her answer was the simple one that only the sacrificing heart can make. “ They have died for their country” she said. Oh mother and woman! Soft in voice, gentle in manner, with the grace of a delicate courtesy pervading thy every word and act. What exalted sense of duty so nerves thy soul, and raises thee above the weakness of the human heart, that although the supreme sorrow of our nature hath afflicted thee, thou yet canst smile?

III. Commander Masao Sakurai and His Father He was descended from a long line of valiant ancestors, and it had always been his pride that he had been born a samurai. Brought up on strictly Bushido principles, his whole soul was imbued with its spirit, and it was early told of him that he had its code engraved on his heart; thoughtful beyond his years, from the time he entered the naval college, a lad of fifteen he spoke of his life as belonging to his country; he learnt worked and graduated not with the ambition of raising and benefiting self, but for serving and benefiting his country. It had been his honor to serve his country in early youth when the war broke out between China and Japan, and his pluck and daring had been so conspicuous that his services had been recognized and he had been signaled out for honors and decorations. His father was intensely proud of him, he too had served his country and come home incapacitated, his incapacitation grieved him sorely and it was his wont to speak of himself and his son “Kageaki Sakurai has been able to serve his country with only one arm, but Masao Sakurai will serve with both.” The war cloud was hanging over the country and it was a period of intense anxiety and suspense “would that I had seven lives to lay them down seven times for my country” the son had said, and the father had replied “well spoken my son: would that I had seven sons like you to give them all up for my country!” “You must not regret me if I die” said Masao Sakurai to his mother at his leave taking as he started off to be in readiness at duty’s call ‘you must rather be proud that you had a son to give to your country.” A tremor had passed over her as he spoke but she had made no other outward sign of emotion; the daughter of a samurai, and the wife of a samurai had been disciplined in the school of fortitude, she could rise to the height of the mother of a samurai; it was the uttermost wrench of the heart-‐‑strings but she had been trained to bear it. The war cloud burst at last. Masao Sakurai was in the battle off Chemulpo1 and once more conspicuous for daring and sacrifice; when the news came his father wept for joy, but as time passed, and victory after victory was counted to the country’s arms, 1

Chemulpo,

his own incapacitation stung Kageaki Sakurai beyond endurance; one day in the irritation of his spirit he flung his crutches out of the room “Be gone ye vile hamperers of my soul” he said “but for you Kageaki Sakurai would now be serving his country, instead of passing his time in idleness at home, eating drinking and sleeping. Kageaki Sakurai spent the nights in wakefulness, his whole mind concentrated on the operations of the Army and Navy; he refused his meals at the regular hours, openly snatching sleep food and drink at intervals when overcome by exhausted nature. His youngest unmarried daughter joined the “Tokushi Kango Fu Kai” “Never spare yourself fatigue or watchfulness in the care of your country’s defenders” was his parting injunction to her; his wife was married daughter was unceasing in labours for the comfort of the soldiers and sailors and the care of the families in need “you are not doing enough” he always told them “but I am the most unblest of all; Kageaki Sakurai should now be striving on the field instead of sitting like a pampered poodle, yelping, on his cushions. For a samurai not to be able to serve his country in her need, is punishment worse than death” he would say “if my body had died, then my spirit would have marched with my comrades leading the country’s flag to victory; now my spirit is shut up in my useless body and can do nothing” in his sleep he used sometimes to cry out “free my spirit oh prison of clay, crumble away into the dust that thou art, and let my spirit go!” and other such similar ejaculations. News was now reaching the country of the blocking expeditions at Port Arthur; those expeditions, which for daring heroism and self-‐‑sacrifice stand unparalleled in the history of nations. Commander Masao Sakurai had taken his part in a successful blocking expeditum, the work had been accomplished but like others of his dauntless comrades at the cost of his life; he was one of these matchless heroes who had gone into the ‘jaws of death’ and whose names must ever remain written in glory in the annals of their country. When the news came Kageaki Sakurai uttered a deep prayer of thankfulness; his son had successfully accomplished his duty-‐‑that was enough-‐‑ his set aside all thought of self, and only bear in mind the work they had to accomplish; was conveyed to his family. ‘My son has not left this world’ said his father ‘he has not forsaken his post’; his spirit hovers over the waters where his country’s flect flights his country’s battle, strengthening the arms and nerving the hearts of his comrades-‐‑“No funeral rites for my son” he said “not till his work is finished” and so he continued to talk of him during the long months that followed; in the fitful snatches of sleep that he took they could hear

him mutter of Port Arthur and call on the name of his son: a change was however coming over his physically, it was plainly noticeable that his body was growing weaker and thinner under the chafings of the spirit. At last came the news of the capture of 203 meter hill, and then followed the news of the destruction of the Russian Fleet; the long months of watch and guard at the entrance of the harbor of Port Arthur were over, and the country was preparing for the triumphal return of Admiral Togo. “My son’s work is finished” said Kageaki Sakurai “he has left this world now and passed into the abodes of the blest; I will go to join him.” The next morning he lay long asleep and could not be awakened any more. “Heart failure” said the physician “he has died in his sleep.” His wife who knew him better, bent her face low over the quiet body “your spirit has burst its prison gates” was the electrical sympathy her heart spoke to the dead man, though the words were unuttered on her lips, and in her heart she knew though she told no one, that even from the abodes of the blest they would come back father and son and hover over the country’s battles, until this cruel war was at an end and Peace proclaimed.

IV. The Kurumaya2 He was only a Kuramaya, running along all day between the shafts of his kuruma carrying his fare; he had a wife and two children; one a baby a few months old, and the other barely four years of age, so he was a little dismayed when it was notified to him that he would be called to join the colors; he did not care about himself as he said to his comrades at the choba; what did it matter if his body dies so long as his country was victorious; but he was troubled about those that would be left at home; if his wife had been free of encumbrances she could work for her living, but what could she do with two such young children: his comrades at the choba settled it between themselves, they would each one give up one fare daily to his wife; he was very grateful and the cloud of care was taken off his mind. The junsa who knew him well also volunteered to make his wife’s case known at the Kencho, when he should be called to the colors, and obtain help for her, so that he was not troubled any more about the wants of his family, and he spoke of how he was going to do his best for his country, perhaps he might be made into a cart-‐‑puller; anyhow whatever the work was it would be done with all his might and main. On a plot of waste ground near by his choba3 about a dozen children were playing at soldiers, all of them urchins from about three to five, and amongst them his own son; one of them had a tin trumpet which he blew with a lod gusto at intervals, and all of them marched proudly carrying flags and singing fragments of war songs; at intervals also they stopped, waved the flags, and shouted ‘banzai’ he clapped his hands and shouted ‘banzai’ with them, for it did his heart god to join in their patriotic spirit. At last the time arrived for him to go, the day before leaving, his comrades took him out one by one for farewell rides, a long streamer was flying at the choba which they had put up jointly, and flags fluttered from their kurumas4, took breath for a moment and shouted ‘banzai’ in the sympathy of camaraderie to which he responded even more heartily with uplifted arms. 2

Kuramaya, operator of transport such as car or rickshaw, chauffeur. choba, buckwheat, noodle. 4 Kuruma, car or other transport 3

After he was gone, his comrades true to their word assisted his wife as they had promised, and the junsa5 also by making her case known at the Kencho, managed to obtain some help for her from one of the relief societies, so she was kept above want, and was looking round for some employment, for she felt she could not always live on charity; when the baby was a little older she could do better, but the other kurumayas always bade her be of good cheer, as they would help her as long as she was in need. Time passed on, and each one of his comrades received a post card of grateful thanks form him for their assistance to his family; the junsa also received his postcard conveying thanks, and in his wife’s postcard was mentioned some news about himself, he was quite well and happy, and his mind at ease that she and the children were not in want; another batch of postcards followed, then they never heard from him again. Finally the intimation was conveyed to the choba that he had been wounded and had died of his wounds: he was also one out of there thousands gone never to come back. Poor Kurumaya! Never-‐‑more to run along between the shafts of his kuruma in rain and sunshine, in summer’s heat and winter’s cold: never more to sit round the hibachi fire in the choba, in cheerful chat with his comrades, or to hear the tinkling bells of sobaya6 in winter, and his glass of cool hiyashiame7 in summer: nevermore – to shout ‘banzai’, His bones must moulder on foreign soil, but he has fought his country’s battle, he has done his duty. 5

Junsan, policeman. Sobaya, noodle shop 7 Hiyashiamename of a place or a person. 6

V. Blacksmith

His father had been a blacksmith in the village, and he had worked with his father, assisting in making such rude implements as suited the needs of the village folk, but a year ago his father died and since then he had been doing the work assisted by a younger brother. His mother and sister undertook all manner of odd jobs, plaiting straw-‐‑braids, scalding cocoons and reeling the silk; and sometimes even the sister worked as servant girl in the neighbouring Ochaya during the spring and summer months. The grand mother was not capable of much except boiling the rice for the daily meals, and doing some odd mending: however between them all they managed to eke out a living for a family of seven, and they knew how to be happy and comfortable on a little. But now the preliminary notice had been served, commanding him to be in readiness for the call to join the colors: he was quite elated with pride and joy, and his heart beat high at the thought of being called upon to serve his country: he talked it over with his friends, and his friends talked it over with him, and they all congratulated him on the honor; only anxiety for the means of living of the family at home harassed his mind. The father’s illness and death had been a severe strain on their poor means and that was only a year ago: the sister however spoke very assuringly, the two younger brothers would do all they could, and even the little sister a girl of ten could plait straw braids and earn a few sen8 a day, so they could get along until he came back. Her brave spirit cheered him a little, but later the two other blacksmiths in the village hearing of his call to the colors put his mind at rest by telling him to have no anxiety about the needs of his family, as they would come in by turns at night and do jobs and assist his brother. Nevertheless a subduedness pervaded the little household; the mother was seen surreptitiously wiping her eyes with her apron at odd moments, and the grandmother hobbled along daily to the nearest shrine a mile distant to pray for his safety. His sister procured the strip of white cotton cloth in which she marked out the usual number of thousand black dots, and then armed with a complement of needles and thread walked the village from end to end for two days until she was footsore, to have the thousand stitches of good wish stitched in by a thousand women and girls, 8

Sen, cent.

that huts through the potent influence of a thousand good wishes the strip of white cloth when worn on the person might act as a charm for his preservation in battle. As she could not complete the required number in the village, she waited at the village railway station for another two days, and every female passenger that hurried in and hurried out smilingly sewed in her stitch until the required number was completed. At last he was summoned to join the colors, and with red and white flags fluttering and “banzais” resounding he was gone. The little household set about their usual duties, only the grandmother made her daily pilgrimage to the shrine and prayed for his safety, and the mother was seen surreptitiously wiping her eyes with her apron in the midst of her work. The sister worked harder than ever; bandage making and other employment were given out in the village to the families of soldiers at the front by the relief societies, and her deft hands were at work till late hours at night; the two blacksmiths also true to their word came in by turns after their own day’s work was over to assist the younger brothers, and so the family managed to support themselves; in fact the sister used to contrive at times to assist a poor neighbour whose husband had been called to the front and who had been left with three young children, by doing some of her bandage making and thus helping her to earn a few sen extra: this poor woman’s case was a truly hard one and all the neighbours assisted her as best they could. They had received two or three post cards from him, and then for a long interval there was no news: it was a period of anxiety, when at last the family were informed that he had been brought home wounded and was in the hospital of the Prefecture. They would have all hastened to see him if they could, but it was beyond their means; however by pawning some clothes they were able to put together the necessary sum to enable the mother to undertake the journey. She went and returned in the course of a week; he was well cared for in the hospital and was progressing slowly towards recovery, and she had not the means to remain longer; but the grief of seeing his condition had fairly broken her down; he had lost one leg, and was maimed for life. He had laughingly told his mother that his leg had been lost in the service of his country and was not to be regretted, and she had felt that it was her duty to acquiesce in it; so she said to the others when she returned home, in which all concurred; only her mother’s heart was full of a pain that could not be quieted or soothed; though she never complained, and smilingly answered all the sympathetic enquires of her friends, and

smilingly deprecated all regrets, since the misfortune to her son had occurred in the service of his country. At last he was able to return home, no longer the sound-‐‑limbed and sturdy man that went away but with enfeebled frame walking on crutches. The village folk all came with their little gifts of sympathy; all eager to hear his tale, which he was never tried of telling and which they were never tired of hearing: finally they were all agreed that it was a great honor for him to have lost one leg in the service of his country; and be smilingly replied that he had not lost much in such a cause, and he still had his hands left to work at the forge.

VI. The Village

So many had been taken away from the village the young-‐‑the strong-‐‑the able bodied – the call had come to join the colors and they had gone. The village had turned out to see them off with a mighty display of flags and streamers and village music, for the village was proud of being called upon to send out so many in the country’s service. They had gone from their humble joys and peaceful labours, and left behind the plough and the spade, the hoe the rake and the sickle, perhaps never again to hold them in their toil hardened hands; sons who were the sole support of aged parents, and men who had wives and young, children dependent on them. And there were rice fields to plough, farms to till, orchards to cultivate. These should not be neglected so the village decided, for there were mouths at home to fill, and were not those who were gone, toiling in a fiercer labour, toiling with the sweat of blood in strife and wrath and din for the common cause of all; so the circle of help went round, those who were left to do the work at home, could by putting in a few extra hours do the work of those that had gone; and then there was the Oksan of that beautiful house of fragrant cedar that shone inside like smoothest satin, with tatamis of finest matting and shojis9 of aesthetic brocade in polished lacquer frames, and the peaceful garden where the red and gold carp swam in the miniature (miniature) lake round the edge of which irises bloomed. She came twice a week from the big city to investigate and relieve cases of distress in the village, and found employment and wages for the families whose bread winners had been called away; there was bandage making, and kimonos for the wounded soldiers which she gave out to be sewn in the village, and she inaugurated industries for the making of flags, lanterns, and fans: her servants told the village folk how in the big city she was untiring in labours for the distressed families, and for the soldiers and sailors: her own son too was now at the front, fighting the grim fight at Port Arthur; and many a mother and many a wife in the village who bent her head low in the temple to pray for the safe return of husband or son, never forgot to put up a prayer also for the son of the Oksan who had linked herself now to every heart young and old in the village. They hardly saw the dhana10 of the cedar house this year, in other years he used to come often with his friends to spend days of pleasure, especially when the plum blossoms had burst into slepndour in the temple garden, when the willows were 9

Shoji, screen or sliding door. Dhana, master of the house

budding into tender garden, and the pink and white loveliness of the cherry bloomed like an entrancing dream of beauty along the long road; this year he had been there only once or twice, his servants said he had given so much to the war fund that he had no money left for merry making. The war news was always eagerly read and discussed in the village, and the gongai,11 boy as he went flying along with bell ringing, scattering the gongai was universally welcomed: on the days that be brought news of a victory he came flying along at a faster pace, the bell hanging from his waist band ringing louder than usual, and two crossed flags fluttering in his hat, the children even had come to know these signs and saluted him with a chorus of “banzai.” The poorest house then hung out a flag and lighted a lantern at night. The year was drawing to its close, the village folk had laboured and toiled and paid the taxes which was their contribution to the war fund; they had also paid in other kind for many that had gone would now come back no more. The deadly fight was still going on at Port Arthur and the mind of the whole nation was concentrated there. The winter’s sun shone clear and bright in the village that day as a the gongai boy came flying down the road, his bell ringing loudly, and the flags fluttering in his hat; he had brought to the village the news of the capture of 203 meter hill; he was brimful of superior knowledge, for be informed the simple villagers in breathless tones as he went flying along, that it was a very fortunate victory for they had now captured an eminence from which they could fire their big guns into the city. The village put out flags, and mustered out in a torch light and lantern procession that night, the village music played and the children sang out of Nippon’s victory. But another news came to the village some little time after; the servants in that beautiful house built of cedar told it; the son of their dear Oksan had died fighting at 203 meter hill. A silence reigned in the village and each house put out its flag in black half masted.

Gongai,

VII. In the Shrine

An old man and a little boy walked together hand in hand; the old man walked with slow measured paces, the little boy as he throttled along skipped and frisked; he hooped sometimes on one leg, sometimes on another; the little plump soft hand, and the time hardened, time shriveled one clasped each other; the fresh clear face with its rounded cheeks and bright eyes looked up into the lined and furrowed countenance, and the dimmed eyes of age; the joyous voice with its rippling treble notes spoke, it spoke incessantly, the old man answered occasionally in subdued tones; the thoughts of age were far away out of this present into the far farther unknown, the little boy’s mind conjured up thoughts from all around him. The old man had lived many years in the world, and the world had laid its mark on him: the little one had newly come from the Eternal Dawn―Therein lay the difference. A large crowd had assembled in the big city, they had gathered from far and near, for the people were honoring their dead who had died in the country’s cause. A whole year had passed since the commencement of the war; seasons had rolled in succession – Spring—Summer—Autumn—Winter—and now Spring had come again: great battles had been fought and won, only long roll of glorious victories and deeds and deathless fame at which all the world wondered; and now the people had gathered to bow their heads in reverence to their heroes, to pay their tribute of love to those for whom their hearts had been borne down in sorrow. The little boy heard the people talking; they said curious things of how those who had gone to the war were now put in there in the big shrine to be honored forever: he knew his father had gone to the war, and he was always waiting for his father to come back, so he wondered why if all those who had gone to the war had now come back and gone into that house; why had his own father not come back? “Grandfather” he asked “where is my father?” the old man shook his head “but grandfather” continued the little boy “I wish to see my father; cannot I see him? Where is my father?” the old man pointed to the shrine “In there!”

“Is my father there?” Asked the little boy eagerly, “grandfather cannot I go in there and see my father? I wish to go in and see my father!” “Your father is now in such a big house that we cannot find him any more.” The people round them were silent in sympathy, for the old man had burst into tears. The old man and the little boy—the missing link between them had left the old man childless, and the little boy fatherless—he was honored in the shrine.

Apostrophe

Thou smiling land where thy people live in an atmosphere of kindness one to another! Charming Japan! They imagery softly limns itself as the delicately tinted bloom of thy cherry blossoms in spring, and fresh as the foam of they own sea surf; grandly bursting into the vivid force of thy fiery patriotism as the Rising Sun’s crimson flame. Keep thy delicate bloom and thy fresh foam in all the graces of thy light hearted youth: in the happy children, thy soft voiced gentle-‐‑mannered women, and all thy kind courageous well bred well behaved people: keep thy true civilization as thy most precious possession; and ever more keep the crimson flame of thy fiery patriotism that binds together a whole nation as one heart, loyal into death.