June jumped up and down, and Seki San giggled, and Tomi barked until the family came out to see what was the matter.
"And what did she say? Tell me!" demanded June.
"All this, and this, and this," said Seki, spreading out the closely written sheets. Then with many pauses and much knitting of brows and pointing of fingers, she read the letter aloud. There was very little about the sad journey, or the dreadful fever, or the life at the hospital. It was mostly about June, whether he was well, whether he was very unhappy, if he coughed at night, if he missed her very much.
"And these at the end I sink I can not read," concluded Seki, pointing to a long row of circles and dots.
June looked over her shoulder. "Why Seki!" he exclaimed, "that's the only part I can read! They are kisses and hugs, I showed her how to make them. That long one is a pink kiss, and this starry one is silver with golden spangles," he laughed with delight; then his eye catching sight of the fish overhead, he said:
"Say Seki, why did they put out the fish? Is it because my father is getting well?"
Seki San smilingly shook her head.
"It's a matsuri, a festival," she explained; "this is the boys' day and wherever a boy live, they put out a big paper fish with round mouth open so——, and when the wind flow in, the fish grow big and fat and make like swim in the air."
