"Oh, no, little Granddaughter," Mother said, lifting one of the tiny boxes and shaking gently the curved bits that looked like shavings of pale shell. "These are my nail clippings that have been saved all my life."
"Your finger-nails—and your toe-nails!" cried the child. "Oh, my! How funny!"
"Hush, little Granddaughter. I am afraid you have not been trained to respect the traditions of your ancestors. We have to save our nails and cut-off baby hair so that our bodies may be perfect when we start on the long journey. The time cannot be far away," she said, gazing thoughtfully out into the garden.
Chiyo had been peering curiously into the boxes, but now her face suddenly sobered and she drew a little closer to her grandmother.
"My heart is troubled, Honourable Grandmother," she said. "I thought it would be a long, long time. You said you had always, even when you were a little girl, put perfume in the boxes to keep them nice and all ready for your death."
Mother lovingly stroked the little black head with her wrinkled hand.
"Yes, but it will not be long now. I have finished my life work, and the merciful Buddha is preparing my platform of lotus blossoms, I am very sure."
"Does the merciful Buddha want you to take your old clipped nails with you when you go to the lotus platform?"
"No; he does not care about my body. He cares only for me."
"Then why did you save your nails so carefully?"