"Then I will go myself, some time," said Umé, as if the only reason she had never been to the mountain-top was because she had never known the price of sandals.
But before they could say anything more they were in Yokohama, where they were to leave the train and ride in jinrikishas to Kamakura.
After they had left this city, with its busy streets, its harbor dotted with boats and big foreign ships riding at anchor, the road led along a bluff from which there was a beautiful view of the bay.
It was intensely hot and the noonday sun beat fiercely down upon them. Umé held a big paper parasol carefully over her grandmother, and Tara and his father waved their fans slowly back and forth to catch the little breezes from the sea.
In the distance were green fields of rice, little vegetable farms, tiny houses, low blue hills, and beyond all, Fujiyama, rising majestically to the clear blue sky.
Fujiyama, the Sacred Mountain. Page 69.
As they were whirled past a little village they heard a deep booming sound, and caught sight of an immense drum under an open shed, which was being beaten by two men.
"What is that?" asked Tara.