“Take this,” she said, “in memory of me.” She gave him a casket of mother-of-pearl; it was rainbow-tinted and its clasps were of coral and of jade.
“Do not open it,” she said; “O fisherman, do not open it.” And with that she sank and was no more seen, the Daughter of the Deep Sea.
As for Urashima, he ran beneath the pine trees to come to his dear home. And as he went he laughed for joy. And he tossed up the casket to catch the sun.
“Ah, me,” he said, “the sweet scent of the pines!” So he went calling to his children with a call that he had taught them, like a sea-bird’s note. Soon he said, “Are they yet asleep? It is strange they do not answer me.”
Now when he came to his house he found four lonely walls, moss-grown. Nightshade flourished on the threshold, death lilies by the hearth, dianthus and lady fern. No living soul was there.
“Now what is this?” cried Urashima. “Have I lost my wits? Have I left my eyes in the deep sea?”
He sat down upon the grassy floor and thought long. “The dear gods help me!” he said. “Where is my wife, and where are my little children?”
He went to the village, where he knew the stones in the way, and every tiled and tilted eave was to him most familiar; and here he found folk walking to and fro, going upon their business. But they were all strange to him.
“Good morrow,” they said, “good morrow, wayfarer. Do you tarry in our town?”
He saw children at their play, and often he put his hand beneath their chins to turn their faces up. Alas! he did it all in vain.