But, as the years passed, the peasant found himself more prosperous. He had been able to purchase land and to lay by money. And at last his wife bore him a seventh—a boy.
Then the man said: 'Now we can support a child, and we shall need a son to aid us when we are old. And this boy is beautiful. So we will bring him up.'
And the infant thrived; and each day the hard peasant wondered more at his own heart—for each day he knew that he loved his son more.
One summer's night he walked out into his garden, carrying his child in his arms. The little one was five months old.
And the night was so beautiful, with its great moon, that the peasant cried out—'Aa! kon ya med xurashii e yo da!' [Ah! to-night truly a wondrously beautiful night is!]
Then the infant, looking up into his face and speaking the speech of a man, said—'Why, father! the LAST time you threw me away the night was just like this, and the moon looked just the same, did it not?' [7] And thereafter the child remained as other children of the same age, and spoke no word.
The peasant became a monk.
Sec. 11
After the supper and the bath, feeling too warm to sleep, I wander out alone to visit the village hakaba, a long cemetery upon a sandhill, or rather a prodigious dune, thinly covered at its summit with soil, but revealing through its crumbling flanks the story of its creation by ancient tides, mightier than tides of to-day.
I wade to my knees in sand to reach the cemetery. It is a warm moonlight night, with a great breeze. There are many bon-lanterns (bondoro), but the sea-wind has blown out most of them; only a few here and there still shed a soft white glow—pretty shrine-shaped cases of wood, with apertures of symbolic outline, covered with white paper. Visitors beside myself there are none, for it is late. But much gentle work has been done here to-day, for all the bamboo vases have been furnished with fresh flowers or sprays, and the water basins filled with fresh water, and the monuments cleansed and beautified. And in the farthest nook of the cemetery I find, before one very humble tomb, a pretty zen or lacquered dining tray, covered with dishes and bowls containing a perfect dainty little Japanese repast. There is also a pair of new chopsticks, and a little cup of tea, and some of the dishes are still warm. A loving woman's work; the prints of her little sandals are fresh upon the path.