Out over the water a sort of pleasure-booth was built, over which the wistaria vines clambered and bloomed in wild profusion. This was the dolls’ house of the little Japanese girls. In the water were two diminutive sampans and also a raft, the property of Taro, inherited from Gozo.
The pond was a natural one. It might have been termed a small lake, but the family had always referred to it as “the pond,” and even had called it the “bath,” for that was its chief use. The little Kurukawas dipped into it sometimes three times a day in the summer. They had almost literally spent their lives in it. Even three-year-old Juji would throw his fat little hands over his head, and dive into the water, swimming as naturally as a wild duck.
Now as Marion watched the shining brown bodies of her step-brothers and sisters her eyes unconsciously filled with tears. Why could not she throw aside her white starched clothes and join them in their pleasures? It was not that her mother would not permit her; but Marion’s sensitive soul had been deeply wounded by the manner of her step-sisters when first she had put on a kimono, and had gone, with innocent friendliness, to join them. At first the little girls had regarded her with amazement. Summer, who happened to be with them, hid her face behind her fan, where she giggled and tittered in the most provoking way imaginable. Plum Blossom asked, bluntly:
“Wha’s thad? Dress?”
“My kimono,” faltered Marion.
“Where you git?”
“Mother bought it at a Japanese store in Chicago.”
Plum Blossom shook her head disapprovingly, while Iris, in imitation of Summer, began to titter also.
“Thas nod Japanese,” said Plum Blossom, severely.
Marion had moved proudly and silently away.