"It is nothing," Okimi answered. "I am just making a worthless gift for thee. Soon it will be the New Year's of Nippon, and it is a custom to bring gifts."
"What gift shall I bring for thee?" Jiji asked.
Okimi made a wrinkle come in her forehead before she could answer that question. "I think," she said at last, "I think I should like a monkey."
"But there are many monkeys already," Jiji objected.
"Chungo pinches me, and Bungsaksan is very dirty," Okimi answered gravely. "I want a monkey all my own. Just a very little monkey, little as that—" She held out her absurd little hand, no bigger than a baby's. "I could talk to him when you are not here."
"Child," Jiji promised laughingly, "you shall have a monkey little enough to go climbing about our pine-tree."
When New Year's came, Okimi was busy as could be. There was the "Christmas-tree" to make, a bare branch hung from the ceiling. It took a long time to tie the fluttering strips of red and gilded paper on all the twigs, and fasten the tiny white storks in their places. Then there were new dough-cakes to be made for Buddh, and his bowl to be filled with special, perfumed oil. And she must hunt for the very sweetest spray of ylang-ylang, and go to buy an orange. He fared very well that day, the good little Buddh who sat cross-legged in the corner and smiled back at Okimi.
When all that was finished, and Misao San had done her hair and she had dressed in her gayest and laid out the new kimono, done at last, for Jiji, it was dusk and she had not long to wait, there in the happy, expectant silence.
"Here is thy monkey," Jiji said. His voice was strained, but Okimi did not notice it. She was busy with the frightened, clinging, furry thing.
"I cannot thank thee," she said. "Here is an insignificant gift I have made for thee. Put it on."