“Of course she is. Look at that Jo-sama[(11)] of Nakoi!”
“Poor O-Jo-sama, my heart aches for her and she is so beautiful. Is she any better these days?”
“No, the same as ever.”
“Too bad,” sighs mine hostess, and “Yes, too bad” assents Gen-san, patting his horse on the head. A gust of wind came just then and shook a cherry tree outside and the rain-drops lodging precariously among its leaves and flowers shed like a fresh shower, making the horse toss his long mane up and down with a start. I had by this time fallen into a train of fancy from which I was awakened by Gen-san’s “Whoa” and the jingling of the horse’s bells, to hear the Obasan say:
“Ah, I still see before me the Jo-sama in her bridal dress with her hair done up in a high ‘Shimada’ style and going horse-back....”
“Yes, yes, she went on horse-back, not by boat. We stopped here, didn’t we, Obasan?”
“Aye, when the Jo-sama’s horse stopped under that cherry tree, a falling petal alighted on her hair, dressed so carefully.”
The old woman’s word-sketch was fascinating, well worthy of a picture; of poetry. A vision of a charming bride came before my mind’s eye, and musing on the scene described, I wrote down in my sketch book:
“Hanano Koro-o Koete