When we turned our steps homeward the snowy-eyebrowed monk—how unearthly he appeared!—begged me not to forget my family’s church while I am in America.
“Christians are barbarians. They eat beef at funerals,” he said.
His voice was like a chant.
The winds brought a gush of melancholy evening prayer from the temple.
The tolling of the monastery bell was tragic.
“Goun! Goun! Goun!”
5th—A “chin koro” barked after me.
The Japanese little doggie doesn’t know better. He has to encounter many a strange thing.
The tap of my shoes was a thrill to him. The rustling of my silk skirt—such a volatile sound—sounded an alarm to him.
I was hurrying along the road home from uncle’s in Meriken dress.