Look at the procession of cows!
I have read much of them, but I admit that it was my first occasion to admire them. I am a trivial Jap, only acquainted with cherry blossoms and lanterns. How I wished to knot the bells round my waist, and whisk down the path by the violets!
“Lover’s lane!”
It should be the title for that path, I thought, if I were Mr. Poet.
I finished my toilet. I leaped out upon the grasses smiling up to the sunlight.
I congratulated myself on my new life.
Then I found my uncle sitting by the camp-fire.
“Ohayo!” I said, filling the seat on another side.
I remember one Japanese essay, “The Poetry of a Tea Kettle.” Indeed! The kettle was a singer. Its melody was far-reaching. It was like a harp of pine leaves fingered by the zephyr.
I faced up, and saw my poet moving down from the lily pond. Two frogs in his hand.