I say that I’m touched by superstition.
I have read of a villainous fox who masquerades in the shape of an old woman.
My wretched fantasy about Mrs. Heine passed, when I heard that no fox resided in the hill.
She is such a dear grandma.
She has no hostile grimace against age. She welcomes it. Her wrinkles are all her beauty. Natural ripening in age is but another form of girlhood.
She is happy as a sparrow.
(Sparrow never forgets, it is said in Nippon, to dance in its hundredth year.)
She hoes round her garden. Her vanity is to make her table rich with her own potatoes and roses.
She lives alone by herself in a cottage some hundred steps from mine.
Did you ever taste her cooking?