A Novel Experiment—Removal—Our New House—Angling—Tomo-chan’s Visit.

We were now to remove to the suburbs. Father got a better position with a firm quite far from our house, and it was thought expedient for us to do so for his convenience.

There was one thing which made me dislike this change. And it was about Tomo-chan. We should be separated, and might not see each other so often; all the more so as we had grown to be quite intimate and congenial by this time and had great fun in indulging in some novel experiment now and then. This last was by no means of a scientific nature. Still we went at it with something of scientific spirit to see whether a certain innovation was applicable or not.

Here is one such experiment we tried. Tomo-chan heard from one of her friends, whose sister recently came home from America, that in that enlightened country when a lady and a gentleman take a walk together, the latter offers his arm to the former, who, of course, never hesitates to take it. Tomo-chan thought it was a fine idea, and asked me if we might try it. Well, I had no objection if it were only dark enough to make the trial. So one evening, under the shade of cherry-trees, we hooked our arms. Our cumbersome sleeves were somewhat in the way, but still we got on famously. After that, whenever we were in the dark, a hint would come from Tomo-chan to walk in that fashion, and I was only glad to accept it. Curiously enough it was the girl who suggested it every time!

Of course we were not uniformly successful. I well remember the evening of that memorable day of the total eclipse. My uncle’s enthusiasm greatly abated as the event of the day passed, and as we alighted from the train and stood before a fruit-vender’s stall, he now appeared to be much interested in a large watermelon. Unable to resist the temptation, he bought one and had me carry it. So I held it under my arm and walked on. The street was not crowded and the night was dark, and I went on behind my uncle with Tomo-chan beside me, when a touch was felt at my unoccupied arm. It was the well-known hint, and in no time Tomo-chan and the watermelon were hanging from my arms. It was not an easy thing to walk in that way, especially behind the back of my uncle, who might turn round to see us at any moment. Then I found that even a watermelon had a bit of jealousy in it, for every minute it would get heavier and more unmanageable as my mind inclined more and more to my fair companion. The point was soon reached when it was no longer endurable for the watermelon, and at my unguarded moment it jumped out of my arm to commit suicide. The bounce at once made my uncle turn and wring his hands for anger at my carelessness. I was equal to the occasion, however. Quickly extricating myself from Tomo-chan, I pounced at the sulky thing before a word was spoken, and saved it from any harm. So we went on as before. Only both my arms were now taken by the watermelon, and poor Tomo-chan dragged on crestfallen.

But such fun we could no longer have now that we were to be separated for a time at least, and we parted with heavy heart.

The removal was a curious affair. On five or six carts, everything in the house from paper screens to a kitchen stove was piled up. There was an old pomegranate-tree in the back yard which we had brought from the country some six or seven years ago. And of course we dug it up carefully and loaded it on the cart. Also we did not forget to pull down long poles for drying purpose and add them to the heap, together with two or three round stones for pressing pickles. The train of the carts pulled by coolies then moved slowly on through the city, and it was after dark before we could unload them at the destination.

The new house was in a charming spot. Just back of us was a low hill thickly wooded with tall oaks and criptomerias; to the left across a brook stretched a tilled field, fringed in the far distance with bamboo bushes and elm groves; to the right and on the hill the eye could command the western horizon where Fujiyama hung low like an azure fan against the golden sky. The birds sang, the flowers bloomed, the fire-worms glowed, and I never felt a change so delightful, coming as I did from a town where boys believed that Indian corn either grew on a tree, or sprang, like bamboo shoots, from the ground without planting.

My school came to be much nearer; the potted trees of my father increased; a baby was added to our family; and, as the sun and the moon moved on peacefully, we were all well contented with our lot.

There was not much to be recorded for our purpose in those days except the angling my father and I had occasionally in a river. His was always a calm turn of mind, and the soothing, restful pastime of fishing suited him immensely. I love to picture him sitting under the sheltering pine-tree by a quiet river bank, and handling the rod and line, while quaint ripples of smiles came and went across his face as the nibbling fish gave his line a tantalizing pull. Once, when it was the season of smelt in the month of May, we went over to a stream about two miles off. The scene around there was lovely. The mass of fresh leaves covered the open field, and along the slope of the bank, with stunted willows here and there, myriads of dandelions like golden stars studded the green. And the breeze was fanning leisurely the warmth of the May sun. The stream was shallow, and was singing and foaming on the pebbly bed.

“Let’s see what we can do about here,” said my father, as he selected a spot where the water was going on in a cataract. And we cast our flies and tried our luck. But, after awhile, having no success, I began to doubt if my father had chosen the right spot, and so I thought that I had better follow up the river and see if they bit. I left my father to his fortune and started on my adventure. I did not know that smelt-fishing was such a dull business, for, wherever I went, there was the foaming pool, the steady flow, and there were practically no bites. Yes, there was one, but I only fished a piece of some rotten wood or dripping moss! I wondered what my father was doing, and, not without a smile over his probable ill-luck, I went back, when I found him still standing in the same spot. I doubted if he was not going to take root there. I at once inquired about his success. “No, nothing remarkable,” he gently replied, dreaming on the sparkling water. I went to his basket dipped in the river, and lifted the lid, when a large prisoner, disturbed by the jar I gave, snapped violently! After all, I thought, he was of a piece with Izaak Walton.

So days passed, and more than a year rolled on since our removal. It was now the latter part of October, when one day we had unexpected visitors. They were my aunt and Tomo-chan. This was not their first visit since we came here, but I had always been out and had had no chance to meet them. Still, they did not come very often, and so my aunt, with many bows, apologized for her negligence to call, while my mother, with equal courtesy, was not behind the guest in heaping up apologies for neglect on her part. Then, as tea and cakes were produced, inquiry after the health and condition of each member of the family issued from both sides, and was answered modestly, followed by amiable comment from the inquirers. Then, with equal lightness of heart, the season was talked over, the recent events, and, indeed, anything of timely interest.

While such a talk was going on my eyes were secretly on Tomo-chan. I was surprised at her change. I left her a mere child only a year and a half ago, but the bud of yesterday was the flower of to-day. With a snowy neck and rosy cheeks, her ebony hair done up stylishly, she sat in striped silk of light azure and dove-gray. She no longer looked at me straight, but, except for furtive glances, her eyes sought her jewelled hands, idly occupied in clasping and unclasping on her knees. A glow of bashfulness was beaming from her as most eyes sought their focus in her.As the talk was about to become more personal, my mother suggested that Tomo-chan might go out with me as a guide to look around the place, which was beautiful at that time. My aunt seconded the motion, and asked me to take the trouble of doing so. So there was no need of hesitation, and in the next moment we were out for a walk on a country road.

At first we were speechless. She appeared to me no longer approachable with the familiarity of “Tomo-chan.” But as the autumnal breeze cooled down her bashfulness, and the beauty of the scenery was absorbing her attention more and more, I ventured to falter:

“Tomo-chan!”

“Yes?”

She looked at me with her eyes beaming with laughter, and there was the same old innocent childhood, but where was the bashfulness?

“Do you find this beautiful?” I asked.

“Yes, certainly.”“It wasn’t so beautiful yesterday.”

“You mean to say that you had a sudden frost last night that tinged the leaves?” she archly asked.

“Why, more sudden than that; it got to be lovelier this very afternoon. We’ve had something better than a frost.”

“How is it possible?” She laughed.

“No stranger than that you are changed so beautifully in a year.”

I said what I should not have said, for she blushed to the roots of her hair, and I repented of my forwardness.

“But come along, Tomo-chan. I’ll show you what you have not seen yet.”

And I took her over the hill and pointed to the faint shadow of the peerless mountain.

“Why, Fujiyama!” she exclaimed. “Oh, how lovely! Could you see that every day from here?”

“Not in rainy weather.... But she wanted to see you to-day, as everybody else did, and waited there from morning.”“I wish you would thank her for that, Sakae-san.”

“You ought first to thank him who told her about your coming.”

“Oh,” she smilingly said, “but don’t tell me his name now, as I want to repay him afterwards—abundantly.”

I touched her dimple as she said so, and then we went to the secluded part of the hill where the crimson branches of maples were projecting from the green background, the red frosted “crows’ melons” festooned high on the criptomerias, and the wild chrysanthemums were blooming lavishly. In such a charming spot Tomo-chan was a child of thirteen, and wanted me to take “crows’ melons”—I wonder if she remembered the watermelon incident?—and to gather chrysanthemums, and laughed and sang to her heart’s content. She was her old very self. As the setting sun was resting on her shoulder, I decked her hair with wild flowers, and whispered in her ear that she would remember evermore the day we spent together. She nodded, and smiled the sweetest of smiles.

THE END.