A Japanese Boy
to our prophecy, my father began to show his just appreciation of him.
Gem would sit beside him on his hind legs at meal times and watch
intently the movements of the chopsticks, with his head inclined on one
side one moment and on the other the next, letting out an occasional
faint guttural cooing by way of imploring a morsel. Should there haply
fall from the table an unexpected gift, say a sardine's head, Gem with
the utmost alacrity would pick it up and occupy himself for a few
minutes, then, licking his chops and wagging his tail, he would turn up
to my father a gaze at once thankful for what was given and hopeful for
more. Little Gem took a fancy to grandpa, and when the children were
away at school, he would pay him a visit and pitpat into his room
unceremoniously, like one of the grandchildren, when the old gentleman
was dozing over the past at the kotatsu (fire-place). This Gem of ours
had an idea that it was rude to surprise one in his meditation, and
thought it proper to stop short a few yards from grandpa and utter one
of his gutturals, as much as to say, "How do you do, grandpa?" Whereat
our good, old grandpa was obliged to break off to receive his fourfooted
visitor cordially.
A time came when grandpa was no more, and a perfect stillness settled on
our home. Dear little Gem could ill comprehend what all the house meant
and went about as happily and innocently as before: he had now his
playmates all day at home. His conduct caused us to think how glad we
should be to know no grief, and to such a place we felt sure must our
grandpa have gone. Early every morning for the first week or two
somebody from the house repaired to the church-yard to see that things
were right and to put up prayers; once or twice Gem was taken along for
company, and since then he counted it his duty to attend us to the
temple. My father and I would get up some morning on this errand, and no
sooner had we appeared at the gate than Gem uncurled from his
comfortable sleeping posture, rose and shook his hair and looked his "I
am ready." He generally paced before us, but frequently tarried behind
to salute his dog-neighbor with a good morning. Sometimes he would
course sportively away from our sight; we whistled loud without any
response; but knowing he could find his way back, we gave up the search
and hastened to the temple. Upon our arrival, before grandpa's stone
sat a little dog looking out on the alert. Gem received us in the
capacity of host and conducted us to the grave, saying as plainly as
ever dog said, "Don't you see? I know the way."
One morning we rose to find our Gem gone. Inquiries revealed him lying
at a short distance from the gate, with his fur dyed in his own
life-blood. He was dead! Whether a prowling, ferocious animal had fallen
on him in the night, or a cruel human brute had inflicted the wounds
without just cause, we could not ascertain. My young brother took Gem's
cruel death to heart; my father, too, felt deeply the sad fate of the
now-to-him priceless pet. And here naturally ends the story of our dog.
In our temple, as well as in those of all other denominations, the
birthday of the great common teacher Shaka (Gautama) is observed. It
falls on the eighth, I think, of April; the observance is simple and
quiet except for the distribution of ubuyu. In the East, when a child is
born the midwife immediately plunges it in a tub of warm water. This
water is called ubuyu or first bath. On the eighth of April, in every
temple a bronze basin is placed before the altar; in the center of the
basin stands a bronze image of the Infant Shaka; his attitude is much
like that of the Boy Christ pictured in the illustrated Bibles and the
Sunday-school cards as teaching a group of the scribes. The myth relates
a marvelous account of his rising upright in the bath-tub and telling
his astonished parents and old midwife whence he came, pointing to
heaven, and what his mission on earth was. His exact words are recorded
in the Buddhist's scriptures.
The bronze vessel is filled with a decoction of a certain dried herb
whose taste resembles liquorice. The drink is popularly known as the
"sweet tea." The worshiper pours the liquid over the idol with a small
dipper and then sips a little of the same, mumbling some devotional
words.
The excitement of the day consists in the children's running to the
temples, during the early part of the morning, with bottles for the
sweet tea or the ubuyu, as it is called in this instance. In the temple
kitchen the cook has boiled gallons and gallons of it, and from the dawn
that functionary is prepared for the hubbub and the hard task of
dispensing it expeditiously to the throng. As the holiday comes in the
same season of the year as Easter, the floral decoration of the temples
are beautiful; the bronze roof above the basin and image is always
artistically covered over with a quantity of a native flower named
gengé, which the botanist may classify under the genus _Trifolium_, if I
may trust my early observation. The flowers literally color the fields
pink in the spring.
CHAPTER XIV.
In describing a distant view of Imabari I made mention of a sea-god's
shrine jutting out into the sea: the festival of that god as well as of
one situated on the harbor and of another on the bank of a river takes
place in the summer. The people go worshiping in the evening. A myriad
of lights twinkle in the air and are reflected on the water below;
refreshment stands line the approaches to the shrine, and their
vociferous proprietors assert their articles to be the very best; the
crackers go off like pop-corn and scintillating fireworks dart upward
now here, now there and everywhere, ending in resplendent showers of
sparks; drums are beating incessantly; the people jostle each other in
getting on and off the steps of the shrine; along the beach are seated a
multitude cooling in the breeze, the children amusing themselves by
digging pits in the sand and making ducks and drakes upon the water.
These are the salient features of the midsummer nights' festivities. The
last but not the least attraction is the reviving breeze along the
shore; the worshipers generally go through the offering of pennies,
clapping of hands, bowing and murmuring of prescribed, short prayers as
hastily as practicable, that they may have more time on the beach.
On the fifteenth of August a great festival takes place every year in my
native town. It is in honor of a patron deity. Everybody is up with the
dawn, children especially are up ever so early in the morning. Paper
lanterns hoisted high in the air on long bamboo sticks are moving toward
the shrine. It is yet dark, but the people forget sleepiness in the
bracing air of the daybreak and in the expected joy. Every store is
cleared of its merchandise and has a temporary home-shrine erected, the
god being a scroll with the deity's name written on it. Two earthen
bottles of saké are invariably offered.
When the day is fully come, the procession starts from the permanent
abode of the gods. A huge drum comes foremost, then a number of men in
red masks with peaked noses, representing fabulous servants of the gods.
Then come two portable shrines built like a sedan chair, and the rear is
brought up by yagura-daiko. This last is a large frame-work of varnished
wood carried by men. On the top of it a large bass-drum is placed, and
with four boys around it. The boys are dressed in fancy costumes and
beat time for the songs of the men below. The men are all dressed in
white and seem at first to keep the presence of their gods in mind; but
soon they get drunk, being treated with wine in every house, and spatter
their garments with mud.
As the shrines pass, the men get into the houses, seize the earthen
bottles of saké and pour the contents over them. These men also get
tipsy and treat the beautiful shrines rudely, turning them wildly and
throwing them hard on the ground; so that, at the end of the day, there
is nothing left of them but their trunks. This rude usage became an
established custom, and the portable shrines are built very strong.
A few days previous to the festival, boys prepare for it by constructing
jumonji. Two slender elastic timbers are tied together in the form of a
cross; one boy mounts it, and his comrades lift him up by applying their
shoulders to the four ends. They march up and down the streets, singing
festal songs, and challenge boys of other streets to come forth and have
a "rush."
Not far from my native town there stands a high peak called
Stone-hammer. It is customary for older boys to scale the lofty mountain
and pay tribute to the deity on the top of it. They get somebody who has
been there before for their leader. The preparation for the holy
hazardous journey is rigorous. They bathe in cold water for months
previously, live on plain diet, and pass the time in prayers and
penances. Were their hearts and bodies unclean, it is reported that, on
their ascent to the shrine, the gods' messengers--creatures half man,
half eagle--would grasp them by the hair and fly away among the clouds
and often kill them by letting them fall upon the crags and down into
the valleys.
When a set of the hardy youths start out for the venturesome pilgrimage,
they are dressed in white cotton clothes, shod with straw sandals, and
have their long hair thoroughly washed and hanging loose. Each carries a
pole with a tablet nailed on one end, on which is written the name of
the mountain god. They shout a short prayer in unison, blowing a horn at
intervals. My elder brother who went with one of these bands told me
that the journey is very toilsome and dangerous. There are three chains
to help in climbing three perpendicular heights. At times he was above
the clouds, heard the peals of thunder beneath his feet and felt
extremely cold. The leader sometimes holds a wayward youth on the verge
of a precipice by way of discipline and demands whether he will reform
or whether his body shall be cast into the gorge below.
The pilgrims bring home for souvenirs the leaves and branches of sacred
trees and distribute them among their friends and relatives. The friends
and relatives, for their part, wait for them at the outskirts of the
town. At an appointed hour the spreads are awaiting the weary
worshipers. Little brothers and sisters strain their ears to catch the
faintest echoes of the horns and shouts. When the youthful travelers are
back and fully established again in their homes, marvelous are the
stories that they deal out to their friends.
I have been consuming a good deal of time and space in describing
amusements and holidays; it is high time to revert to studies. I had
been going to school all this time. The spirit of rivalry at school was
fostered to such an extent that we felt obliged to go to the teachers in
the evenings for private instruction. The teacher sits with a small, low
table before and an andon beside him. The andon is the native lamp,
cylindrical in shape, perhaps five feet in height and a foot in
diameter; the frame is made of light wood, and rice-paper is pasted
round it. In the inside is suspended a brass saucer, sometimes swinging
from a cross-piece at the top and sometimes resting on a cross-bar in
the middle; the vessel holds the rush-wick and vegetable oil extracted
from the seed of a _Crucifer_. The andon gives but feeble light and is
now entirely displaced by the kerosene lamp. In lighting a lamp, prior
to the importation of matches, we struck sparks with flint and steel on
a material inflammable as gun cotton, called nikusa, and from it secured
light with sulphur-tipped shavings called tsukegi (lighting-chips).
Close to the andon the pupils, one at a time, in the order of their