Part 8

“We were talking about our courtship days, my son,” said Mr. Kurukawa.

“Ah,” said Gozo, very seriously, “it makes one happy to think of those times, does it?”

“Very, very happy,” said his step-mother.

Gozo sighed.

“I cannot understand why,” he said, simply.

XXVII

“HURRY down to Takashima, Taro, and tell him he must send us without fail two large cases of the best and brightest fire-flies. Now, remember, they must be delivered by to-morrow morning at latest.”

“Can’t we bring them back, grandma?” queried Taro.

“No, oh no, you might break the netting and the flies escape. Where is Beely?”

“Here I am, gam,” answered the boy from his place on the back piazza. He was engaged in pasting carefully in a scrap-book several newspaper pictures of his step-father.

“Beely,” said Madame Sano, speaking now in English, “you must go down to the river and get all the white pebbles and shells you can find. Fill up your sleeves full.”

“Aw right, gam,” said the boy, obediently, though he left his fascinating book reluctantly.

“What d’ye want with them, gam?”

“For the flower-beds I desire. You would not have them look shabby when your honorable father comes.”

Billy sauntered off on his errand, whistling, overtook Taro, and they raced down the street, Taro in the lead.

“Marion!” the grandmother called up the little stairway. In answer to the call she came running.

“Yes, gramma.”

“Where’s those bamboo palms?”

“I’ll get them. Do you want them now?”

“Ride away.”

“All right.”

Madame Sano took them from her and showed the little girl how to dust the eaves with them.

“Bamboo means long life,” she explained. “I always clean the house with them, and the gods will deign long life to give.”

“The gods!” gasped Marion, reproachfully. “Oh, grandmamma!”

Madame Sano’s withered little face turned rosy. She had been from girlhood a Christian, as she was proud to say.

“I speak, my child,” she explained, “only poetically, not religiously.”

“Oh,” said Marion, dubiously; then after a moment of silent work she stopped and regarded the old woman earnestly.

“Dear grandma, you _aren’t_ a heathen, are you?”

“Dear grandma” grunted, but went on with her work, her little old face puckered into a rather disdainful expression.

“_Are_ you, grandma?” pleaded Marion.

“Little girls make foolish question,” she answered finally, crossly.

“Well, _are_ you a Christian, dear grandma?” persisted Marion.

“Certainly I am,” replied the old lady, with dignity.

Marion kissed her impulsively, whereupon she declared that the little girl was honorably rude, and no help at all.

“Join your sisters for flowers,” she ordered.

“Shall we want so many flowers for the house, grandma?” asked Marion.

“No, no, no. Only one small bunch for house.”

“Then why—?”

“The flowers are for the honorable picnic booth. It must have plenty.”

“O—o-h! Why, grandma, it’s just covered heavy with wistarias now—”

“Such a talk-child! Hush! Go at once.”

The little girl obeyed this time, though she thrust a mischievous face back between the shoji for a moment.

“Grandma,” she called, “I’m going to take a wagon along and fill it. Will that be enough?”

“Go, go, naughty one!” and the naughty one fled.

On this day the Kurukawa house seemed alive with busy ones. In every room some one was moving about. Many of the old servants had been recalled. From the top to the bottom of the house work was in progress. The shoji of the entire upper floor had been pushed aside, making a sort of roofed pavilion of this upper level. The little balconies were heaped with flowers and green trailing vines were threaded in and out among the railings. The long, bare expanse of exquisite matted floor needed no relief of furniture. This cool interior was the most attractive place imaginable. From all sides the breezes swept in, making it delightfully cool. Madame Sano bustled about the place throwing mats about.

Here the family would dine this day. The outlook was picturesque, for one could see the blooming country and the blue fields and hills, and nestling in its heart the little village.

This was the floor on which the children slept. It was only the work of a few minutes to slip the sliding-walls back into place again. Japanese beds need no making. On the second floor Madame Sano had been most busy. How the chamber of the okusama shone! The long, white, foreign bed seemed not at all out of place in the room. It was the only furniture Mrs. Kurukawa had brought with her. She used the little toilet-boxes of Japan, and there were several bamboo chairs and one small rocker her husband had bought for her in Yokohama.

The room was sweet with the odor of some faint perfume. Perhaps it was only the sandal-wood of the toilet-boxes, or the odor of sweet-smelling incense which had recently been burned to purify the house. There was not a speck of dust on the floor. Even Madame Sano, from whose sharp little eyes nothing seemed to escape, seemed satisfied as she drew the sliding-doors in place and descended to the lower floor.

In the guest-room a maid was polishing something round and dark golden in color. It was very ancient and beautiful, an old hibachi, highly prized by the master of the house. A serving-boy stood waiting at the tokonoma. He handed Madame Sano reverently the things he had brought from the go-down.

She did not put the kakemona in place, but left it on a stand, for there was much else to see before she could spare the time for the tokonoma, always the last and pleasantest task. Besides, she had promised Plum Blossom the task of flower arrangement in the ancient house, and the hanging of the scroll.

A visit to the kitchen revealed the fact that the cook and four assistants were deep in the preparation of a meal which promised to be perfect in its excellence.

Madame Sano felt and smelled of every bit of fish and meat, of fruit and vegetable, to see that everything was fresh. She condescended to speak a word of praise to the cook, an old man long in the service of the family.

“Choice marketing is an art, excellent Taguchi. Worthily you excel.”

The cook bowed with the grace of an old-time courtier, his face wreathed in smiles. Did the elderly grandmother believe that the okusama would deign to be satisfied?

The okusama would be honorably pleased, indeed, Madame Sano assured him. She left the kitchen helpers in a glow, and outside the door listened, her old face smiling to their happy chatter within.

One said:

“Hah! the master always liked his fish just so. If I give one more beat to the fish it will be spoiled. These cakes are ready now for frying.”

“The master,” said another, “has not eaten civilized food for many moons. These rice-balls will water his palate.”

A woman’s voice broke in shrilly.

“Okusama will ask for the sugar-coated beans first of all. Look at these, fresh as if growing. Think of the pleasure of her tongue.”

“Talk less, work more,” came the admonishing voice of the old chief cook. For a moment there was silence, then a woman’s voice broke into song, and the song she sang was of war, furious, glorious war!

XXVIII

JUST before the noon hour the train bearing the Kurukawas arrived. They were unprepared for the reception. The towns-people had gathered at the station. When Mr. Kurukawa, pale, but able to walk alone, appeared on the platform, a murmur which rapidly became a cheer arose from the crowd. Old friends and neighbors rushed forward to greet him. He was overwhelmed by the storm of banzais and cheers. The Japanese people do not often give way in this fashion, but in these times they let themselves loose, and they shouted now with all the pent-up enthusiasm of months. Their heroes were sacred objects to them—to look at them even was an honor. How proud the little town had become! Did they not boast as a citizen one of the bravest heroes of the war? The gods had singled them out for the peculiar honor. Grateful and proud indeed they felt. Always a modest man by nature, the homage offered Mr. Kurukawa now almost distressed him. Indeed, his face showed bewilderment and embarrassment. Respectfully the people permitted his son to lead him to the waiting jinrikisha. The crowds impeded the progress of the vehicles, which they followed all the way to the house.

At the house everything was ready for the reception. The children were in their gayest clothes. All were rosy with excitement. About them everything seemed to shine. Madame Sano, old as she was, made quite a picture. Her withered old cheeks were pink with pride.

They were all waiting there in the hall. Hard by, the servants in their best attire waited also.

“It’s after twelve already,” said Billy, consulting for the twentieth time his Christmas watch. “They’re late.”

“I hear sounds,” said Taro, his ears pinched up like a small dog’s.

Taro rushed to the shoji, and before his grandmother could prevent him he had thrust his fist through the beautiful new paper upon it. Billy, however, made a rush for the door, forgetting in one moment all the grandmother’s injunctions concerning the “dignified and most refined” reception due at such a time. Billy’s departure seemed to affect the girls. They looked at one another in hesitation. Then almost with one accord they followed their brother’s lead, dragging little Juji along with them. Down the garden-path they sped, stocking-footed, for they had not stayed to put on clogs. Billy and Taro pushed through the gate ruthlessly. Down the road they dashed. A moment later they were in the midst of the crowd following and cheering their father. They shouted as they ran and waved their arms wildly above their heads. Mr. Kurukawa saw them while still a distance off, and suddenly arose in his seat. Unmindful of the crowd, he gave an answering shout to the boys. How he reached the house he never could remember. His wife told him afterwards that the children seemed to fall upon him at once. They clung about his legs, his hands, and his waist.

Once across the threshold, he gave a great sigh. Then in a voice which went straight to the very heart of old Madame Sano, he said:

“This house seems to be the most beautiful place on earth.”

He permitted an excited, happy maid to take off his sandals and bathe his feet. Then followed by the happy ones, he ascended the stairs to the upper floor, where the meal was served. Never in his life, he declared over and over again, had he been so hungry. He ate everything placed before him. When the children begged to be told this or that about his adventures he would answer: “After dinner. Talk, all of you, if you wish, but let _me_ eat.”

“I thought,” said Billy, “that you were wounded, and that wounded men aren’t allowed to eat so much.”

“So _I_ thought in Saseho, my boy. We ate not much in Manchuria, but we famished in the hospital.”

“Honorable father, why did you not send me that sword?” queried Taro.

“I had none to send, my son. It was lost.”

“And the rifle, too, father?” asked Billy.

“The rifle, too.”

“But what about the uniform?”

“Well, it was, as you thought, torn and worn from service. The Russians gave me a new one.”

“What!” cried Billy, in horror, “a Russian uniform!”

Mr. Kurukawa smiled.

“Hardly that, my boy. You see a sick man on a stretcher usually wears a—er—-nightie—isn’t that what they call it?”

“Oh-h!” said Taro and Billy both together, apparently disappointed.

“If they put a Russian uniform on _me_,” growled Taro, “I would tear it off!”

Billy’s eyes rolled.

“Hm! They’d never get one _on_ me!” said he.

“What did they put on you, Gozo?” asked Taro, turning to his brother.

“Yes,” added Billy. “_You_ weren’t wounded.”

“Neither was my uniform,” smiled Gozo. “They permitted me to retain my honorable garment.”

“Huh! Well, did they torture you?”

“No—oh no.”

“Not even knout you?”

“No. They were augustly kind—sometimes.”

“Sometimes!” repeated Billy, excitedly. “Then some other times they were cruel, huh?”

“Not exactly, but—well, there were many things we thought reasonable to ask for, and they did not agree with us.”

“What things?”

Gozo looked at his father. The latter, still eating, nodded to him to continue.

“Well, sometimes we begged for letters to be sent to our friends.”

“And they wouldn’t—”

“They would take our letters, but they did not send them. Our people permitted Russian prisoners to write to their friends. Not always were the Japanese allowed to do so.”

“But on the whole,” put in Mrs. Kurukawa, gently, “they treated you kindly, did they not?”

Gozo’s face was inscrutable. Then after a slight silence he answered, gravely:

“We were prisoners, madame—mother—not guests.”

“I bet they herded you together like cattle!” cried Billy, indignantly.

Gozo and his father exchanged smiles.

“Hardly,” said Mr. Kurukawa. “There were not enough Japanese prisoners to ‘herd,’ you know.”

XXIX

“TELL us a story of horrible carnage,” said Billy, his freckled face aglow with excitement.

Gozo took the long-stemmed pipe Plum Blossom had filled for him with sisterly solicitude. Three or four puffs only he drew, then permitted Iris in turn the pleasure of refilling it.

“You better wait till father is more better. He kin tell better story,” he said, gravely.

“Oh, _you’re_ a veteran, too,” declared Billy, admiringly.

“And a _hero_!” added Marion, in an awed voice.

Gozo permitted the ghost of a smile to flicker across the tranquillity of his face.

“In liddle while,” said Plum Blossom, smiling happily, “father coming down into garden. He’ll tell story then.”

“He naever tell story ’bout his own self,” said Taro, discontentedly. “He mos’ greatest hero of all. Tha’s right, Gozo?”

Gozo nodded gravely.

“Mos’ of all,” he agreed.

“’Cept _you_,” said Marion, still bent on hero worship.

Gozo smiled in the little girl’s direction. His usually impassive face was strangely winning when he smiled. Marion went closer to him, and, taking her hand, put it fondly against his cheek.

“You see, Gozo,” she said, “I used to think about you as a hero even before father went away.”

“Yes,” said Billy, disgustedly, “she thinks you’re a greater hero than Togo even.”

“But Miss Summer—she say that you better have die,” put in Taro.

“Yes,” said Gozo, sighing, “it was my misfortune not to get killed.”

“Oh, don’t, don’t! Just think how unhappy we would all have been if you had never come home,” said tender-hearted Marion, “and think what you’d have missed—never to have seen us—mother and Billy and the baby and me.”

Gozo admitted that their acquaintance certainly was worth living for.

“Our _acquaintance_!” said Marion, reproachfully; “our _love_ you should say. We love you, Gozo.”

“Then if you love Gozo why you nod waid upon him like unto Iris an’ me?” queried Plum Blossom. “See how we fill up thad pipe mebbe twenty-one times an’ also we bring wiz tea—”

“An’ also I fan him,” added Iris, suiting the action to the words.

For a moment Marion looked very thoughtful.

“I know,” she said, “that you love him, too, but even if I just talk to him, I can love him just the same. Can’t I, Gozo?”

“Yes, but you only love me for mebbe liddle w’ile. Then soon’s my father come you desert me. Tha’s same thing with Plum Blossom and Iris. Me? I am grade hero when I am alone, but when my father come, I am jus’ liddle insignificant speck—nothing!”

“Oh, Gozo!”

“Never mind,” he said, with mock seriousness. “Nex’ week I goin’ sail for America. _Then_, perhaps, you sorry.”

The tears slipped from Marion’s eyes, and she wiped them with the pink sleeve of her kimono.

“Take me with you, dear Gozo!”

“An’ me, also.”

“An’ me, too,” cried the two little girls.

“Girls,” said Billy, with contempt, “aren’t allowed in colleges. You haven’t any sense, Marion!”

“Well, b-but I could keep house for Gozo.”

“A fine house you’d keep,” said her brother, witheringly.

Marion’s pride arose. She ignored Billy entirely.

“Gozo,” she said, “mother let me do all kinds of work when the servants went.”

“Hoom!” grunted Billy, “you used to play at work. Plum Blossom did it all. If you take any _girl_”—he spoke the word with almost Oriental contempt—”take Plum Blossom.”

The latter smiled gratefully in the direction of her step-brother.

“I goin’ wait till you grow up, Beely. _Then_ I keep house for you.”

“You gotter git marry with Takashima Ido,” put in Taro.

“I _nod_ got!” cried the little girl, indignantly.

“You _got_!” persisted Taro. “His fadder already speag for you to our fadder.”

“Tha’s jus’ account our fadder becom’ hero. _He_ wan’ be in our family also. But I nod goin’ marry thad boy all same. He got a small-pox all over his face.”

“Plenty husband got small-pox,” said Taro. “He also got lots money. Mebbe one hundred dollars.”

Plum Blossom pouted.

“I goin’ marry jus’ same my mother. Me? I goin’ _loave_ my husband.”

“What’s all this talk of husbands?” queried a cheerful voice.

Mr. Kurukawa seated himself among the children. Plum Blossom and Iris found a seat, one on each of his knees. Between them Juji nestled against his father’s shoulder. The hand which had rested so contentedly in Gozo’s a moment since had become a bit restless. Marion, the fond, showed an inclination again to desert; but Gozo maliciously held her small hand tightly so that she could not escape.

“I want to say something to father,” she said.

“Say it to me,” said Gozo.

“Yes, but—”

“Hah! Did I not say so? Very well, you love me only sometimes. Tha’s not kind love.”

She was contrite in a moment, essaying to put her hand back in his, but he waved it away bitterly.

“No, no. Tha’s too lade. Never mind. I know one girl never leave me.”

“You mean Summer?”

“Summer-san. What a beautiful name!”

Marion turned her back upon him.

“Listen,” he said into her little pink ear. “I go alone at America, but after four years I come bag, an’ then I goin’ tek to America with me—”

“Summer?”

“No.”

“Me?”

“No—nod exactly.”

“Then _who_, Gozo?”

“All of you.”

“Oh, won’t that be lovely,” she cried. “Father, are we all going to America in four years?”

He nodded, smiling. “After Gozo graduates.”

“An’ naever come bag at Japan?” cried Plum Blossom, in a most tragic voice.

“Oh yes, it will be only a visit, perhaps.”

“I goin’ to die ride away when I cross that west water,” averred the little Japanese girl.

“Why,” grumbled Billy, “you just now promised you’d be my house-keeper.”

“In Japan,” said Plum Blossom.

Taro had finished whittling the bamboo arrow he had been industriously fashioning.

“Pleese, my father, tell now thad story of yourself.”

“Yes?”

“Oh do.”

All of the children chorussed assent.

“Very well. Now it’s a long, long story, and if any of you go to sleep in the telling—”

“Oh, how could we?” breathed Marion.

“Very well, then. Come close, all of you.”

They drew in about him, their small, eager faces entranced at once. He smiled about the circle, touched a little head here and there, and then began his tale:

“Once upon a time—”

THE END

● Transcriber’s Notes: ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected. ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected. ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a predominant form was found in this book. ○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).