of the road long sheds with troughs hollowed like canoes out of the
trunks of trees, containing horse food. Here nobody walks, and the
men ride at a quick run, sitting on the tops of their pack-saddles
with their legs crossed above their horses' necks, and wearing
large hats like coal-scuttle bonnets. The horses are infested with
ticks, hundreds upon one animal sometimes, and occasionally they
become so mad from the irritation that they throw themselves
suddenly on the ground, and roll over load and rider. I saw this
done twice. The ticks often transfer themselves to the riders.

Mori is a large, ramshackle village, near the southern point of
Volcano Bay--a wild, dreary-looking place on a sandy shore, with a
number of joroyas and disreputable characters. Several of the
yadoyas are not respectable, but I rather like this one, and it has
a very fine view of the volcano, which forms one point of the bay.
Mori has no anchorage, though it has an unfinished pier 345 feet
long. The steam ferry across the mouth of the bay is here, and
there is a very difficult bridle-track running for nearly 100 miles
round the bay besides, and a road into the interior. But it is a
forlorn, decayed place. Last night the inn was very noisy, as some
travellers in the next room to mine hired geishas, who played,
sang, and danced till two in the morning, and the whole party
imbibed sake freely. In this comparatively northern latitude the
summer is already waning. The seeds of the blossoms which were in
their glory when I arrived are ripe, and here and there a tinge of
yellow on a hillside, or a scarlet spray of maple, heralds the
glories and the coolness of autumn.

YUBETS. YEZO.