little, more forcibly struck by the scene than we were on the first
night; we only look on, trying to understand. Suddenly, Yves, turning
round, says:

"Hullo! brother, there is your mousme!"

Actually, there she is, behind him; Chrysantheme, almost on all fours,
hidden between the paws of a great granite beast, half tiger, half dog,
against which our fragile tent is leaning.

"She pulled my trousers with her nails, for all the world like a little
cat," said Yves, still full of surprise, "positively like a cat!"

She remains bent double in the most humble form of salutation; she smiles
timidly, afraid of being ill received, and the head of my little brother-
in-law, Bambou, appears smiling too, just above her own. She has brought
this little mousko--[Mousko is the masculine of mousme, and signifies
little boy. Excessive politeness makes it mousko-san (Mr. little boy).]
--with her, perched astride her back; he looks as absurd as ever, with
his shaven head, his long frock and the great bows of his silken sash.
There they stand gazing at us, anxious to know how their joke will be
taken.

For my part, I have not the least idea of giving them a cold reception;
on the contrary, the meeting amuses me. It even strikes me that it is
rather pretty of Chrysantheme to come around in this way, and to bring
Bambou-San to the festival; though it savors somewhat of her low
breeding, to tell the truth, to carry him on her back, as the poorer
Japanese women carry their little ones.