nesting birds perk up their heads at the sound of her clear, sweet
laugh were the funny little lacquer carts in which the royalty was
supposed to ride, drawn by impossible fat bullocks, so bow-legged that
their curves formed a big round O. Yuki Chan made her red lips into
the same shape, and called her mother to look.

She pretended to feed the dolls with real food and wine, and actually
played with the five court musicians, because they were partly
servants and it did not matter.

Her tongue ran in ceaseless chatter. Her father and mother hovered
around her, repeating the history of all those wonderful people. Yuki
Chan listened very little, so concerned was she with her own comments,
until she happened to see an anxious look creep into her mother's
eyes. It was something every little girl must know, and if Yuki Chan's
honorable ears refused to open, how would she learn? Then Yuki Chan
nestled close, and gave little pats of love and tried to listen. THE
shadows of the bamboo grew long and slim as the sun kissed them good
night. The sails skimmed homeward on a silver sea as the west covered
its rosy pink in a veil of deepest blue. The young birds in the old
plum-tree did not stir at the loving touch of the mother who, with a
soft bill, searched and sought for the lost one. The plum-blossoms
lingered yet for a night as the air had grown chill.

Within the house Yuki Chan, still dressed, lay on the floor, weary
with the wonders of the day. Her mother took from a small inclosure
beneath a shelf many soft comforts with which she arranged the child's
bed. Yuki Chan, talking all the time in a low monotone, tried to
unravel a tangle in her mind of birds and cats and dolls. It was all
getting unmanageable and very hazy, when her mother gathered her into