bloom, and color, color everywhere. Across the river, the banks are
lined with picturesque houses that look out from a mass of green, and
above them are tea-houses, and temples and shrines so old that even
the moss is gray, and time has worn away the dates engraved upon the
stones.

We spent yesterday at the sacred Island of Miyajima, which is about
one hour's ride from here. The dream of it is still upon me and I wish
I could share it with you. We went over in a sampan, a rude open boat
rowed by two men in undress uniform. For half an hour we literally
danced across the sea; everything was fresh and sparkling, and I was
so glad to be alive and free, that I just sang for joy. Miss Leasing
joined in and the boatmen kept time, smiling and nodding their
approval.

The mountains were sky high, and at their base in a small
crescent-shaped plain was the village with streets so clean and white
you hated to walk on them. We stopped at the "House of the White
Cloud" and three little maids took off our shoes and replaced them
with pretty sandals. The whole house was of cedar and ebony and bamboo
and it had been rubbed with oil until it shone like satin. On the
floor was a stuffed matting with a heavy border of crimson silk, and
in the corner of the room was a jar that came to my shoulder, full of
wonderfully blended chrysanthemums. All the rooms opened upon a porch
which hung directly above a roaring waterfall, and below us a dozen
steps away stretched the sparkling sea, full of hundreds of sailing
vessels and junks.

In the afternoon, we wandered over the island, visiting the old, old
temples, listening to the mysterious wailing of the wind bells,