opened, with its light unpainted woodwork and painted paper partitions,
looks something like a great bird-cage. But the rush matting of the
elevated floor is fresh, sweet-smelling, spotless; and as we take off
our footgear to mount upon it I see that all within is neat, curious,
and pretty.

'The woman has gone out,' says Akira, setting the smoking-box (hibachi)
in the middle of the floor, and spreading beside it a little mat for me
to squat upon.

'But what is this, Akira?' I ask, pointing to a thin board suspended by
a ribbon on the wall--a board so cut from the middle of a branch as to
leave the bark along its edges. There are two columns of mysterious
signs exquisitely painted upon it.

'Oh, that is a calendar,' answers Akira. 'On the right side are the
names of the months having thirty-one days; on the left, the names of
those having less. Now here is a household shrine.'

Occupying the alcove, which is an indispensable part of the structure of
Japanese guest-rooms, is a native cabinet painted with figures of flying
birds; and on this cabinet stands the butsuma. It is a small lacquered
and gilded shrine, with little doors modelled after those of a temple
gate--a shrine very quaint, very much dilapidated (one door has lost
its hinges), but still a dainty thing despite its crackled lacquer and
faded gilding. Akira opens it with a sort of compassionate smile; and I
look inside for the image. There is none; only a wooden tablet with a
band of white paper attached to it, bearing Japanese characters--the
name of a dead baby girl--and a vase of expiring flowers, a tiny print
of Kwannon, the Goddess of Mercy, and a cup filled with ashes of