One does not think of it as a thing of brick and mortar, but as a casket whose jewels are the prayers of waiting, hoping women, Frontispiece.The house on the mountain-top.Watch them dragging the rich mud from the bottoms of the canal for fertilizing.Hear the shrill whistle of the duck man.The path down the mountain-side is empty, except for the men with the great umbrella hats and capes of straw, bringing the vegetables to the monastery below.We rarely go within the city gate.He came with candle and incense.The great unwieldy boats for rice.With fierce-eyed fishing cormorants.We put our money in the great burner.At night I send away the gatekeeper and leave my amah at the outer archway, so thy Mother will not know the hour he enters.I watch the rice boats pass along the canal.The singers and the fortune-tellers all have found the path that leads up to our gateway.Perhaps it was a bridge on which she crossed to a land filled with the memories of the past.The garden of my friend was most beautiful.She feared that a spire would intercept the good spirits of the air from bringing directly to her family rooftree the blessings from the temple.He had never been without the city's walls.In our gaily painted tea-house, and watch the growing of the lotus.They are like their beautiful kimonas, that hang so gracefully in silken folds.The pathway up the mountain-side.The people are fleeing from the inland cities.There reigned a heavy silence in her palace with its memories.We could see the river, a gleaming thread of silver, and the hillsides, tree clad, flower wreathed, painted with the colours that the Gods give to the spring.He is thinking far beyond the statue, he is seeing God.The tea-house knows him better than his rooftree.Why didst thou send to me that priest of thine?They are the workers of the world.At the temple near Wu-seh.We anchored at night by a marshy bank girdled with tall yellow reeds.Across the river a temple shines faintly.When all the hills are white with blossoms.
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