A big Shinto temple occupies the crest of a little hill near by, and flights of stone steps lead up to the entrance.  At the foot of the steps, and repeated at several stages up the slope, are the peculiar torii, or “bird-perches,” that form the distinctive mark of a Shinto temple.  Numerous shrines occupy the court-yard of the temple; the shrines are built of wood mostly, and contain representations of the various gods to whose particular worship they are dedicated.  Before each shrine is a barred receptacle for coins.  The Japanese devotee poses for a minute before the shrine, bowing his head and smiting together the palms of his hands; he then tosses a diminutive coin or two into the barred treasury, and passes on round to the next shrine he wishes to pay his respects to.  In the main building are numerous pictures, bows, arrows, swords, and various articles, evidently votive offerings.  The shrine of the deity that presides over the destiny of fishermen is distinguished by a huge silver-paper fish and numerous three-pronged fish-spears.  Among other queer objects whose meaning defies the penetration of the traveller unversed in Japanese mythology is a monstrous human face, with a nose at least three feet long, and altogether out of proportion.

Strolling about to while away a rainy forenoon I pass big school-houses full of children reciting aloud.  Their wooden clogs and paper umbrellas are stowed away in racks, provided for the purpose, at the door.  The cheerfulness with which they shout out their exercises proves plainly enough that they are only keeping “make-believe” school.  Female vegetable and fruit venders, neat and comely as Normandy dairy-maids, are walking about chatting and smiling and bowing, “playing at selling vegetables.”  While I pause a moment to inspect the stock of a curio-dealer, the proprietor, seated over a brazier of coals, smoking, bows politely and points, with a chuckle of amusement, at the fierce-looking effigy of a daimio in armor.  There is not the slightest hint of a mercenary thought about his actions; plainly enough, he hasn’t the remotest wish to sell me anything—­he merely wants to call my attention to the grotesqueness of this particular figure.  He is only playing curio-dealer; he doesn’t try to sell anything, but would do so out of the abundance of his good-nature if requested to, no doubt.  A pair of little old-fashioned fire-engines repose carelessly against the side of a municipal building.  They have grown tired of playing at extinguishing fires and have thrown aside their toys.  I wander to the water-front and try to locate my hotel from that point of observation.  Watermen are lounging about in wistaria waterproof coats.  They want me to ride to my destination in one of their boats, very evidently, from their manner, only for the fun of the thing.  Everybody is smiling and urbane, nobody looks serious; no careworn faces are seen, no pinched poverty.  Wonderful people! they come nearer solving the problem of living happily than any other nation.  Even the professional mendicants seem to be amused at their own poverty, as if life to them was a mere humorous experiment, scarcely deserving of a serious thought.