Fuji is passed and left behind, and sixteen miles reeled off from Yoshiwara, when Mishima, my destination for the night, is reached.  A festival in honor of Oyama-tsumi-no-Kami, the god of “mountains in general,” is being held here; for, behold, to-day is November 15th, the “middle day of the bird,” one of the several festivals held in his honor every year.  The big temple grounds are swarming with people, and pedlers, stalls, jugglers, and all sorts of attractions give the place the appearance of a country fair.

Leaving the bicycle outside, I wander in and stroll about among the crowds.  Sacred ponds on either side of the footway are swarming with sacred fish.  An ancient dame is doing a roaring trade, in a small way, in feathery bread-puffs, which the people buy and throw to the fish, for the fun of seeing them swarm around and eat.

Interested groups are gathered around veritable fac-similes of the Yankee “street-men,” selling to credulous villagers little boxes of powder for “coating things with silver.”  Others are selling song-books, attracting customers by the novel and interesting performances of a quartette of pretty girls, who sing song after song in succession.  Here also are little travelling peep-shows, containing photographic scenes of famous temples and places in distant parts of the country.

Among the various shrines in this temple is one dedicated to an ancient wood-cutter, who used to work and spend his wages on drink for his aged father, who was now too old to earn money for the purpose himself.  At his father’s demise the son was rewarded for his filial devotion by the discovery of a “cascade of pure sake.”

A gayly decorated car and a closed tumbril, that looks very much like an old ammunition-wagon, have been wheeled out of their enclosures for the occasion.  Strings of little bells are suspended on these; mothers hold their little ones up and allow them to strike these bells, toss a coin into the contribution-box, and pass on.  The vehicles probably contain relics of the gods.

A wooden horse, painted red, stands in solemn and lonely state behind the wooden bars of his stall—­but I have almost registered a vow against temples and their belongings, in Japan, so inexplicable are most of the things to be seen.  A person who has delved into the mysteries of Japanese mythology would no doubt derive much satisfaction from a visit to the Oyama-tsumi-uo-Kami temple, but the average reader would weary of it all after seeing others.  What to ordinary mortals signify such hideous mythological monsters as saru-tora-hebi (monkey-tiger-serpent), or the “Twenty-four Paragons of Filial Piety” on the architrave.  Yet, of such as these is the ornamentation of all Japanese temples.  Some few there are that are admirable as works of art, but most of them are hideous daubs and representations more than passing rude.