“Look here, Zura,” I ventured, “you’ll miss a joyfully good time if you don’t go.  The country people swarm to these festivals, and babies are as thick as ants.  You’ll see more pictures than you can paint in a life-time.  There are queer things to buy and funny things to eat.  The fire-walking ceremony is wonderful.”

This caught her attention.  “What do they do at this ceremony?”

“It has been a long time since I saw it, but I remember it was thrilling to watch the worshipers walk barefoot over the hot coals.  Come along with me, Zura.  Come on,” I urged, seeking in my mind for a more persuasive word and finding a memory of Mr. Pinkey Chalmers to help me out, “and we’ll make a night of it.”

I saw nothing humorous in what I had said, but it had a curious effect on Zura.  She changed her mind so swiftly, her manner grew so gleeful, I thought maybe I had made a promise I could not keep.

“All right, old sport,” she laughed with reckless gaiety, “I’ll go; you stick to me and I’ll give you the time of your young life.  But make it clear to the devotees in this house that I won’t tie myself up in a kimono; neither will I bend an inch before any of those dropsical-looking images.”

Soon we heard the rustle of the Master’s silken garments.  He entered, closely followed by his mother, wife and daughter, their kimonos and obis in colors soft and mellow as befitted older women, and each covered with an overcoat thin of texture and rich in quality.  This outer garment was the insignia not only of rank, but of the grave importance of the occasion.

Their greetings to me were soon over, and Zura announced that she was going with us.

Without a glimmer of pleasure in her seeming willingness to obey, her grandfather said, “It is well.”

Had he glanced at the girl when he voiced it, he would have chosen other words.  In her very bright eyes there was a look which boded no spirit of good will.

Kishimoto San, with his mother, led the way on our pilgrimage.  We followed behind; and bringing up the rear was an army of servants loaded with blankets, cushions and hampers of food.  It was to be a long session of worship and festivities, and the family would need all the comforts of home before their return.

The festival was called “Tanjo Shaka” (Buddha’s Birthday), and as our little party passed through the great gates the crowds of holiday-makers, which thronged the enclosure, testified to the popularity of the day.  The broad avenue leading to the steps of the old temple was lined on each side by temporary booths, from which one could purchase anything from a hot sweet potato to a much-decorated prayer, from false teeth to a charm to ward off the chicken-pox.

There was a man who made a dainty fan while you waited; the cook who made a cake while you prayed; the handkerchief man and the sock man; and ah me! the funny old codger, bald of head and shriveled of body, but with a bit of heaven in his weary old eyes.  It was the reflection of the baby faces about him.  His was the privilege of fashioning from sticky, sweet dough wonderful flowers of brilliant hue and the children flocked about him like birds of Paradise to a field of grain.