"The hand of little employment
hath the daintier sense," says Shakespeare, who has left nothing unsaid.
IT was a festival in honor of Dai Butsu or some one of the auxiliary
deities that preside over the destinies of Japland. For three days and
nights the streets of Tokio--where the squat little brown houses look
for all the world as if they were mimicking the favorite sitting posture
of the Japanese--were crowded with smiling holiday makers, and made
gay with devices of tinted tissue paper, dolphins, devils, dragons, and
mythical winged creatures which at night amiably turned themselves into
lanterns. Garlands of these, arranged close together, were stretched
across the streets from ridgepoles to ridgepole, and your jinrikisha
whisked you through interminable arbors of soft illumination. The
spectacle gave one an idea of fairyland, but then all Japan does that.
A land not like ours, that land of strange flowers,
Of daemons and spooks with mysterious powers--
Of gods who breathe ice, who cause peach-blooms and rice
And manage the moonshine and turn on the showers.
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