a particular
pout, and a scandalised air.

There is a fan kept expressly for the purpose of blowing them out of
doors again.

CHAPTER XVI. SLEEPING JAPAN

Here I must own that my story must appear to the reader to drag a
little.

Lacking exciting intrigues and tragic adventures, I wish I knew how
to infuse into it a little of the sweet perfumes of the gardens which
surround me, something of the gentle warmth of the sunshine, of the
shade of these graceful trees. Love being wanting, I should like it to
breathe of the restful tranquillity of this faraway spot. Then, too, I
should like it to reecho the sound of Chrysantheme's guitar, in which
I begin to find a certain charm, for want of something better, in the
silence of the lovely summer evenings.

All through these moonlit nights of July, the weather has been calm,
luminous, and magnificent. Ah, what glorious clear nights! What
exquisite roseate tints beneath that wonderful moon, what mystery of
blue shadows in the thick tangle of trees! And, from the heights where
stood our veranda, how prettily the town lay sleeping at our feet!

After all, I do not positively detest this little Chrysantheme, and when
there is no repugnance on either side, habit turns into a makeshift of
attachment.

CHAPTER XVII. THE SONG OF THE CICALA

Forever, throughout everything, rises day and night from the whole
country the song of the cicalas, ceaseless, strident, and insistent. It
is everywhere, and never-ending, at no matter what hour of the burning
day, or what hour of the refreshing night. From the harbor, as we
approached our anchorage, we had heard it at the same time from
both shores, from both walls of green mountains. It is wearisome and
haunting; it seems to be the manifestation, the noise expressive of the
kind of life peculiar to this region of the world. It is the voice of
summer in these islands; it is the song of unconscious rejoicing, always
content with itself and always appearing to inflate, to rise, in a
greater and greater exultation at the sheer happiness of living.

It is to me the noise characteristic of this country--this, and the cry
of the falcon, which had in like manner greeted our entry into Japan.
Over the valleys and the deep bay sail these birds, uttering, from time
to time, their three cries, "Ha! ha! ha!" in a key of sadness that seems
the extreme of painful astonishment. And the mountains around reecho
their cry.

CHAPTER XVII