nstant frequenter
of the house, which during the day sleeps clinging to our ceiling,
flutters at this hour under the very nose of the god, turning and
flitting round the thin quivering flames. And, motionless on the wall,
its feelers spread out starwise, sleeps some great garden spider,
which one must not kill because it is night. "Hou!" says Chrysantheme
indignantly, pointing it out to me with leveled finger. "Quick! where
is the fan kept for the purpose, wherewith to hunt it out of doors?"

Around us reigns a silence which is almost painful after all the
joyous noises of the town, and all the laughter, now hushed, of our
band of mousmes,--a silence of the country, of some sleeping village.

XXVI.

The noise of the innumerable wooden panels which at the fall of night
are pulled and shut in every Japanese house, is one of the
peculiarities of the country which will remain longest imprinted on my
memory. From our neighbors' houses, floating to us over the green
gardens, these noises reach us one after the other, in series, more or
less deadened, more or less distant.

Just below us, those of Madame Prune move very badly, creak and make a
hideous noise in their worn-out grooves.

Ours are somewhat noisy too, for the old house is full of echoes, and
there are at least twenty to run over long slides in order to close in
completely the kind of open hall in which we live. Generally it is
Chrysantheme who undertakes this piece of household work, and a great
deal of trouble it gives her, for she often pinches her fingers in the
singular awkwardness of her too tiny hands, which have never been
accustomed to do any work.

Then comes her toilette for the night. With a certain grace she lets
fall the day-dress, and slips on a more simple one of blue cotton,
which has the same pagoda sleeves, the same shape all but the train,
and which she fastens round her waist by a sash of muslin of the same
color.

The high head-dress remains untouched, it is needless to say; all but
the pins which are taken out and laid beside her in a lacquer box.

Then there is the little silver pipe that must absolutely be smoked
before going to sleep; this is one of the customs which most provokes
me, but has to be borne.

Chrysantheme, like a gypsy, squats before a particular square box,
made of red wood, which contains a little tobacco jar, a little
porcelain stove full of hot embers, and finally a little bamboo pot
serving at the same