vourite with
both mothers and children, and that is the story of Momotaro. When
seeing a mother talking earnestly to her children, I have always
discovered that it was the same old story, old yet ever fresh. It is a
curiously simple tale about an old woman who goes every day to the river
to wash clothes, and an old man who goes to the mountain to fetch wood.
The old woman is always unhappy because she has no children, and one
day, when she is washing clothes in the river, a large peach comes
floating down towards her. On carrying it home, she hears the cry of a
child, which appears to come from the inside of the peach. She rapidly
cuts it in two, and finds to her amazement a fine baby sitting in the
middle of it, which, since it was born in a peach, she afterwards called
Momotaro. The story then goes on to tell how the baby grows up to be a
fine healthy lad, who, on reaching the age of seventeen, plans an
expedition to subjugate an island of the devil. A minute description is
given of the food he takes with him--of the corn and rice wrapped in a
bamboo leaf--and how on his journey he meets with a wasp, a crab, a
chestnut, and a millstone, who all promise to help him if he will give
them half of his food. The lad complies, and a beautiful description is
given of their journey to the island of the devil, on which journey a
very skilful plan is thought out by which to kill him. On arriving at
the island, they find that the chief of the devils is not in his own
room. They soon take advantage of his absence. The chestnut hops into
the ash; the millstone mounts on to the roof; the crab hides in the
washing-pan; the wasp settles in a corner; and the lad waits outside.
The poor devil comes back, and has a terrible time between them all. He
goes to the fireplace to warm his hands; the chestnut cracks in the fire
and burns them; he rushes to the water-pan to cool himself, and the crab
bites his hand; he flies to a safe place, and is tormented by the wasp;
in an agony of pain he tries to leave the room, but the remorseless
millstone descends with a crash upon his head, and mortally wounds him.
This story is told to the Japanese children over and over again, but is
always received with wide-eyed delight and excitement.

[Illustration: CHUMS]

I have never seen a child in Japan cry; nor have I ever seen one
smacked, for what mother can have the heart to touch so dainty a blossom
as the child flower of this land of flowers? A group