Nominally, He Is A Shintoist, Which Means Nothing. At Nikko I Read To Him The Earlier Chapters Of St. Luke, And When I Came To The Story Of The Prodigal Son I Was Interrupted By A Somewhat Scornful Laugh And The Remark, "Why, All This Is Our Buddha Over Again!"

To-day's journey, though very rough, has been rather pleasant.

The rain moderated at noon, and I left Fujihara on foot, wearing my American "mountain dress" and Wellington boots, - the only costume in which ladies can enjoy pedestrian or pack-horse travelling in this country, - with a light straw mat - the waterproof of the region - hanging over my shoulders, and so we plodded on with two baggage horses through the ankle-deep mud, till the rain cleared off, the mountains looked through the mist, the augmented Kinugawa thundered below, and enjoyment became possible, even in my half-fed condition. Eventually I mounted a pack-saddle, and we crossed a spur of Takadayama at a height of 2100 feet on a well-devised series of zigzags, eight of which in one place could be seen one below another. The forest there is not so dense as usual, and the lower mountain slopes are sprinkled with noble Spanish chestnuts. The descent was steep and slippery, the horse had tender feet, and, after stumbling badly, eventually came down, and I went over his head, to the great distress of the kindly female mago. The straw shoes tied with wisps round the pasterns are a great nuisance.

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