A River Changes Its Name Several Times In A Course Of
Thirty Or Forty Miles, According To The Districts Through Which It
Passes.
This is my old friend the Kinugawa, up which I have been
travelling for two days.
Want of space is a great aid to the
picturesque. Ikari is crowded together on a hill slope, and its
short, primitive-looking street, with its warm browns and greys, is
quite attractive in "the clear shining after rain." My halting-
place is at the express office at the top of the hill - a place like
a big barn, with horses at one end and a living-room at the other,
and in the centre much produce awaiting transport, and a group of
people stripping mulberry branches. The nearest daimiyo used to
halt here on his way to Tokiyo, so there are two rooms for
travellers, called daimiyos' rooms, fifteen feet high, handsomely
ceiled in dark wood, the shoji of such fine work as to merit the
name of fret-work, the fusuma artistically decorated, the mats
clean and fine, and in the alcove a sword-rack of old gold lacquer.
Mine is the inner room, and Ito and four travellers occupy the
outer one. Though very dark, it is luxury after last night. The
rest of the house is given up to the rearing of silk-worms. The
house-masters here and at Fujihara are not used to passports, and
Ito, who is posing as a town-bred youth, has explained and copied
mine, all the village men assembling to hear it read aloud.
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