The Descent of Fujiyama
ners through the wet ashes, sliding down in minutes stretches that it had taken us as many hours to ascend, and stopping only at one or two rest-houses for cups of hot tea, while we staggered and stumbled on through rain that came ever harder and faster.
At Umagayeshi, where the dripping party waited for more tea, the sun came gayly out and seemed to laugh at our plight. The sudden warmth, the greenhouse steam and softness, were most grateful to us after our hardships in the clouds. At Subashiri we put on the few dry garments we had been fortunate enough to leave behind us. The tea-house windows framed vignettes of Fuji, a clear blue and purple cone in a radiant, cloud-dappled sky. With the prospect of a hot day to follow, it was decided to push on to Miyanoshita, travelling all night, the kagos being as comfortable as the flea-infested tea-house, and the men of our party being obliged to walk on until they reached dry boots and clothes. Though the coolies grumbled, stormed, and appealed, they had enjoyed three days of absolute rest and full pay at Number Eight, and the walk of forty-five miles, from the summit to Miyanoshita, is not an unusual jaunt for them to make.
At Gotemba’s tea-house we found our companions in misfortune—the little midshipmen—whom we joined in
feasting on what the house could offer. The old women in attendance, yellow and wrinkled as the crones of ivory netsukes, were vastly interested in our Fuji experiences and dilapidated costumes, and gave us rice, fish, sponge-cake, tea, and saké. At midnight we roused the coolies from their five-hour rest, and prepared for the fifteen-mile journey over O Tomi Toge pass. The little midshipmen slid the screens and beckoned us up to the liliputian balcony again. “It is the night Fuji" said one of them, softly, pointing to the dark violet cone, striped with its ghostly snow, and illuminated by a shrunken yel-
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