never tire of showing the beautiful things he loves himself, and recounting the stories connected with them, if he finds a sympathetic audience. And so the following year to these kind, friendly people I went again, with Himself, and we looked, and they talked, and we bought a little, and wasted a lot of their time. One of the things we carried away with us, besides their good wishes, was a faroushiki, and this legend. Now, a faroushiki is a handkerchief-shaped piece of silk, in which a gift is wrapped up for presentation. It, and the lacquer box which actually contains the present, have to be returned. As it is a permanent institution, and may convey many beautiful things, it is correspondingly rich and fine, and there are inexorable laws as to the colours and subjects appropriate to every possible occasion. This one had been purposely made to enwrap what we might call a christening present to a child. It is of the palest moonlight-blue satin, lined with scarlet crêpe (Oh! that scarlet, like velvet Nasturtiums), and on it is embroidered an old man, in a driving snowstorm, bending over a clump of Bamboo shoots with a triumphant expression on his face. And the story, from China, I believe, is that a dutiful son, being asked by his aged mother to get her some Bamboo shoots in the depth of winter, was so full of filial piety as to go out to perform the impossible, and so great was his faith that a miracle
