panied by clapping of hands; or games between the men and the geisha would produce riotous outbursts of laughter—shrieks of laughter. Games only children would play in the West are here enjoyed by the grey-haired. Men half drunk pursuing girls who are not afraid of being caught but are paid for pretending to resist; or some special geisha, fan in hand, kicking her trailing robes about in what is thought to be a dance: studied, exact, monotonous; thus the evening wears on till midnight. The war having produced an abundance of wealth, merry-making became even more riotous than the Japanese themselves could stand, and the police ordered that tea-houses be closed at twelve. Then for an hour more would continue the calling for rickshaws. A serving maiden would clatter down the street toward our house where was the bend in the road, and from there would call out: "Danna San. Danna San. Icho." Or Nicho or Sancho as the case might be. She was calling: "Honorable Mr. Rickshaw-man. One round." Or two or three. That is, a guest wanted one or two or three rickshaws. And then her little clogs clattered back again. Sometimes a man would call, and his bellow wakened the neighborhood. And from the distant rickshaw shed a voice would answer, sleepily: "Hai," and some soft, rubber-soled feet would patter up the slight grade. There were farewells, and the night would go to sleep again.
The half-dozen little waitresses, having passed in and out amongst them serving food and saké for hours on end, must be wet with perspiration. Yet they still have their own beds to spread. To me, above, they seem to move noiselessly. Hardly caged animals; yet, not unlike them. For an hour more they go backward and forward, apparently accomplishing nothing, even as before they seemed endlessly doing nothing. They loll about on the mats with quite becoming ease and grace. A long strip commences to unwind endlessly. It is the obi being put aside for the night—not so gorgeous as that the geisha wear, but just as long and as conventional. A match strikes and the quick puff of smoke from the tiny pipe—and the pinch of tobacco is exhausted. Another is pressed into the little bowl of the pipe, another and another. Again endless movement with nothing done. What long hours wasted against the need of sleep, it seems. But even in such slight tasks life finds satisfaction. The day is long, they seem to say: how shall I pass it through, how fill the time of living? To-morrow? Oh, plenty of
