d the doctor strictly forbids you to
go on shore. Never mind, we'll soon be at Yokohama, which is far better.

By that time you are quite yourself again, and when the captain calls
us up on deck you are eager to go. He points to a solid triangle of
rock, sticking up out of the sea not very far distant, and as we look at
it a flash of red flame spurts out into the air and something red-hot
rolls swiftly down the scored sides. What does it remind you of? It is
another Stromboli, of course!

"That," says the captain solemnly, "is the safety-valve of Japan. If it
were blocked up there's no knowing what might happen." Then he swings
round and points in another direction. Clear against the soft blue of
the sky we see a sharp-pointed white cloud of a very curious shape, like
an opened fan upside down. It seems quite detached from everything else,
merely a curious snowy fan hanging in mid-air. "Why, it's Fujiyama, of
course."

So it is! The famous Japanese mountain seen in thousands of the
country's drawings and paintings; in fact, it has come to be a sort of
national signboard. Now that we know where to look we see that the white
fan part is merely the snow-cap running in large streaks downward, and
that this rests upon a base as blue as the sky. Henceforward we shall
see Fujiyama at many hours of the day--never a wide-spreading view but
Fujiyama will be there, never a long road but Fujiyama at the end of it,
never a flat plain without it. So odd is the great mountain, and so much
character has it, that we feel inclined to nod good-night or
good-morning to it when it greets us.

Then we enter the magnificent harbour of Yokohama with its hundreds of
sampans, junks, tugs, ships, steamers, and every other craft. The
smaller craft surround us clamorously, and looking down upon them we see
that in almost every case there is a cat on board the junks, many of
them tabby or tortoise-shell.

"'Cat good joss,' as the Chinamen would say," remarks a man standing
near us, "specially three-coloured cats. They wouldn't give a fig for
our lucky black ones without a white hair."

Hundreds of coolies are now clamouring for jobs all round. They are
almost all dressed in blue, and those that wear upper garments have huge
hieroglyphics of gay colours on their backs--these are the signs of
their trades, or trades unions, as we might say, and each man wears his
with pride.

So, with a fleet of attendant boats, gaily-dressed coolies, and
com