r centuries
and centuries they have brought their dead up here.

But there is neither sadness nor horror in these Japanese sepulchres;
it seems as if, among this frivolous and childish people, death itself
could not be taken seriously. The monuments are either granite Buddhas,
seated on lotus, or upright tombstones with inscriptions in gold. They
are grouped together in little enclosures in the midst of the woods, or
on natural terraces delightfully situated, and are usually reached by
long stairways of stone carpeted with moss. Sometimes these pass under
one of the sacred gateways, of which the shape, always the same, rude
and simple, is a smaller reproduction of those in the temples.

Above us, the tombs of our mountain are of an antiquity so hoary that
they no longer alarm any one, even at night. It is a region of forsaken
cemeteries. The dead hidden away there have long since become one with
the earth around them; and these thousands of little gray stones, these
multitudes of ancient little Buddhas, eaten away by lichens, seem to be
now no more than a proof of a series of existences, long anterior to our
own, and lost forever and altogether in the mysterious depths of ages.

CHAPTER XXII. DAINTY DISHES FOR A DOLL

The meals that Chrysantheme enjoys are something almost indescribable.

She begins in the morning, when she wakes, with two little green wild
plums pickled in vinegar and rolled in powdered sugar. A cup of tea
completes this almost traditional breakfast of Japan, the very same that
Madame Prune is eating downstairs, the same that is served in the inns
to travellers.

At intervals during the day the meals are continued by two little
dinners of the drollest description. They are brought up on a tray
of red lacquer, in microscopic cups with covers, from Madame Prune's
apartment, where they are cooked: a hashed sparrow, a stuffed prawn,
seaweed with a sauce, a salted sweetmeat, a sugared chili! Chrysantheme
tastes a little of all, with dainty pecks and the aid of her little
chopsticks, raising the tips of her fingers with affected grace. At
every dish she makes a face, leaves three parts of it, and dries her
finger-tips after it in apparent disgust.

These menus vary according to the inspiration that may have seized
Madame Prune. But one thing never varies, either in our household or in
any other, neither in the north nor in the south of the Empire, and
that is the dessert and the manner of eating