e, then ten, then thousands. Their voices have the
clash and chime of a myriad small triangles.

The wooden outer panels (amado) of countless dwellings are thrust
noisily aside and stacked into a shallow closet. The noise
reverberates from district to district in a sharp musketry of sound.
Maid servants call cheerily across bamboo fences. Shoji next are
opened, disclosing often the dull green mosquito net hung from corner
to corner of the low-ceiled sleeping rooms. Children, in brilliant
night robes, run to the verandas to see the early sun; cocks strut in
pigmy gardens. Now, from along the streets rise the calls of flower
peddlers, of venders of fish, bean-curd, vegetables, and milk. Thus
the day comes to modern Tokyo, which the old folks still call Yeddo.

On such a midsummer dawn, not many years ago, old Kano Indara, sleeping
in his darkened chamber, felt the summons of an approaching joy.
Beauty tugged at his dreams. Smiling, as a child that is led by love,
he rose, drew aside softly the shoji, then the amado of his room, and
then, with face uplifted, stepped down into his garden. The beauty of
the ebbing night caught at his sleeve, but the dawn held him back.

It was the moment just before the great Sun took place upon his throne.
Kano still felt himself lord of the green space round about him. On
their pretty bamboo trellises the potted morning-glory vines held out
flowers as yet unopened. They were fragile, as if of tissue, and were
beaded at the crinkled tips with dew. Kano's eyelids, too, had dew of
tears upon them. He crouched close to the flowers. Something in him,
too, some new ecstacy was to unfurl. His lean body began to tremble.
He seated himself at the edge of the narrow, railless veranda along
which the growing plants were ranged. One trembling bud reached out as
if it wished to touch him.

The old man shook with the beating of his own heart. He was an artist.
Could he endure another revelation of joy? Yes, his soul, renewed ever
as the gods themselves renew their youth, was to be given the inner
vision. Now, to him, this was the first morning. Creation bore down
upon him.

The flower, too, had begun to tremble. Kano turned directly to it.
The filmy, azure angles at the tip were straining to part, held
together by just one drop of light. Even as Kano stared the drop fell
heavily, plashing on his hand. The flower, with a little sob, opened
to him, and questioned him of life, of