ixth moon, and begins to fall again during the following night. Formerly
an active volcano, Fuji even now emits steam from sundry crevices near
the summit, and will some day probably fill the good people at Yoshiwara
and adjacent villages with a lively sense of its power. Fuji is the
special pride of the Japs, its loveliness appealing strongly to the
national sense of landscape beauty. Of it their poet sings:

"Great Fusiyama, tow'ring to the sky. A treasure art thou, giv'n to
mortal man, A god-protector watching o'er Japan: On thee forever let me
feast mine eye."

Fuji is passed and left behind, and sixteen miles reeled off from
Yoshiwara, when Mishima, my destination for the night, is reached. A
festival in honor of Oyama-tsumi-no-Kami, the god of "mountains in
general," is being held here; for, behold, to-day is November 15th, the
"middle day of the bird," one of the several festivals held in his honor
every year. The big temple grounds are swarming with people, and pedlers,
stalls, jugglers, and all sorts of attractions give the place the
appearance of a country fair.

Leaving the bicycle outside, I wander in and stroll about among the
crowds. Sacred ponds on either side of the footway are swarming with
sacred fish. An ancient dame is doing a roaring trade, in a small way, in
feathery bread-puffs, which the people buy and throw to the fish, for the
fun of seeing them swarm around and eat.

Interested groups are gathered around veritable fac-similes of the Yankee
"street-men," selling to credulous villagers little boxes of powder for
"coating things with silver." Others are selling song-books, attracting
customers by the novel and interesting performances of a quartette of
pretty girls, who sing song after song in succession. Here also are
little travelling peep-shows, containing photographic scenes of famous
temples and places in distant parts of the country.

Among the various shrines in this temple is one dedicated to an ancient
wood-cutter, who used to work and spend his wages on drink for his aged
father, who was now too old to earn money for the purpose himself. At his
father's demise the son was rewarded for his filial devotion by the
discovery of a "cascade of pure sake."

A gayly decorated car and a closed tumbril, that looks very much like an
old ammunition-wagon, have been wheeled out of their enclosures for the
occasion. Strings of little bells are suspended on these; mothers hold
their little ones