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144 two village farmers passed by, walking slowly and watching us curiously.

“What is the world coming to,” said one, “when workable-age young misses waste time wandering about through bushes and wild grass?”

“They are grasshoppers trying to climb the mountain,” the other replied, “but the sun will scorch them with scorn. There can be only pity for the young man who takes one of those for his bride.”

The men were rough and ignorant, but they were men; and though we all laughed, not one of the girls was far enough from the shackles of her mother’s day not to feel a shadow of discomfort as we walked homeward.

The teacher paused as we came to the moss-covered stone wall of an old shrine and pointed to a near-by cherry tree, young and thrifty, growing out of the hollow of another tree whose fallen trunk was so old and twisted that it looked like a rough-scaled dragon. Beside it was one of the wooden standards so often seen in an artistic or noted spot. On the tablet was inscribed the poem:

“This tree is like you girls,” said the teacher, with a smile. “Japan’s beautiful old civilization has given its strength to you young women of to-day. Now it is your duty to grow bravely and give to new Japan, in return, a greater strength and beauty than even the old possessed. Do not forget!”

We walked on homeward. Just as we reached our gate in the hedge wall one of the girls, who had been rather quiet, turned to me.

“Nevertheless,” she said, defiantly, “the grasshoppers are climbing the mountain into the sunlight."