Page:Anthology of Japanese Literature.pdf/379

Rh the pines. Cuckoos frequently flew past, and there were visits from the swallows. Not a peck from a woodpecker disturbed me, and in my joy I called to the wood dove, “Come, bird of solitude, and make me melancholy!” I could not but be happy—the view would not have blushed before the loveliest scenes of China.

Between Hieda Mountain and the peak of Hira, I can see the pine of Karasaki engulfed in mist, and at times a castle glittering in the trees; when the rain clears by the bridge of Seta, sunset lingers in the pine groves. Mikami Mountain looks like Fuji, and reminds me of my old cottage at its foot. Nearby on Tanagami Mountain I have sought the traces of the men of old. Sometimes, wishing to enjoy an uninterrupted view, I climb the peak behind my hut. On the summit I have built a shelf of pine boughs, on which I spread a round straw mat: this I call the “monkey’s perch.” I am no follower of that eccentric who built a nest in a crab-apple tree where he drank with his friends, for that was in the city and noisy; nor would I give up my perch for the hut which Wang the Sage once tied together. On the lofty summit I sit, picking lice.

Once in a while, when I feel energetic, I gather firewood and dip spring water. I love the drops which fall tok-tok along the green of a single spray of fern, and nothing is so light as my stove.

The man who used to live here had most refined tastes, and did not clutter up the hut even with objects of art. Apart from the household shrine there is just the little alcove for hanging nightclothes. Once, when he heard that the High Priest of Mount Kora was in the capital, he asked him for a plaque to decorate the alcove. The priest nonchalantly took his brush in hand and wrote the words “Unreal Dwelling.” On the back he inscribed his name to serve as a memento to later people who might see it.

In this hut where I live as a hermit, as a passing traveler, there is no need to accumulate household possessions. All I have is a broad-brimmed hat of nettle wood and a rush raincoat, which I hang on a post above my pillow. During the day the old gentleman who looks after the shrine or villagers from the foot of the mountain come here and pass the day in stories of a kind to which I am unaccustomed, how boars are grubbing up the rice seedlings, or about rabbits