Page:Four Japanese Tales.pdf/35

 song, a still more wonderful thing happened. As if in answer to this voice, the two strings in the shrine, upon which the metal mirror was fastened, reverberated like from out of a dream, delicately and dreamily, but unmistakably. It was as if the gods had spoken; and the solitary man for the first time in his life almost understood how one feels when one is happy.

For several weeks both semi were his companions and the friends of the old pine; and during that time he did not feel lonely or sad, listening for long hours to the song of both cicadas, who always kept together so devotedly that when looking at them he could not help giving way to his old longing, which now asserted itself with redoubled force. And it seemed to him that the strings in the little temple had responded not only to the song of the newly acquired semi, but also to the secret voice of his heart to that voice of whose existence only the gods knew. But when one morning the song of the cicadas did not greet the rising sun, the solitary man felt how gradually his body was growing cold till he thought that his martyred heart would stop its beating. He was in mortal terror of the unchangeable reality and hoped against hope that perhaps after all he was mistaken, and that presently there would resound from the garden those charming tones which had brightened so many an hour for him; not until midday, brought to the verge of despair by the dead silence of the garden and not even conscious of the sounds from the street, did he take courage to go to the, the recess, and look at his , deserted by the cicadas.

But though his horror of the deathly stillness proved to be well-founded, he discovered that after all he was mistaken. The cicadas had not forsaken him. Upon the unruffled surface of the little lake there floated fragments of the wings and one leg of one of his semi, which had fallen victim to some sort of murderous attack, and inside the little temple behind the metal mirror he perceived the other lying on its back, stiff and motionless. Carefully he took out the dead cicada, and at once recognized it as the blind one that he had saved and taken home on his pilgrimage to Kwannon the Merciful. His soul was filled with sorrow, and when he had buried the bodily remains of both his friends on the islet in the lake, he chiselled out of stone a beautiful lantern for the grave, putting into it all his art, which was not inconsiderable. For just as his grandfather had been famous for his garden masterpieces, he also was held in great respect among the artisans of Tokyo for his miniature carvings in ivory, wood and stone.

During the night after the day when he placed the lantern on