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 Hemmed in with twenty little lacquered bowls

Showed like a ship at moorings, with the boats

Clustering around; and black-haired musumees

Brimmed the last sakë cup, and gohan came,

The silvered shoji, decked with maple leaves,

Opened a space, to let the music in,—

Two samisens, a double drum, a flute,

Then, with low reverences, the "No" began.

So saw we,—after many preludings

Of string and skin,—O Yuki San pace forth

A fisherman. No chance to err herein,

Seeing she bore the net and balanced tubs,

And great brass knife to slice the tara thin,

All as you note them at Enoshima.

Moreover, fan in hand, she sings a song

To tell us how her name's Hakuriyô,

Her dwelling Miwo's pine-grove, and her life

A fisher-lad's, reaping the deep green sea

For silver harvests of the silly shoals

Which, caught by hundreds, come in thousands more

To the spread mesh. Mighty the draught will be—