ON A JAPANESE TRAIN

Wairarapa Times-Age, 6 January 1939, Page 2

ON A JAPANESE TRAIN

SURVEY OF THE PASSENGERS

SCENES BY THE WAYSIDE.

QUAINT & CURIOUS CUSTOMS

(By Theclia Cox Kenyon in the "Christian Science Monitor.”)

Today we are on our way to Matsushima—that incredibly beautiful place of blue sea and wind-twisted pine trees. The early summer heat has descended swiftly on Tokyo. Even the dappled shade of the budo vine brought no sense of coolness to our garden; and so we are going north along the coast. We are travelling indolently, carelessly, by the slowest and readiest transportation afforded by the Japanese railways. We do not need sleek suave trains. We want to relax, to take the heat stoically and easily as the Japanese do. The air is hot and stifling in the train. It comes up in waves and beats about us. The light shimmers before our eyes. Behind us lies the Pandemonium of the Station. Loudspeakers blaring, babies crying. Children eagerly clutching at hurrying parents. Piles of bags and hampers and knobby bundles wrapped in brightly-coloured furoshiki, those silken kerchiefs so indispensable to Japanese of all ages. Bands of pilgrims, carrying banners and, wearing coloured streamers round their necks, proclaiming their residence and destination. Geisha, looking demurely provocative and a little coy beneath the stiff volutes of their hair, bright spots of colour amidst the soberly dressed crowd. Coolies trotting here, there, and everywhere beneath enormous loads. Groups of school children in the simple little uniforms which make all Japanese children equal, once they are within school walls. The sharp, shrill note of the starters’ whistles.

Across the way sit a bride and groom completely surrounded by going-away presents amongst which the little bride looks like one more pretty gift. An amber comb is set in her carefully waved hair. Her kimono is a delicious thing, shading softly from palest cream colour to a dusky, woodsy rose. Her obi is magnificent, so stiff with metal that the butterfly bow in which it is tied seems nothing short of the work of an artist. Her small face is chalkwhite with liquid powder and a dab of rouge blooms on each plump cheek. A 1 capacious purse is tucked in the front of her kimono, just above the obi; and from it she deals out sparing tips to the porters who have carried their things —proud in her new responsibility as

Comptroller of the Family Exchequer. On her hand is a blaze of new rings, the contemplation of which affords her a great deal of secret, shy pleasure. The sun beats hotly against the drawn window shades.

Ahead are a young mother and father, with three small children. The mother has lapsed tranquilly into sleep, cradling the baby in an experienced arm. Uncomplainingly the father tends the other boy and girl. They are tremendously interested in us and we carry on an animated, if sporadic, conversation. Often they are quite as much at a loss over our halting Chinese as we are over their baby-talk. It is all going smoothly, however, until small brother awakes. He studies the situation for a moment with sleep-heavy eyes and then decides that it is time he exerted his charms. Since he looks like a chunky doll come to life, his charms are not easy to overlook. He is so unstinting in showing them off that a definite rivalry for our attention is developing between him and his brother. It includes, among other things, the continuous offering of Sticky Morsels of Edibles

which it is impossible to refuse. The first cool breeze is stirring softly through the dim car. A truly magnificent Japanese occupies the end section of the coach. He is tall and has awe-inspiring moustaches which are waxed to a fine point. His bearing is that of unapproachable eminence, and the silks of which his costume is made are unobtrusively rich. The bags about him bear the labels of many lands and the books piled beside him are in three languages. Near him sits a group of young naval officers in uniforms which gleam with gold braid. Their shoes rest in the aisle before them and they sit on tucked-up heels while they discuss a fat volume in German on the theory of military tactics.

The wheels click over the shining rails. Mountains rear up mist-crowned heads. Cascades make feathery plumes through tree-choked gorges. Across from us sits a poet. He could be nothing else. Long-haired, exquisite, with a skin like ivory, his sensitive hands move slowly and gently in his lap. His manner is aloof, slightly arrogant, as becomes a poet and a scholar; but his hakama is frayed and his haori threadbare. At one of the stations he bought the cheapest of the box lunches the vendors proffered and a tiny pot of tea. Very carefully he ate only a small part of the contents of the box and put the rest away.

Dusk begins to touch the hilltops. Roofs blur indistinctly, merging into one shadow with the trees.

Gazing stilly through the window is a very old woman. Her face is browned by the sun of many summers and her back is bent with heay toil. From time to time, as the young officers pass through the car, she withdraws her eyes from the window to Acknowledge Their Greeting. She has a son whom they all seem to know and admire intensely. The pride and joy which illumine her gentle face’ arc almost blinding. When the young men have passed she goes back to the happy contemplation of the countryside.

Twilight and the cool of the northern evening creep clown over the mountains and the villages and into the puffing, lingering train. Tidal rivers stretch eager fingers inland. Bays shine silver in the softening light. Lanterns bob along the road and paper walls glow opalescent through the woods. Matsushima lies just ahead.