one drop of dew with which to moisten your tongue,—and there will be nothing left for you to do but to lie down and die. All because of[1] your light and frivolous[2] heart—but, ah! how lamentable an end!"………
III
Most of the Japanese stories about butterflies appear, as I have said, to be of Chinese origin. But I have one which is probably indigenous;[3] and it seems to me worth telling for the benefit of persons who believe that there is no “romantic[4] love" in the Far East.
Behind the cemetery of the temple of Sōzanji,[5] in the suburbs[6] of the capital, there long stood a solitary cottage, occupied by an old man named Takahama. He was liked in the neighborhood, by reason of his amiable[7] ways; but almost every body supposed him to be a little mad. Unless a man take the Buddhist vows, he is expected to marry, and to bring up a family. But Takahama did not belong to the religious life; and he could not be persuaded to marry. Neither had he even been known to enter into[8] a love-
註
