A Woman Alone in the Heart of Japan

ther from their scanty English so far inland, and we settled down for a trundle through a labyrinth of lanes lined with stalls of china Buddhas, and past sheds where tea and sake tempted the traveller. I was temple-tired, for often had I passed through that red and black sign of Shinto faith, the picturesque torii, which stands before the temple where natives drink from the holy well, and toss a penny through the grate, as they pull the bell-rope and clap theirhands to call the god's attention to the gift, as they mumblethe prayer, " Amida-Buddha, Amidd-Buddha." Behind the lattice sits great Buddha, covered with spit-balls, which are the prayers of the faithful, and have been answered if the little wads have stuck to the god. He is often so covered with the pellets that he looks like a modern Job, bursting with boils. Traditions of a Temple Bell Beneath a tiresome flight of steps, the view stretched out to thatched roofs wrapped in purple and white wistaria, and flashes of colour lay beside the pearly line of road which ran beside the blue lake, whose deep green hills rose like protecting giants by the edge. Descending to the sombre forest, by paths of velvet moss, we sought the monastery bell in the thicket. Generally the tongueless temple bell has its separate home, and stands unmoved till it resounds to the push of the big battering ram which hangs at its side, as the devotee offers up his prayer. Not to pray or to push the beam had we rolled through ...