A LIVING GOD

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“ Harai-tamai kiyomé-tamaé! . . . For our son, Tsukamoto Motokichi, a soldier of twenty-nine: that he may conquer and return to us quickly—soon, very soon—we humbly pray, O Daimyōjin! ”

Sometimes a girl would whisper her whole heart to me:

“ I am a maiden of eighteen years, loved by a young man of twenty. He is good; he is true; but we are poor, and the path of our love is dark. Help us with your great divine pity! — help us so that we may be united, O Daimyōjin! ”

Then she would hang a thick, soft lock of hair on the bars of my shrine — her own hair, glossy and black as a crow's wing, and tied with a cord of mulberry paper. And in the fragrance of that offering — the simple fragrance of her peasant youth — I, the ghost and god, would find again the feelings of the years when I was a man and a lover.

Mothers would bring their children to my threshold and teach them to revere me, saying,

“ Bow down before the great, bright God; pay homage to the Daimyōjin. ”

Then I would hear the fresh, soft clapping of little