Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Niimi Nankichi I

Everyone said that Wataro the ox driver had a remarkably fine cow. But it was a frail old cow, with its hindquarters sunken and ribs so visible you could count them. And even when pulling an empty cart, it would soon stick out its tongue and breathe laboriously.

“What’s so good about this cow? Wataro’s a fool.” “He should’ve sold it before it got this bad and bought a younger, more vigorous one.” Mr. Jirozaemon would say. Mr. Jirozaemon was a man who, in his youth, had lived in Tokyo working as a newspaper deliveryman and a servant in foreign missionaries’ homes, and after enduring various hardships, had developed a fondness for logic and an aversion to work before returning to the village.

However, even though Mr. Jirozaemon said that, Mr. Wataro's frail old cow was truly an excellent cow for him.

What could be the reason for this? Every person has their quirks. Mr. Wataro too had one bad habit—whenever someone mentioned it, he would scratch his head apologetically and then proceed to scratch an itchy spot on his back—and that was his drinking of sake. On the road from village to town stood a large pine tree by the wayside, with a teahouse in its shade. This convenient pairing of pine tree and teahouse proved rather unfortunate for Mr. Wataro. For pine trees make ideal hitching posts for cows, and teahouses perfect pitstops for those partial to a drink.

So whenever Mr. Wataro passed by that spot, he would inadvertently tie the cow to the pine tree and stagger into the teahouse for a quick drink. Intending to take a quick drink, Mr. Wataro entered the teahouse. But as one drinks sake, human thoughts tend to change quite readily. Thinking “Just a bit more, just a bit more,” he ended up passing nearly an hour before he knew it. By then it had become dusk, so he thought, “Well, since it’s come to this, I’ll wait until the moon rises. “Better than heading back on a dark road,” he muttered, settling back down once more.

Truly, the moon would come out before long. Whether it was rapeseed flowers blooming across the fields or rice seedlings being transplanted, when the moon rose, everything turned bright and beautiful. Yet whether the moon appeared or not made no difference to Mr. Wataro anymore. By that time he'd become so thoroughly drunk he could hardly keep his eyes open. As evidence of this, Mr. Wataro couldn't tell his cow apart from the pine tree. Trying to find the rope tied around the trunk, he'd end up endlessly stroking the cow's belly instead. With no other choice, Granny Oyoshi from the teahouse would untie the reins for him. What's more, she'd light an Oda-wara lantern and hang it from the back of the ox cart's platform. After all, drinkers have no qualms about making others look after them.

Wataro didn’t just have Granny Oyoshi take care of him. Now he would be in the cow’s care. After walking two or three chō, Mr. Wataro would begin to think, "Is the night road really this long?" Then, after hooking the reins onto the cow’s horns, he climbed up onto the cart.

By doing this, no matter how long the night road might be, it was no longer a concern for Mr. Wataro. However, he had to remember to loop the rope used for fastening cargo and hook it under his own chin to avoid rolling off the cart while asleep.

When he woke up, Mr. Wataro found himself in his own home’s garden. The cow knew the way well and would bring him back home. This happened often. Never once had the cow taken a wrong path—it had never led Mr. Wataro toward the sea or pulled him toward an unfamiliar village. So for Mr. Wataro, this cow may have been such a frail, shabby creature, but it was an exceedingly useful and good cow. If Mr. Wataro had followed Mr. Jirozaemon’s advice and sold this cow to replace it with a young, vigorous one, there would be no telling where he might wake up the next time he got drunk. He might wake up sober in the middle of Nagoya’s streets ten ri away. Or perhaps he might wake up on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea at the tip of this peninsula—something that would surely startle him. After all, since a young cow is energetic, it would likely walk about ten ri in a single night.

“Mr. Wataro has a good cow,” everyone used to say. “Just like an attentive and kind wife,” they used to say.

II

Now, regarding Mr. Wataro’s wife.

Mr. Wataro had sad memories concerning his wife. Mr. Wataro too, when he was young, had taken a wife in the usual way.

Up until then, he had lived a lonely life with just his elderly one-eyed mother, so when the young bride came, Mr. Wataro’s household became as bright and lively as a festival every day. Since the bride was beautiful and worked diligently, both Mr. Wataro and his one-eyed mother were delighted. However, one day, Mr. Wataro noticed something strange. It was that during meals when all three of them in the household ate together, the bride would always turn her face toward the wall.

Mr. Wataro had watched this in silence for ten days. The bride continued to eat her meals with her face turned toward the wall.

Finally, Mr. Wataro could no longer endure it and asked.

“You mean you can’t get your food down unless you twist your neck like that?” “Or has something changed about the wall in our house?” At this, the bride remained silent, resting her chopsticks on her knees as she lowered her head.

Later, when the two were alone, the bride told Mr. Wataro in a small voice. "When I see Mother's crushed eye, it makes me feel ill." "It's crushed, and you can see the red flesh there, can't you?" "That's why I turn away—because looking at it makes the food stick in my throat." "I see. But Mother didn't lose her eye from playing around." "She lost that eye from getting poked by a rice leaf tip while weeding the paddies."

“I see. But Mother didn’t lose her eye from fooling around,” said Mr. Watarō. “I don’t know why—whenever I see your mother’s crushed eye like that—the red flesh showing—it makes me feel sick.”

“...” the bride said again. “But Mother crushed her eye getting poked by a rice plant, I tell you.” “Even so—even through that—she raised me up right proper, I tell you.”

“But if I have to look at that crushed eye, I can’t get a single bite down.”

When Wataro was alone with his mother, he spoke to her. "Chiyo says when she looks at your crushed eye, it makes her feel sick and she can't get her food down."

When she heard this, the elderly mother stopped pounding beans and wore a sorrowful expression for some time. And she said: “Well, that’s only natural. “If young folks have to look at this disfigurement, they won’t feel at ease. “I’ve thought from the start that once a bride came, I’d go into service somewhere so as not to be in your way. “In that case, I’ll go into service at Mr. Masuhan’s place starting tomorrow. “They say they need someone to cook meals there.”

The next day, the elderly mother bundled her few belongings into a cloth-wrapped package and left the house under the midday sun, holding up her paper umbrella. She passed through the gatefront azaleas ablaze with bloom and disappeared from sight. While mending the field fence, Mr. Wataro watched his mother depart. When she vanished from view, the azaleas’ crimson hue stung his eyes.

Mr. Wataro began to cry. Was it right to now send such an elderly mother into service at another household? The mother who had worked diligently, endured hardships, and raised her only son, Mr. Wataro.

Mr. Wataro, still holding the piece of rope, rushed over, grabbed his mother’s hand, and without a word began steadily dragging her back home.

“Hey, hey, Chiyo.”

“Hey, Chiyo,” Mr. Wataro called out. The bride came out from the kitchen, wiping her hands. “You said you wanted to go back to your hometown soon.” “Yes.” “Then go today. Right now.” The bride was overjoyed at returning to her birthplace after so long. She promptly changed into a fine kimono. “There were no bamboo shoots in your hometown, were there. Take some bamboo shoots with you. Take plenty of butterbur too.”

“In your hometown there were no bamboo shoots, were there? Take some bamboo shoots with you—take plenty of butterbur too,” said Mr. Wataro. The bride bundled up numerous gifts and left through the doorway. “Then I’ll take my leave.” “Ah, go on then,” said Mr. Wataro. “And with that—you needn’t ever come back here.” The bride was startled. However much the bride was startled, Mr. Wataro’s mind would no longer change. Thus, Mr. Wataro ended up parting ways with the bride.

After that, marriage proposals came from various places, but Mr. Wataro did not accept any. At times, he would think about taking a wife once more, but when he looked at the wall, his thoughts would shift to, "No, better not." However, Mr. Wataro, who did not take a wife, had one regret. That was the fact that he had no children. Mother was growing old and gradually becoming smaller. Mr. Wataro was now in the prime of life, but he too would eventually become an old man. The cow too would eventually have its hindquarters grow even more emaciated, its ribs protrude like wooden slats, until finally it would die. Then Mr. Wataro’s household would perish.

He didn't need a wife, but he wanted a child—this was what Mr. Wataro often found himself thinking.

III

When people receive help from others, they express their gratitude. But when helped by cows or horses, they rarely do so. The reason being that even without thanks, cows and horses don’t particularly complain. But this was an unfair and unacceptable way of things, Mr. Wataro thought. He had been thinking of doing something that would greatly delight the frail old cow—some way to repay it for all the daily help he’d received.

Then came such a fine opportunity.

In villages composed entirely of farmers, there are times when they are granted truly peaceful, golden-hued dusks, and this was one such spring evening. The barley ears that had fully emerged to cover the goat shed's window were bathed in soft streams of setting sunlight. Mr. Wataro was on his way to town, having the frail old cow haul the cart. Mr. Wataro was always in good spirits, but today his face looked even more radiant. This was because he had been loading sake barrels.

He had been asked to deliver sake barrels from the sake shop in the neighboring village to the vinegar shop in town. Inside them were packed sake lees. Sake lees refer to the milky, cloudy substance that accumulates at the bottom of barrels during sake production. Each time the sake barrels swayed, they made a heavy thud-thud sound. And in the quiet farming village at dusk, they scattered the scent of sake as they went.

Mr. Wataro, with a radiant face, thought how he wished he could always be entrusted with such cargo—how merely hearing the sound let him forget the drudgery of his cart-pulling work. Then suddenly came a heavy thud. When he looked, one barrel's mirror board had flown off, and since the cart had tilted on a slope, white sake lees were pouring out like a waterfall. “Whoa, whoa!”

“Whoa, whoa!” said Mr. Wataro, but there was nothing more he could do. The sake lees spilled onto the ground, pooled in the hollows, and gave off an even more pungent, pleasant aroma.

Catching the scent, sake-loving farmers and elders gathered. The fact that even Old Lady Toki, who lived on the outskirts of the village, had come showed that the scent of the lees must have drifted as far as five chō. When everyone had gathered, Mr. Wataro was wandering around the cart. “This ain’t my fault. “Sake lees are the kind of stuff that multiply when you shake ’em. “They multiplied while being jolted along in the ox cart. “And what with this warm weather, they multiplied even more.”

And Mr. Wataro offered his excuse meant for his employer to the villagers. “That’s right, that’s right.”

The villagers nodded along as they gazed at the plenty of sake lees pooled on the road, their throats rumbling. “Well now, what’re we to do about this?” “If left alone, the soil’ll soak it all up, but...” As he spoke, the old farmer soaked a straw stem in the sake lees and sucked on it. Truly, if left alone, the soil would suck it all up, everyone thought. At that moment, Mr. Wataro came up with a good idea.

Mr. Wataro released the cow from its yoke and led it to where the sake lees had spilled. “There, lick it up.” The cow lowered its head over the lees and remained perfectly still for a while, appearing to smell them while judging whether this was something tasty or unpleasant. The watching villagers too held their breath, wondering whether the cow would drink the sake or not. The cow stuck out its tongue and gave one tentative lick. Then it paused again, thoroughly assessing the flavor in its mouth.

The watching villagers had been holding their breath so intently that their chests had grown tight to the point of pain. The cow gave it another lick. And after that, it began licking away in earnest, and what with the added snorting through its nose, things grew quite hectic. “Well, cows... Seems they’re creatures that like their sake, don’t they?” said one of the villagers with a sigh.

The others found it deeply regrettable that they themselves were not cows. Mr. Wataro watched with delight as the cow licked up the sake lees with apparent relish. “Hey there. Eat up, eat up. I’ve always been in your care, so I thought I ought to repay you. But I didn’t know you were a sake lover.” When the cow finished the lees in front of it, it took a step forward and licked the lees on the other side.

“Cows... they’re proper heavy drinkers, ain’t they?”

One of the villagers said petulantly, like a child who hadn’t gotten what they wanted. “Eat as much as you want,” Mr. Wataro said, patting the cow’s back. “Go on, eat up! Today’s my turn to look after you. Today’s the one time in my life to repay your kindness.” Finally, the cow had licked up all the sake lees, leaving only soil behind. The area had already grown dim. Mr. Wataro once again attached the cow to the yoke.

Blue evening shadows flowed across the path where only the wild strawberry blossoms along the hedgerows floated white, and there plodded slowly along the cow with its full belly and Mr. Wataro—who felt he had at last repaid his daily debts of gratitude—both savoring their contentment as they went.

IV

Now，Mr．Wataro had resolved that just for today，he would abstain from drinking sake himself．In Mr．Wataro’s view，for the cow to have drunk and then even the ox driver to drink was a lack of discipline．However，if that were the case，Mr．Wataro should not have taken the return route past Ipponmatsu Pine and the teahouse．Though it was a bit of a detour，he should have taken the lonely path toward the crematory． But Mr．Wataro figured nah—today would be fine．“Even I have some self-control，”he muttered to himself．And he passed by Ipponmatsu Pine and the teahouse．

A drinker’s thoughts are apt to change when near alcohol. When Mr. Wataro reached the front of the teahouse, he felt his rock-solid resolve begin crumbling away as fragilely as tofu. In truth, even Mr. Wataro had been suppressing an intense urge to drink—so strong he could practically taste it—while letting the cow lick up the sake lees. That desire suddenly reared its head before the teahouse.

“Well, I’ll just have a quick drink—can’t hurt.”

Mr. Wataro said as he wrapped the reins around the thick trunk of the pine tree. The cow was behaving quietly as usual.

And Mr. Wataro entered the teahouse while rubbing hands.

It was as usual. As he kept muttering, "Just a little more, just a little more," time slipped away. The tally of sake bottles grew. Oyoshi-baasan from the teahouse tended to Mr. Wataro in her customary way—untying the reins from the pine tree and kindling the Oda-wara lantern—all following the regular routine. The sole deviation lay in the cow sprawled across the ground. Unaware of this change, Oyoshi-baasan came perilously close to stumbling over the beast. Mr. Wataro—

“Boy, wake up,” he said. The cow responded only with a thick, long snort and made no attempt to rise. “Boy, does your belly hurt? Get up.” “Get up.”

With that, Mr. Wataro gave the reins a sharp tug. The cow sluggishly and listlessly shifted its body, first raising its hindquarters. Its front legs remained bent at the joints and planted on the ground for a while as it continued to draw heavy breaths through its large nostrils.

“Oh, how awful! This cow! It’s puffing and wheezing like a blacksmith’s bellows!” said Oyoshi-baasan. “Just like a drunkard!” At those words, Mr. Wataro finally remembered that the cow had drunk heavily too. Finding this amusing, he burst into raucous laughter and said— “Ain’t that the truth!” When the cow finally managed to raise its front legs with great effort, Mr. Wataro set off for home at last.

The old woman at the teahouse, Oyoshi-baasan, would always hear the clattering sound of Mr. Wataro's cart wheels on the roped path for quite some time after he had set off. But on that day, it soon faded away. Although she thought it strange, the old woman didn’t pay it much mind. After all, with both the ox driver and the cow being drunk, there was no telling where they were going or what they were doing.

V

Mr. Wataro’s elderly mother kept spinning the whirring spinning wheel and glancing up at the pillar clock with her one eye, waiting late into the night. Before long, the aged, soot-blackened pillar clock wheezed for a while like an asthmatic old man clearing his throat, then after a prolonged effort, struck eleven o'clock. By the time eleven o'clock would strike, the sound of the cart would always arrive from outside. Mother wondered what could have happened tonight.

Ten minutes had passed. Still, the sound of the cart had not reached her ears. Mother grew worried and, brushing cotton fluff from her knees, went out to the entrance.

It was a fine moonlit night, and the roof tiles of the sleeping houses glistened wetly. The road loomed faintly pale and was visible far into the distance. But in the distance, there was no shadow of Mr. Wataro's cart. When it came to Mr. Wataro not returning home at night, up until then there had been only a few instances that could be counted on one’s fingers. Mother clearly remembered every occasion when Mr. Wataro had stayed out overnight. When Mr. Wataro was an elementary school student, there were two nights when he stayed out during a school trip to the Ise Grand Shrine; then, when he was among the village youths, five nights during a group excursion to Mount Yoshino; and again in his younger days, one night each year when he kept watch over the festival floats during the village festival. In addition to those instances, there had not been a single time when Mr. Wataro had stayed out overnight away from home. So Mother gradually grew worried.

Eleven o'clock had passed by twenty minutes. Still, Mr. Wataro had not returned. Mother finally made up her mind. She went to consult with the officer at the police box.

Officer Shibata, thinking some incident had occurred, hurriedly put on his black trousers under the electric light and came downstairs while attaching his saber to his waist. However, after hearing her story, some of Officer Shibata’s urgency faded. “That’s just Mr. Wata having had another drink, I suppose.”

he said. “But something like this has never happened before, I tell you.” “That one—no matter how much he dawdles about, he’s always back by eleven on the dot, I tell you!” said Mr. Wataro’s mother. And she kept insisting that if he still hadn’t returned even twenty minutes past eleven, he must surely have been waylaid by highwaymen or some such along the way. Officer Shibata informed her that in this peaceful reign, highwaymen weren’t running rampant everywhere. He also said that since Mr. Wataro always returned home in a drunken stupor being led by the cow, tonight the cow must have been delayed by twenty or thirty minutes for some reason—after all, cows aren’t exactly the most punctual of animals.

But because Mr. Wataro’s mother kept insisting on her own view, Officer Shibata finally relented,

“Alright then, we’ll proceed with the search,” he said. Whenever an incident occurred, it was customary for the village Youth Group to assist the duty officer, so Officer Shibata had the Youth Group members assemble. Before long, Youth Group members arrived wearing uniforms with gaiters wound around their legs and carrying wooden staves. Not just Youth Group members—other adults and even elderly men with bent backs came too.

In truth, an incident like this—where someone vanished in the middle of the night—had not occurred in this village for several decades. The previous time the Youth Group had assisted Officer Shibata was when a grass-burning fire had spread to a straw hut at the foot of Nishiyama—an incident that had been quite straightforward. However, this current incident was proving to be quite challenging. How on earth were they to even begin the search?

Then, an old man with a large nose named Mr. Tomitetsu came up with a good idea. It was an incident from about forty years ago, when the village’s penny merchant, on his way back from purchasing oil cakes in Sakatani, was tricked by the foxes of Rokkan Mountain and got lost. At that time, the villagers rang bells and drums as they searched through mountains and valleys, until finally, in Izumidani Spring, they managed to find the penny merchant—work pants pulled over his head, trembling violently while exclaiming, “This’s fine hot water! Just right!”—and so it was. Old Man Tomitetsu knew this story well and explained it in detail, but that was only natural—the one who had been tricked by the fox was none other than himself.

Listening to Mr. Tomitetsu's story made it seem entirely plausible that someone could be tricked by foxes. Even now in Rokkan Mountain, one could often catch fleeting glimpses of foxes darting past, while in the village itself during cold winter nights late into the hour, the cries of badgers could be heard. Moreover, even if one weren't being tricked by foxes or badgers, those lingering in drunkenness would hardly differ from those under such a spell.

So everyone brought noisemakers. The bell had been borrowed from the temple. It was that bell—the one struck when announcing funeral processions' departure times. The drum was that drowsy-sounding one—the kind night watchmen thudded while calling out "Beware of fire!" Mr. Kamekiku, who'd guided Yoshino Pilgrimages many times before, fetched a conch shell from the treasure storehouse to sound it after years. But when he blew into it, the shell only hissed feebly instead of sounding properly. "This must've cracked or somethin'," said Mr. Kamekiku, though when his son Kamedoku blew it, the shell rang clear. Right then Mr. Kamekiku understood he'd aged. And he reckoned growing old was plain foolishness. Mr. Rinpei from the Youth Group brought a trumpet gleaming even by moonlight. "This'll carry three leagues easy," Rinpei thought proudly to himself.

And the men, each holding a lantern, entered the mountains. Bells and drums were struck, and conch shells were blown. Mr. Rinpei wondered what melody to play on the trumpet. However, since none of these melodies seemed quite right for searching for a human and cow tricked by foxes, in the end he simply blew without any melody: “Puuu, puuu.” Then Mr. Kamekiku, who loved to criticize, said, “That sounded just like an elephant’s fart,” so Mr. Rinpei took offense. Even as he said this, Mr. Kamekiku had never actually heard an elephant’s fart.

They searched here and there, but descended into the same valley multiple times, entered the same thicket repeatedly, and circled the same pond over and over. Thinking this made it seem as if they themselves were being tricked by foxes, everyone circled the same pond for the tenth time.

They were thoroughly exhausted, and the conch shells and trumpets had fallen silent. Only the drum still sounded now and then with a drowsy tone. Yet despite searching in this way, they found neither Mr. Wataro nor the cow. To make matters worse, they discovered two members of their own group had gone missing somewhere. Good grief. In this state, not only would continuing the search forever prove futile—it might even leave them worse off than before.

By now, the pond’s surface had grown dimly luminous. Just then, from a thicket across the water came the quiet song of an aged bush warbler—at which everyone thought morning must have broken. And so they returned to the village.

Six

The villagers, having stayed up all night and wandered through the mountains, returned to the village utterly exhausted. When they arrived at the police box for the time being but found standing unbearable, they spread grass by the roadside and all sat down.

Then, along the back road west of the school, an ox cart came into view. Wondering if he was already heading out to work, everyone watched with dazed eyes. As the ox cart passed in front of the police box, the man riding it—"Hey, you all, up early, huh. You all doing some roadwork today or what?"—he said. Thinking it was a man they’d seen before, when everyone looked closely, it turned out to be Mr. Wataro. "What the...? We’ve been walkin’ all night through these mountains lookin’ for you!"

“What’s this now?” said Mr. Kamekiku. “We’ve been walkin’ all night through these mountains lookin’ for you!” “Huh? That must’ve been rough on y’all,” said Mr. Wataro without even dismounting from his ox cart before heading homeward.

“What on earth?” The villagers gaped in astonishment. Had they known it would come to this, they needn’t have made such a commotion searching through the mountains. The elders declared that they must all reprimand Mr. Wataro. Otherwise it’ll become a habit, they said. So everyone, rubbing their sleepy eyes, crowded into Mr. Wataro’s house.

Mr. Wataro was in the garden, removing the frail old cow from its yoke and drawing water into a tub to let it drink.

“Hey, Wata,” called out Mr. Jirozaemon, the village know-it-all. “You’ve gone and caused the whole village no end of trouble—you realize that?” “We villagers didn’t sleep a wink last night—scoured every mountain, valley, field and wild looking for you—and you think keeping mum about it’s all right?”

This made it sound as though Mr. Jirozaemon had been part of the search party, but in truth, he had been sleeping at home until just a moment ago.

When Mr. Wataro heard Mr. Jirozaemon’s words, he was startled. Feeling terribly sorry toward the villagers, he said “’Twas my fault” thirteen times over, scratching his head or back each time. He explained that since both the cow and he had gotten drunk, things had turned out this way.

Since the villagers were all good-natured, their anger soon subsided. Then this time, they began asking Mr. Wataro all sorts of questions.

“Mr. Wata, so where’ve you been wandering all this time?”

And Mr. Kamenori asked.

Mr. Wataro tilted his head and, “Where exactly... I ain’t sure. All I remember’s tiltin’ right an’ left，climbin’ up high places，an’ droppin’ down low ones.” he answered. “So you were walkin’ without a lantern?” asked Officer Shibata. “Wasn’t without no lantern. Here—this Oda-wara lantern’s fixed right here. Take a look.”

With that, Mr. Wataro thrust his head under the ox cart.

However, only the upper half of the Oda-wara lantern remained. Apparently, having gotten soaked through with water, the paper tore, the bone frame that had been coiled like a spring sagged limply, and that must have caught on something along the way and snapped. “’Twas the water what ruined it like this.” And Mr. Wataro detached and showed them the half-torn Oda-wara lantern.

“Now that you mention it, the ox cart, the cow, and Mr. Wataro’s clothes are all drenched—this seems too much for just night dew,” someone said. “Maybe they went through some pond or somethin’?” said Mr. Kamekiku. “No way, th-that’s not possible!”

And Mr. Wataro, because his mother was nearby, hurriedly tried to cover it up. Because he didn’t want to worry his mother. However, no matter how much Mr. Wataro tried to cover it up, it was all in vain. This was because a large crucian carp, a gen-gorō bug, and a baby turtle had emerged from the front of Mr. Wataro’s kimono. These creatures are found only in ponds. It turned out that Mr. Wataro’s ox cart had passed through a pond.

“What’s this yellow flower?”

Then again, someone said. When they looked, a cluster of yellow flowers was caught in the cleft of the Frail Old Cow’s front hoof. “Doesn’t look like weeping forsythia either.” “Around here, I’ve never seen this sorta flower at all.” said one of them. “That’s an enishida flower.” “Enishida flowers are sorta rare around here.” “Well now, if you go about four ri south, there’s said to be a spot atop Mount Rokkan where these enishida cluster and bloom.” “And they say the foxes of Mount Rokkan—on fine moonlit nights and such—sit in the shadows pretending to play the kokyū.”

said Gardener An. Mr. Wataro had no choice but to,

“’Tis shameful, but seems we ended up goin’ there too.” “There was this ridiculously splendid room, I tell ya—the tatami mats, sliding doors, and ceiling were all yellow.” “Now that I think of it, there was this tayu with perked-up ears who skillfully played the kokyū for us, I tell ya.” “So, was that thing actually a fox?” “Even so, how in the world did that ox cart manage to climb to the top of such a steep mountain?”

And the villagers marveled. “Well, I’m awful sorry—both the cow and I were drunk, y’see.” And Mr. Wataro apologized.

In the end, there remained one inexplicable matter that neither the villagers nor Mr. Wataro could understand.

What remained inexplicable was that upon the ox cart sat a small basket containing a flower bouquet and a plump baby boy. No matter how hard Mr. Wataro tried to recall where or how this basket had been placed on the cart, his efforts proved utterly futile. He could not remember it at all. “Might this be heaven’s gift?” said Mr. Kamenori. “Mr. Wataro’s been sayin’ he wants a child but no wife—heaven must’ve heard and granted it, isn’t that right?”

Mr. Wataro looked pleased because Mr. Kamenori had said something favorable.

However, Mr. Jirozaemon,

“Such unreasonable logic doesn’t hold water these days. Children must have parents,” said Mr. Jirozaemon.

Meanwhile, Mr. Shibata fiddled with his beard and said, “It’s a foundling. Bring it to the police box afterward—I’ll write up a report and submit it to the main station.”

said Mr. Shibata. After that，Mr.Wataro waited forthe baby’s parents to appear，but ultimately，no such people ever showed up. So he namedthe child Wasukeand made him his own. And whenever he wasin high spirits aftera drink，without fail， “My Wasukehere’sa giftfromheaven.OnthenightwhenIandthecowgotdrunk，heavenbestowedhimuponus，”saidMr.Wataro. Then，therationalMr.Jirozaemon，

“Such illogical nonsense couldn’t exist nowadays.” “Children must have parents.” “If folks could receive a child from heaven just by reeling around drunk, we’d have no use for laws in this world.” And he spouted convoluted logic. However, Mr. Wataro stood his ground and declared: “The world don’t bend to logic. There’s queer wonders aplenty out there, I tell ya.”

Now, this heaven-sent child Wasuke gradually grew up. In elementary school, he was in the same grade as me—Wasuke always the class president, I always at the bottom—but after finishing school, Wasuke succeeded Mr. Wataro and became a splendid ox driver. And now, Mr. Wataro has become quite the old man, but he’s still in good health. Mother and the frail old cow passed away the year before last.