A Daughter Of Samurai
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| A Daughter Of Samurai book |
How a daughter of feudal Japan living hundreds of years in one generation became a modern American
From Introduction:
There are many happy adventures for those who work in the strange world of printers’ ink; and in some lucky moment of inspiration, several years ago, I asked Mrs Sugimoto to write, for my column in a Philadelphia newspaper, some little memories of her girlhood in Japan.
The story of the dog Shiro, whose prosperity in a future life she endangered by giving him her own cushion; her childish sadness about her curly hair; her pensive trouble when she discovered that American women were not really more modest than Japanese — these and a few other charming episodes first found their way into print in that newspaper, and. gradually led to this beautiful and thrilling book.
It is an honour to be asked by Mrs Sugimoto to say a word of introduction here. I only wish that I knew how to make it ceremonious enough. The inner suggestion of her book is sure that life in its highest moments is a kind of ceremony in honour of the unknown gods. “
The eyelids of. a Samurai,” Mrs Sugimoto tells us, “ know not moisture.” But the “ red barbarians,” who have not learned the old stoic art, may be forgiven if they feel occasionally, among her tender paragraphs, that dangerous prickling that great truth conveys. What a lovely book it is, and how much it has to teach us.
I have a secret notion that it will go on for years and years, making friends for itself and for the brave woman who wrote it, and also — -this would please her most — friends for Japan. Is it pot a perfect book for children to read? I don’t know any collection of fairy tales more.
Japan is often called by foreign people a land of sunshine and cherry blossoms. This is because tourists generally visit only the eastern and southern parts of the country, where the climate is mild all year round.
On the northwest coast, the winters are long, snow often covering the ground from December to March or April. In the province of Echigo, where my home, winter usually began with heavy snow which came down fast and steady until only the thick, round ridge-poles of our thatched roofs could be seen. Then groups of coolies, with straw mats over their shoulders and big woven hats that looked like umbrellas, came and with broad wooden shovels cut tunnels through from one side of the street to the other.
The snow was not removed from the middle of the street all winter. It lay in a long pile, towering far above the house tops.
The coolies cut steps, for they were carrying snow at intervals all winter, and we children used to climb up and run along the top. We played many games there, sometimes pretending we were knights rescuing a snow-bound village, or fierce brigands stealing upon it for an attack.
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