went the status of women many notches. From an invisible convention-shackled force, she came into her own as comrade and partaker as well as worker and overseer. With something doing almost every minute in the day, the average Japanese housekeeper joins in a mild social life, either with her own special friends, or the guests of her husband who are bidden to his feasts. She even manages to get in some hours of recrea tion.

In her work with the Red Cross she combines joy of merciful service and delightful friendly intercourse. The all-day family theater parties contribute much to her simple pleasure, and she counts among her blessings the many open-air festivals and excursions in cherry-blossom time.

If home cares grow too tense and threaten her nerves there is always the unmusical koto on which she can twang her troubles in mournful ditties. And it argues not an indifferent housekeeper, but a superior soul that shines up nagging, commonplace duties by painting bits of landscape, or writing a poem as dainty as the paper on which it is penned.

In her love of the beautiful, a Japanese woman finds her escape from corroding monotony. No responsibility is too heavy for the natural instinct to find expression.

Maybe it is the way she pounds the rice for the New-Year Mochi, into fluffy, puffy cakes; maybe it's the way she molds the red beans into festive shapes. Perhaps it is in the set of her sash, or the joy-compelling rose

in her hair. But, whether maid or matron, princess or barefooted field woman, the touch of the artist is inevitable.

A great-souled empress found heart'sease from royal burdens in the beauty of simple rhyme or flower culture.

A lowly woman water-carrier forgot her heavy toil and sang:

"All round the rope a morning-glory clings. How can I break its beauty's dainty spell? I beg for water from a neighbor's well!"

Now, Patrick, after all this you should be well prepared to match the tales of trials and delights of any housekeeper from any land. But take warning! There

EARLY AND LINGER LONG

what broken that night. The next day we were content to sit and watch the wonderful pictures in the garden. All color is not lost in the snow. Plum blossoms, red and pink and white, shone out bravely from their white covering. Bamboo-trees, tall and short, bent gracefully under their snowy mantle, and two old crows in the notch of an old pine told the whole world the story of the storm.

Toward evening Katherine spoke. "I need a change. We will go to a picture show!"

We did. And it is worth going a long, long way to attend a movie in Japan. To give you some idea how the merrygo-round of time changes customs and prejudice, let me tell you a little of the very big subject of olden-day theaters.

In feudal days, and days of feuds, there was, of course, such a thing as a theater. Its patrons consisted mainly of

the lowly mechanic, the despised merchant, and ladies whose names would never appear in Who's Who.

The Samurai, who were supposed to set the pace in the best circles, were so occupied in keeping perpetually ready to die a loyal death for their daimio, that their ideas of human enjoyment were too grim to include anything so trivial as a theater. You see, polishing up their swords, with which they never parted even when making a visit to comrade, or nearest kinsman, took time and was more exciting. They might be called on to use them at any moment. Of course they had their relaxations-the awfully solemn, heavy-with-dignity variety. But such things as theaters, dancing, picnics, or any pastime other people might label pleasure, were known to the fighting men by a name only to be despised.

There is something to be said, too, on

the side of the ready-to-die-in-a-minute gentlemen. However monstrous their code of living, they carried it out to the bitter end, sincerely and stoically.

To see old Japan pictured as a land of never-fading cherry-blossoms, with gaily attired butterfly ladies and gallant Samurai tangoing on the greensward, played by a group of low-class plebeians, might be a delightful illusion to the lighthearted. The serious-minded warriors, who were the real thing, could only look on it with intolerable disgust. So they stayed at home or went a-swording and cut the theater off their visiting-list.

Not so the civilians, high or low. They made the most of the precious few pleasures in vogue or permissible at the time. As there were no parks, no museums, no libraries, nor art-galleries, the theater had to be the thing. And the pleasureseekers did not delay till afternoon or evening to begin their holiday, either.

Not at all. With the first crow of the

household bantam the whole familysay of a merchant, wife, babies, grandfather and grandmother-would arise and begin preparation of food to take with them. They took plenty of time to put on all their best clothes, too, paint and powder and perfume. Then, with a train of servants carrying baskets of eatables, comforts, fans, and most of the necessities of life, they started theaterward.

Once there, not for a minute would they think of buying one little row of seats. They bought one of the big squares into which the floor of the theater was divided, like a giant chess-board. Father was generous, so he hustled the servants to spread the blankets and open the food-boxes. In came the family and the fun began. No hurry. It was usually an hour or two before the stage curtain was pulled aside. But there were next-door neighbors to gossip with and others to sip toasts with, so

why worry about so small a thing as time?

When the drama began at last, it found almost everyone in the mellow state where the rankest play took on something of a beautiful romance. The party made merry till nine o'clock that night. When home was reached it had to be all talked over. One day's pleasure was lengthened into another.

I have been many times in one of these old theaters-smile all you wish, gay Patricia! The times were not those of feudal lords and warriors fierce. Like these merchant folks of long ago, I have watched plays good and bad by the light of lanterns dim, and sat in the same kind of inclosure on my feet till they were petrified and my body stiff with cold.

Now you can see the why of my enthusiasm of being ushered to a theater, warm and well lighted, the second floor lined with cushioned chair seats for those who wished. Kate and I wished hard. The small girl usher, uniformed and with all her sweetest smiles, took the hint-no tips allowed-and placed us in full view of the audience below. It was divided in groups, each group in a square and each square covered with floor mats.

The

We were but two of a kind. crowd was many of the same species. It proved as diverting as the screen picture. The picture on the floor was of a different kind. Class prejudice gave up the ghost when movies reeled in. Rich and poor, high and low, unquestioningly sit where their tickets say they must. From our perch it was like roosting in a high tree and looking down into a manycolored flower-garden. Everybody was there who could get in. Fathers' and mothers' dark clothes were rimmed in by kimonos of many colors on the bodies of the young. The lights went down, the music began.

A professional story-teller stepped upon the stage. His the business of interpreting the picture that the onlookers might not have to make a guess. The

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story lost nothing in the telling, for, if the professor did not know the story, he did know his audience, and, being an imaginative soul, recited the tale of the picture according to his own light.

Kate said the man could have made his fortune as a seller of patent medicine. The picture was a thriller. So was the hero. And when, after overcoming astounding difficulties, this one-time champion boxer easily disposed of twenty highwaymen, the applause that greeted his victory was an echo of the cheers he has heard many times in reality. Of course I cheered. Wasn't the picture American and the leading man, too? And wasn't the orchestra playing "Aunt Dinah's Quilting Party"?

The unconquerable hero had been put to it for his life. He was trying to save it by swinging out on a flag-pole. The staff was giving way under his weight. Death waited on the pavement thirty stories below. It was stopped by a cry! "Wait! Wait! Give me a light!"

A

Up flashed the lights. In rushed the ushers. What do you suppose? woman had lost her baby. And at such a breathless time. In her excitement her son had rolled out of her lap. They found him curled up in the corner of the square. Still asleep, he was this time securely tied to Mamma San's back.

I suppose you think there are a good many babies in this merry tale I am trying to tell you. True enough. There are more of them in Japan than anything else. Hence their constant intrusion.

The picture which followed told a story of love with all the trials attached. The audience got more mirth out of that picture than most Americans do out of pure comedy. The more touching the scene the greater the glee.

I must confess the tale seemed to me a bit jerky and disconnected. I looked around to find Kate as hilarious as the rest. I asked for the joke. Here's the secret which everybody knows and hugely enjoys:

The up and coming Far-Old-East still declines to recognize kissing as a symbol