may still be there, for no one offered to pay her funeral expenses."

A great fear fell upon the samurai upon hearing these words, and he fled like one crazed with terror, for now he knew what had happened. The dead wife had not forgotten her love even in that land beyond the grave, and the gods had permitted her spirit to stay on earth until her husband came back for forgiveness. A sad story!

THE FLUTE-PLAYER.

THERE was once a man, in the country of Yamato, in good standing and respected by all his fellow citizens. He had an only daughter, a neat and pretty maiden, whom every body loved. At the same time there lived, in the province of Kawachi, a handsome young nobleman, who went to the capital city to enter the service of the emperor. He was a wonderful performer on the flute, and in many other things exhibited unusual talent.

Now, as this young nobleman had reached a marriageable age he wished to win a wife worthy of his rank and position. And so one day he heard that a most respectable gentleman living in Yamato had a finely educated and beautiful daughter. Without lengthy consideration he sent a letter to the parents, in which he most politely asked for the hand of their daughter in marriage. At first the young girl resisted all overtures and refused to become a bride; but because the young man bore such a good character, and held such a high office, her parents finally persuaded her to become his affianced. Then it was discovered that the bridegroom, in earlier years, had been the playmate of her childhood, and it soon followed that they loved each other with an undying affection. Three blissful years of married life passed, when the husband was seized with a sudden illness. Quickly the fond wife summoned the most celebrated physician, purchased the most costly medicines, and did all in her power to check the cruel disease.

But all efforts and her untiring devotion proved unavailing, for in a few days her beloved died. Months passed, but the grief of the wife was just as intense as in the first days of her terrible bereavement. From morning until night she wept over his untimely death, and withdrew herself entirely from society and the world. Thus passed three long years.

And so it happened in a month of autumn, at midnight, the griefstricken widow lay in her bed weeping bitterly as though her tears would flow forever; when suddenly, hark! the sweet tones of a flute floated through the window. "Ah," sighed she, "my darling used to play just so, and the ache in her heart was overpowering. Nearer and nearer the sounds came, louder and clearer each dulcet note, until the fluteplayer seemed to halt just beneath her window.

"Open, open!" whispered a well known voice. Hastily the wife sprang from her bed, rushed to the window, threw open the casement, and beheld her long-lost husband standing before the house. He had not in the least changed, only that he looked pale and anxious. And as she stood undecided, half joyous, half alarmed, the stately figure began softly, softly to sing these words: Shide no yama koenishi hito no hakanaki wa Koishiki hito ni awanu nari keri!

"Your husband's greatest pain since death, is this: that he cannot remain near you, heart's beloved." So they stood opposite each other spell-bound, when, suddenly, his form was enveloped in lurid flames, and puff!—a cloud of smoke issued from his breast. Dumb with horror, the wife still stood at the window. "Why do you fear, asked the figure?" you because your tears followed me beyond the grave, and because your love is so true. For very pity, the king of purgatory has permitted me to visit you for a few brief moments; but I see that you are frightened and. so I will at once return to my place. But remember, dear wife, that three times

"I came to

daily my body must burn in flames because

of my return to the earth and to you. And in an instant he disappeared. So reads the old legend.

THE BURIAL AT MIDNIGHT.

NOT far from Kyôto, in the smiling hilllands of Harima, there is a broad, open plain known as the "Field of Inami." Although surrounded by verdant hillsides, this plain is bleak and barren; great gusts of wind sweep over the long, dry grasses, and no farmer or peasant has ever found a home in this desolate spot. Yet the great highway to Kyôto runs just along one side of the plain, and on this road a postman used to carry his load of letters once or twice every week. A little by-path leads across one corner of the plain, lessening the distance to the city, and this path was a great favorite with the postman, as it made his journey so much the shorter.

Going one day as usual to Kyôto, he reached the field a little later than was his wont, and night came on before he had advanced very far. Without a light or the means of procuring one, he wandered aimlessly on for a while, but finally seeing that he had missed the path in the darkness resolved to pass the night where he was, with the sky for a coverlet. Without giving a second thought to all the ugly stories told of the field, the ghosts and malicious fox-sprites said to hold their revels in that spot, the postman bravely determined to make the best of it and was just looking for some sort of shelter when he caught sight of a little, half-ruined hut. Drawing nearer, he found that it was a sort of watch-house, such as the peasants build near the rice fields in order to protect the growing grain. Overjoyed at having found even this poor shelter, the postman entered the little hut, and throwing himself on a heap of dry grass, was soon fast asleep. Perfect silence reigned over the sterile plain, only every now and then the far-off hoot of an owl or the plaintive cry of

some night bird broke the stillness of the night.

Several hours had passed, when the sleeper was suddenly awakened by the deep, sonorous note of a bell. The sound seemed to come from the western portion of the field, and all at once the startled sleeper heard the tramping as of many feet, and a confused murmur of Buddhist chants and prayers. Nearer and nearer came the crowd of people, to the listener's great astonishment. "There are no houses in the field," thought he, and anyhow no one would think of going at midnight to such a deserted and ill-omened spot." The stars were shining brightly, but no moon illumined the scene, so that the trembling postman could only see objects very near him. Nevertheless he

peeped cautiously out of his hiding-place and saw, to his unbounded surprise, a long procession of men bearing torches and lanterns. In front of all marched a tall priest, reciting the Buddhist invocation, Namu Amida Butsu, in a loud, clear voice. "It is a funeral procession!" thought the frightened listener, and crept farther back into the shadows of the hut.

As soon as the mournful company reached the little hut a halt was made and the coffinbearers stepped forward. Scarce five paces from the hut the grave was dug and the coffin placed in it. The priest then threw the earth back into the grave, built a little mound above it, and placed a few sticks covered with Buddhist characters in one end of the mound. Without further words the sombre procession turned back, and walked slowly off in the same solemn and impressive manner, leaving the poor postman in a most pitiable frame of mind. It was bad enough to have to spend the night in such an uncanny and gruesome spot; but the late hour, mysterious burial, and the proximity of the freshly dug grave were enough to frighten the bravest heart.

As if chained to the spot by some evil

spell, the postman kept staring at the little mound before him. Suddenly, while he was gazing fixedly at the grave, it began to rock slowly from side to side. Quicker and quicker became the rocking, while the involuntary spectator underwent an agony of terror. Faster and faster still, rocked the mound, until it fell over with a great shock, and a naked, horrid thing jumped from the grave and ran towards the postman. In an instant he remembered that horrible ghouls always attend a burial and that these ghouls often kill and eat living beings. There was no time to lose, for the creature had reached the entrance of the hut. Crazed with fear, the postman drew his sword and made one desperate cut at his enemy, and then, without daring to give a second blow, ran out of the hut and into the night.

Hours seemed to have passed before the postman arrived, half-dead with exhaustion. and panting for breath, at the house of a peasant just beyond the outskirts of the field. He knocked again and again, but no one came in answer, and so he had to wait for the day to dawn. Shortly after sunrise, the people in the house arose, and hearing the knocking took the still breathless wanderer into the guest chamber, where they attended to his pitiable state and then begged him to relate what had befallen him. This he did, and the peasants at once determined to go to the little hut in the field of Inami, which was well known to them. Upon arriving at the spot, they found no signs of a burial or

of a grave. Mound and coffin had utterly disappeared. But just in front of the hut lay the body of a huge badger, killed by the one cut of that good steel. At once they saw what had happened. The evil beast had wished to frighten the belated wanderer; and funeral procession and priest, coffin and grave, had been merely the work of magic.

THE RED MANTLE.

SEVERAL hundred years ago there was an old building, known as the Sôzudono, at the

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south end of the Reizei-in temple in Kyôto. At one side of the mansion grew an enormous enoki tree, which was famous in all the country round about. Every evening, just as the sun sank beneath the horizon, a red mantle used to fly, just like a bird, from the window of one of the upper chambers in the old mansion. Slowly and with a mysterious rustling noise the cloak sailed out into the night as if impelled by some invisible power, flew high through the air and perched finally on the topmost branch of the enoki tree.

In the neighborhood of the great house lived a knight named Minamoto no Koresuke, who bore a high reputation for his coolness and bravery. One day some persons who lived in the lower rooms of the old mansion told this knight the strange story of the flying mantle, and he instantly resolved to discover the secret of the phenomenon. comrades begged him not to set out on so foolish an enterprise, and assured him that he would never be able to touch the mantle either with sword or spear.

His

After the knight had made all the necessary preparations, he went, just before sunset, to the foot of the enoki tree and there awaited the appearance of the mysterious mantle. The sun set, and as the last rays faded in the twilight, the red mantle floated slowly towards the great tree. In an instant the watcher fitted an arrow to his string, then drew the bow until its horns kissed and sent a barbed arrow straight into the centre of the red mantle. Without stopping, however, the mantle flew to the topmost branch of the tree. Only where the arrow had wounded it one could see large drops of crimson blood.

Proud of his successful shot, the marksman went straightway to the house of one of his friends, where he told his story to a wondering crowd of those who had believed. the red mantle invulnerable. In silence they listened to what he had to say, and then, having taken full credit for his

skill, the knight returned to his dwelling.

Early next morning several inquisitive neighbors came to the house to congratulate the knight and hear the particulars of his lucky shot. But no one replied to their repeated calls, and when they finally forced open the door and entered the room there lay the proud marksman stiff and cold upon his couch. He had died in the night.

THE RUINED TEMPLE.

The peo

MANY years ago, an aged couple had occasion to leave their home in a far distant province and travel to a southern city. They were poor and had to trudge wearily along on foot, and were only too glad to rest at night in a deserted house or under the roof of some friendly shrine. ple along the road were kind and hospitable; but the old couple came of a noble family, and preferred rather to trust to their own scanty store rather than accept the hospitality of their would-be entertainers. For this reason, too, they often passed the nights in lonely spots, and sometimes in haunted rooms which no one else dared to approach after nightfall. Many strange sights had they seen and even met with goblins, sprites and pixies; but their guileless life was their safeguard, and an invocation to Buddha always kept the fiends at a distance.

After they had traveled more than half the journey, they came one evening to a little village in the hills. They were made welcome, as usual, by the simple cottagers, but refusing all proffered hospitality, asked if there was not an old temple or ruined house near the hamlet, where they might spend the night without incommoding the villagers. "Yes," was the reply, "just on the outskirts of the hamlet is an old temple, known as the Kawara-no-in. But it has long been avoided by all prudent people. For some time ago a wicked priest lived there, who did many evil deeds. When he passed away a malicious demon of prodigious

strength took up his abode in the temple, and those who have passed by the ill-omened place after nightfall tell strange stories of dreadful sounds and sights." "We fear nothing," replied the old man with dignity. No fiend can harm us, and there will we rest until the day dawns."

The villagers urged them not to go thither, and prophesied all manner of evil if they should persist in their reckless determination. But the old couple would not listen to their friendly counsels, and took the road that led to the unholy shrine.

The temple was half-hidden by dark groups of giant cedars and fir trees, while tangled vines and dwarf shrubs grew along the unfrequented path. The man strode on ahead, and pushing aside the great temple door entered into the gloomy rooms. The pale moonbeams threw an uncertain light into the ruined temple, and disclosed two large chambers, in one of which the couple resolved to pass the night. Strange wailings as of unhappy spirits swept through the sombre trees, and no bird or beast ventured to seek shelter in that mournful spot.

Undismayed, yet with an awful sense of the loneliness of their situation, the old travelers made their simple preparations for the night, and being tired from their day's journey were soon sound asleep. Just as the midnight hour arrived, the huge bell on the temple porch began to vibrate and ring as if tolled by invisible hands. "Come here, come here," whispered a hoarse, hollow voice. Springing from their couch, the couple looked around to ascertain whence the voice came, but could see no one. last the old woman resolved to enter the adjoining room to discover whether any one might be there. Her husband bade her stay by his side, but she resolved to confront the demon, if one was there, and pushed past him into the fatal room. Instantly the door closed behind her, and then the husband heard wild shrieks of agony and cries for help. Exerting all his strength he tried to

At

force the heavy door aside, but it was held as if by some mighty hand, and with a fainting heart he was compelled to listen to the pitiful cries of his wife until the dreadful sounds died away to a whisper and all was still again. At this moment an armed band of villagers, carrying flaming torches, burst into the temple. They had heard the distant cries for help, and had resolved to save life if they could. Their united strength finally forced the door open and thendreadful sight! they saw what had hap

pened. Hanging from a tall pole were the bones and skin of the wretched woman, but every bit of her flesh had been eaten by the demon, and large patches of blood on the floor and walls marked the scene of a desperate conflict.

Turning to the old man they carried him gently away from the fearful spot. But when they lifted him from the ground they saw that he, too, had passed the river of death. His spirit had aready followed the pale shade of his wife.

F. Warrington Eastlake.

WE READ of the wild tribes of Siberia, who, mounted on swift horses, were more terrible in their retreats from steppe to steppe than the cavalry of a Stuart in the advance; also of Arabs, Bedouins of the desert, who could hide horses and luggage in some deep cut of the plain, spring up suddenly and fight furiously, and then disappear with the rapid motion of a windcloud. Our Piutes and their allies had some of these characteristics. Thus some years before, by quick ambush and swift retreat, they set a high officer and all the cavalry with him afoot; so that crest-fallen, defeated, and half-starved, he and his found their way to a distant frontier post, and were forced to begin their campaign over again. Some gray heads around me, recalling this incident, when it was known that Chief Egan was leading the hostiles, and that some smart Umatillas had joined him, predicted similar results. Ah, General, Indian Egan is great on hiding and running. He always takes to the wooded mountains. He is wary and swift!"

We have noticed Pilot Rock, a little hamlet north of the famous Blue Ridge -

not far from the present charming town of Heppner as the place where my pursuing column formed junction with Colonel Wheaton's men. Our scouts told me that I had passed the Indians, that is, all except those before named, who were farther north and trying to cross the Columbia. There were two streams of water that had their rise in the Blue Ridge, a few miles southeast of Pilot Rock, and ran northeasterly, and emptied into the Umatilla, and swelling that bigger stream, passed on into the grand Columbia near Umatilla Town. The mouths of these two streams or creeks (called Butter and Birch) are miles apart, but their headwaters are near together; so near in fact that the numerous little rivulets coursing around among the abrupt hills and tumbling down the mountain cañons hardly can determine which creek-bed to take, till some chance knoll or rock has checked and turned their course to its proper destination. O, how rough that foot-hill country! There high knolls rounded off between the creeks; deep ravines and high bluffs to the right and left; and behind all these, higher and higher steeps, with an open grazing space, the