But Tara did not like such serious talk. "How does the earth get back on the mountain--the earth that the pilgrims bring down every day on their sandals?" he asked. "It is said that it goes back of itself by night," his grandmother replied, and added, "but I would rather speak of the path of straw sandals which the pilgrims leave behind them as they toil up the rough sides of Fujiyama." "Then what do they do?" asked Umé. "They take many pairs with them, so that when one pair is worn out they may have others." "But I thought the pilgrims were honorably poor," said Umé. "Not always," said her grandmother. "And sandals cost but an insignificant sum. A pair may be bought for a few rin." "Then I will go myself, some time," said Umé, as if the only reason she had never been to the mountain-top was because she had never known the price of sandals. But before they could say anything more they were in Yokohama, where they were to leave the train and ride in jinrikishas to Kamakura. After they had left this city, with its busy streets, its harbor dotted with boats and big foreign ships riding at anchor, the road led along a bluff from which there was a beautiful view of the bay. It was intensely hot and the noonday sun beat fiercely down upon them. Umé held a big paper parasol carefully over her grandmother, and Tara and his father waved their fans slowly back and forth to catch the little breezes from the sea. In the distance were green fields of rice, little vegetable farms, tiny houses, low blue hills, and beyond all, Fujiyama, rising majestically to the clear blue sky. [Illustration: Fujiyama, the Sacred Mountain. _Page 69._] As they were whirled past a little village they heard a deep booming sound, and caught sight of an immense drum under an open shed, which was being beaten by two men. "What is that?" asked Tara. "Everywhere there has been no rain and the rice is drying in the fields," replied his father, "so drums are beaten and prayers are made to the gods that it may rain." "Water is truly desirable," said Tara. "My unworthy throat is this moment as dry as the rice fields." "Not far before us is a rocky pool shaded by ancient pines," said his father. "There pure august water will be given." The rocky pool was a delightful resting-place. The stone basin was filled with water by a spring that leaped out of the heart of the cliff. The water overflowed the basin and formed a stream which ran along beside the road. Many travelers were sitting on low benches under the pines, the men smoking and the women and children chatting merrily. Two women were washing clothes in the brook, and Tara and his sisters slipped off their sandals and white tabi, tucked up their kimonos and splashed about in the water. The mother took the food from the lunch boxes, spread it on dainty paper napkins and called the children to come and eat.