Transcription
The first part consists of three Chinese poems: One is titled the End of the Year, another is an incomplete one about pine trees and the moon, and the last is a part of the Chinese poet Gao Qi’s Plum Blossoms. The second part is a prose about a trip to Arashyama, Kyoto in 1878. The last part is about a plum-viewing trip to Tsukigase, Nara in 1879.
The author signs himself as a student at the 25th Shimogyo School, an elementary school which was located in Wakamatsucho, Shimogyo, Kyoto.
The second part:
A Trip to Arashiyama Gorge
After the major exam in the spring of this year, the 11th year of Meiji [1878], I happened to have a day off, and was playing with plants and flowers in the backyard. At that time, two or three of my friends came and invited me to a trip to Arashiyama Gorge. I gladly accepted it, immediately dressed myself and accompanied them.
When we took Shijo Street and arrived in the western suburbs, mists were trailing, and the sign of spring was evident. Men and women were endlessly passing by, chatting and laughing, with portable meals on their backs and sake gourds in their hands. When I looked around in all directions, green wheat had slightly grown, and rapeseed flowers were all yellow. Skylarks were trilling in the sky, and butterflies were playing in the fields. I felt exactly as if I had forgotten the worldly affairs.
Without being bothered by the distance, after passing through Uzumasa, we arrived at an end of Togetsukyo Bridge. The east bank of the river was lined with green bamboo blinds, and seating stands were filled with noisy tourists. There was hardly any room to stand.
Then we walked and looked around in search of an empty pavilion, but in vain. When we arrived at a slope of the gorge, we managed to find a small pavilion and took a rest. As it was the flowering season, blossoms were trying to bloom even a day ahead of others. Sewn with jade-green pines and green cedars in between, they looked as if brocade and embroidery were spread out. It was the waterfall that was making sounds of water crashing against rocks. It was a fishing tourist that was standing still on the west cliff hanging a hook. With rafts afloat and the bridge lying down as well, it was scenery of such enormous beauty that no painter could paint it and no literati could draw it.
We ordered sake and dishes in a hurry, ate and drank while looking out, and got so drunk together that we forgot to come home. At that time, the evening sun was setting, and the dusk was fading out. After we rushed home by rickshaw, I have drawn a lamp near and written this.
