The remaining man was standing under the eaves of a thatched house in a corner of the flailing floor far from the other two. He had on the tip of his chin a mere excuse for a beard like a rat’s tail and was dressed in a long black gown reaching to the ground, tied with an untidily knotted brown sash. Since he now and then fanned himself importantly with a fan of white feathers, he was, of course, a Confucian scholar or something of the kind.
All three held their tongues as if by agreement. Moreover they did not even move freely, and it seemed as if, deeply interested in something that was about to happen, they were all holding their breath.
It seemed to be just noon. Not a dog’s bark was to be heard, doubtless because the dogs were all taking their midday naps. The hemp and millet plants around the flailing floor stood still and motionless, with their green leaves shining in the sunlight. In all the sky beyond them, a sultry mist floated stiflingly hot, and it seemed that even the cloud masses were gasping for breath in this drought. As far as eye could see, the only things that seemed to be alive were these three men. And they kept silent like the clay figures in the shrines of Kwanti.
Of course this is not a Japanese story. It is an account of what happened one summer’s day on the flailing floor of a man named Liu at Changshan in China.