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Updated: May 27, 2025
In San Francisco the priest of Japan, abroad to study strange lands, sat in his lacquer chair, with face like soft-yellow and wrinkled parchment. Slowly he wrote in a great and golden book: "I have been strangely bidden to the Val d' Osta, where one of those religious cults that swarm here will welcome a prophet. I shall go and report to Kioto."
Around me sat color in human flesh brown that crimsoned readily; dim soft-yellow that escaped description; cream-like duskiness that shadowed to rich tints of autumn leaves. And yet a suggested journey in the world brought no response. "I should think you would like to travel," said the white one. But no, the thought of a journey seemed to depress them. Did you ever see a "Jim-Crow" waiting-room?
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