"Yes?"
"He is engaged to my little sister."
"Engaged?"
'My, you're persistent!"
'But I don't understand."
'They're going to be married."
"What? You mean he's going to be my mother's little sister's husband?" Hiyoshi seemed satisfied, and laughed.
His mother, when she looked at his toothy, impudent grin, even though he was her own child, could only think of him as a precocious little brat.
“Mother, there's a sword about this big in the storage shed, isn't there?"
“There is. What do you want with it?"
“Won't you let me have it? It's all beat up, and Father doesn't use it anymore."
“Playing war games again?"
“It's all right, isn't it?"
“Absolutely not!"
“Why not?"
“What's going to happen if a farmer's son gets used to wearing a sword?"
“Well, one day I'm going to be a samurai." He stamped his foot like a spoiled child, thinking the matter closed. His mother glared at him, and her eyes filled with tears.
“Fool!" she scolded him, and, clumsily wiping away her tears, she pulled him along by the hand. "Just for a bit, try to be a help to your sister and draw some water." Dragging him along by force, she went back to the house.
“No! No!" Hiyoshi fought her, yelling and digging his heels into the dirt. "No! I hate you! You're stupid! No!"
His mother pulled him along, imposing her will. Just then the sound of a cough, mixed with smoke from the hearth, came through the bamboo-screened window. When he heard his father's voice, Hiyoshi's shoulders shrank and he became silent. Yaemon was only about forty, but, condemned to spend his days as a cripple, he had the raspy, coughing voice of a man past fifty.
“I’ll tell your father you're giving me too much trouble," his mother said, loosening her grip. He covered his face with his hands and wiped his eyes as he cried softly.
Looking at this little boy who was too hard to handle, his mother wondered what was to become of him?
Onaka! Why are you shouting at Hiyoshi again? It's unbecoming. What business do you have fighting with your own child and crying like that?" asked Yaemon through the window, in the shrill voice of a sick man.
“You should scold him then," Onaka said reproachfully.
Yaemon laughed. "Why? Because he wants to play with my old sword?"
“Yes."
“He was just playing."
“Yes, and he shouldn't be doing that."
“He's a boy, and my son, too. Is it really so bad? Give him the sword!"
Onaka looked toward the window in amazement and bit her lip in frustration.
I won! Hiyoshi exulted, enjoying his victory, but only for a moment. As soon as he saw the tears streaming down his mother's pale cheeks, his victory felt hollow.
“Oh, stop crying! I don't want the sword anymore. I'll go help my sister." He ran off to the kitchen, where his sister was bent over, blowing into the clay oven through a bamboo stalk to bring the firewood to life.
Hiyoshi bounded in, saying, "Hey, shall I fetch the water?"
"No, thank you," Otsumi answered, timidly looking up in surprise. Wondering what he was up to, she shook her head.
Hiyoshi lifted the lid off the water jar and peered inside. "It's already full. Shall I mash up the bean paste?"
"No! Don't be a bother!"
"A bother? All I want to do is help. Let me do something for you. Shall I fetch the pickles?"
"Didn't Mother go and get them just now?"
"Well, what can I do?"
"If you only behaved yourself, that'd make Mother happy."
"Why, aren't I behaving now? Is there a fire in the oven? I'll start it for you. Move over."
"I'm doing fine!"
"If you'd just move…"
"Look what you did! You put it out!"
"Liar! You're the one who put it out!"
"That's not so."
"Loudmouth!"
Hiyoshi, impatient with the firewood that wouldn't ignite, slapped his sister on the cheek. Otsumi cried loudly and complained to her father. Since they were next to the living room, very soon their father's voice thundered in Hiyoshi's ears.
"Don't hit your sister! It doesn't do for a man to hit women! Hiyoshi, come in here this minute!"