For four or five days beforehand, Mount Ashigara had looked frighteningly dark and thick with trees. As we went gradually into the mountains, even at the foot we could not see the sky clearly. The trees grew so thick it was beyond words, and it was very frightening.
When we lodged at the foot, it was a dark night without a moon, as if we would lose our way in the darkness, when three singing women came out from somewhere. One was about fifty, one about twenty, one fourteen or fifteen. We spread an umbrella in front of the hut and had them sit there. When the servants lit a fire and looked, they said they were granddaughters of a singing woman of old called Kohata.
Their hair was very long, their front locks fell beautifully, they were fair-skinned and neat, and people were admiring them: "Even as they are, they would pass as maids in a good household." Then their voices were beyond compare, and they sang so wonderfully it seemed to rise clear into the sky. People were deeply moved, called them close and enjoyed them, and when someone said, "The singers of the western provinces could never sing like this," the women deftly sang back, "Compared with those of Naniwa…"
They looked so neat and pretty, and sang with voices beyond compare, and then went off into those frightening mountains; people, not having had enough, were sorry to see them go, and all wept, and to my young heart even leaving this lodging felt full of regret.
Before dawn we crossed Mount Ashigara. The fearfulness of the mountains was all the more beyond words. We walked with the clouds beneath our feet. In a small spot under the trees halfway up, just three stems or so of aoi were growing, and people were moved: "To think it grows in mountains like these."