What the Stars Said One Night
Ogawa Mimei
IT was a night of bitter cold. The blue sky was as clear as a polished mirror. Not a cloud was in sight, and the wind was whimpering in the wintry air.
Seen from the distant height of the stars, the earth appeared to be wrapped in a pure-white blanket of snow.
Still was the big wheel of the watermill, which never seemed to stop turning; and still was the little river, which never seemed to stop flowing. Everything was frozen stiff by the cold. And a sheet of ice lay thick over the rice fields.
“The world looks very cold and quiet,” said one star to another.
Now the stars in the sky do not ordinarily talk. Only on cold nights like this, when there are no clouds, and the wind is not so strong, do they ever think to engage in conversation. Indeed, the stars love nothing more than a cold and quiet night in winter. They do not care for noise at all, they have such soft and delicate voices. And so they prefer to converse during the first few hours after midnight, these being the coldest, quietest hours of all.
“Surely all things are asleep tonight,” responded the other; “the trees in the fields, the beasts in the hills, and the fish in the waters.”
“Not all things,” said a third star. It was a little gentle star, who watched over the earth every night with fascination. “I am looking into the house of a poor family, where I can see two children, a girl and boy, sleeping soundly after a day of tiring labour. The girl works in a factory, and the boy sells newspapers at a stop on the tram line. They are very good children. And though they are quite young, they understand that they must work to support their family. Their mother is with her newborn, for whom she cannot produce enough milk, she is so frail. See her now standing by the iron stove, warming a pan of the milk that her baby is crying for.”
“Of what are the children dreaming?” asked one of the stars. “I hope that they are at least happy in their dreams!”
“Well,” said the gentle star; “the girl is dreaming that she is walking in the park with her friend. It is a spring day, and all of the flowers are in bloom. The two children are telling each other the names of all the flowers that they are passing by. Look, she is smiling!”
“And the boy?”
“Yesterday, when he was selling papers at the tram stop, a big dog leaped out and barked at him. How scared he was! Now the image appears to be stuck in his head. And in his dream he is crying, for he is being chased by that big, scary dog. Look, the hot tears are rolling down his little round cheeks in the low candle light.”
“The poor child,” murmured a distant star, who until then had not spoken a word. “If only somebody would do something for him.”
“I will give him a gentle shake, without waking him—just enough to let him know that he is dreaming. There, now he is sleeping peacefully.”
This put the other stars at ease. Only they still felt sorry for the poor mother, heating the pan of milk by herself in the cold, cold night.
The stars twinkled softly.
“Is anyone else awake?” asked a star all of a sudden. It was the blind star of Fate.
“There is a train working all night,” answered the gentle star who always had an eye on the world below, and knew all about its goings-on.
“A train?” said the blind star.
“It has left the crowded city for the empty fields, and is now heading for the mountain pass. It is carrying people who are travelling far away. The people are all tired and trying to catch some rest. But the train is not resting at all; it is working very hard.”
“But how is it not tired?” wondered the blind star.
“Because its body is made of hard steel,” answered the gentle star.
“Steel!” said the blind star, indignantly. “Is there really such a hard and arrogant thing? I never would have guessed it.” And it let out a terrible flash, for it feared that the hard thing called ‘Steel’ was attempting to rebel against its fate.
“But,” said the gentle star, “how could a mere train rebel against you, who presides over the fates of all things? To be sure, trains and railways may be built with steel, but they eventually fall into disrepair. Meanwhile, you rule over everything. In fact, I cannot imagine there being anything in the universe that is not afraid of you.”
The blind star smiled and nodded with satisfaction.
An hour went by. The wind picked up, signalling that the dawn would be soon approaching.
The stars twinkled softly.
“Anything else?” said a star at last.
“Actually,” said the gentle star, narrowing its gaze; “I can see two smokestacks arguing over who is the first to wake each morning.”
On a plot of newly-developed land there stood two factories, a Spinning Mill and a Paper Mill. Every morning at five o’clock the factories blew their steam whistles, one after the other. Standing tall against the cold and starlit sky, the smokestacks of the factories were arguing about whose steam whistle had gone off first the day before.
“It was my steam whistle that sounded first!” said the Paper Mill’s Smokestack.
“Nonsense!” said the Spinning Mill’s Smokestack. “It was mine!”
It was a vain dispute.
“I want you to pay close attention today,” demanded the Paper Mill’s Smokestack.
“Likewise!” demanded the Spinning Mill’s Smokestack. “But you should know that without a third-party, we are likely to have yet another argument.”
“I will grant you that.”
The gentle star overhead their conversation.
“Listen,” it said to the other stars; “the smokestacks want a witness to determine which one of them will be the first to blow their steam whistle this morning.”
“Is there anybody who can help?” asked a star.
“On such a cold morning?” wondered another. “Why, everyone is surely under the covers, oblivious to the sound of steam whistles. That is, everyone but the children who must get to the factory early to help support their families.”
“That’s right,” said the gentle star. “In fact, the two poor children whom we saw earlier are now wide-awake in their beds.”
The girl and boy were indeed awake in their beds.
“It’s almost morning,” said the boy, rubbing his eyes. Then, when he thought of how he had to sell newspapers at the tram stop again, he remembered the scary dog and winced.
“Close your eyes,” said the girl; “at least until the steam whistle blows. I will make us breakfast.” And she got out of bed and went into the kitchen.
Her mother was there. She was still awake.
“It is terribly cold out,” said the mother. “Go back to bed, and let me make you breakfast. I will call you when it’s ready. Besides, the steam whistle has not yet sounded.”
“Did the baby sleep well?”
“No, it was too cold. It only fell asleep now.”
The girl did not go back to bed. She helped her mother in the kitchen.
Seen from up above, the earth appeared to be wrapped in a pure-white blanket of snow. Here and there, people were beginning to stir from their sleep. One by one, the stars dimmed and went out, though it was still too early for the sun to rise.
Written by Ogawa Mimei | Translated by Adam Kuplowsky
「ある夜の星だちの話」, 時事新報, 7 January 1924
Illustrations taken from the December 1935 issue of Infanoj sur tutmondo, an Esperanto children’s literature journal in which a translation of the above story appeared in part.
Ogawa Mimei (1882-1961): Author of short stories and children’s literature, much of which had a socialist bent. He has been called “the Hans Christian Andersen of Japan” and “the father of modern Japanese children’s literature”. (Japan)