In various parts of the country I came upon smallholders who had reached a high degree of proficiency in the fine art of dwarfing trees.  One day I stopped to speak with a farmer who by this art had added 1,000 yen a year to his agricultural income.  A thirty-years-old maple was one of his triumphs.  Another was a pomegranate about a foot and a half high.  It was in flower and would bear fruit of ordinary size.  The wonder of dwarfing is wrought, as is now well known, by cramping the roots in the pot and by extremely skilful pruning, manuring and watering.  While we drank tea some choice specimens were displayed before a screen of unrelieved gold.  In the room in which we sat the farmer had arranged in a bowl of water with great effectiveness hydrangea, a spray of pomegranate and a cabbage.

One marks the respect shown to the rural policeman.  In his summer uniform of white cotton, with his flat white cap and white gloves, and an imposing sword, he looks like a naval officer, even if, as sometimes happens, his feet are in zori.  He gets respect because of his dignified presence and sense of official duty, because of the considerable powers which he is able to exercise, because he stands for the Government, and because he is sometimes of a higher social grade than that to which policemen belong in other countries.  At the Restoration many men of the samurai class did not think it beneath them to enter the new sword-wearing police force and they helped to give it a standing which has been maintained.  As to the policeman being a representative of the Government, the ordinary Japanese has a way of speaking of the Government doing this or that as if the Government were irresistible power.  Average Japanese do not yet conceive the Government as something which they have made and may unmake[44].  But is it likely that they should, parliamentary history, the work of their betters, being as short as it is?  It is not whithout significance that the Chambers of the Diet are housed in temporary wooden buildings.

The rural policeman is not only a paternal guardian of the peace but an administrative official.  He keeps an eye on public health.  He is charged with correctly maintaining the record of names and addresses—­and some other particulars—­of everybody in the village.  It is his duty to secure correct information as to the name, age, place of origin and real business of every stranger.  He attends all public meetings, even of the young men’s and young women’s associations, and no strolling players can give their entertainment without his presence.  As to the movements of strangers, my own were obviously well known.  Indeed a friend told me that in the event of my losing myself I had only to ask a policeman and he would be able to tell me where I was expected next!  At the houses of well-to-do people I was struck by the way in which the local police officer—­sometimes, no doubt, a sergeant or perhaps a man of the rank of our superintendent or chief constable—­called with the headman and joined our kneeling circle in the reception-room.  Nominally he came to pay his respects, but his chief object, no doubt, was to take stock of what was going on.  I invariably took the opportunity of closely interviewing him.