Beyond Ungan Tample in this province are the remains of the hermitage of my religious instructor, Buccho Osho. He once sent me a poem:

The grass thatched hut
Does not measure even five feet
In height and width:
I might knock it into bundles
If it did not save me from the rains.

"I wrote these two stanzas on a rock near the hut, using a piece of charcoal," he added.

A crowd of people decided on teir own to come with me when I spoke of going back for a look at the remains, walking off with my staff to Ungan Temple. There was a large number of young people among them who led us a merry time until, without realizing it, we had arrived at the foothill below the temple. The mountains appeared to extend a great distance beyond, and the paths through the valleys grew ever fainter in the distance. The pines and cedars clustered darkly together, the mosses beneath them dripping with water. Even the summer sky, which ought to have been sunny clear through, was cold to look upon. At a place outside the gate to the temple grounds, there is a spot from which one can see all ten famous views. We stood there for a time by a bridge, and then crossed it, entering into the main gate.

Now we wondered where we might find traces of Buccho's hermitage and so scaled the mountain behind the temple, discovering the tiny hut built on stones and backing upon a cave. Its appearance brought to mind the deathly isolation of Priest Yuan Miao and the hut on the rocks of Priest Fa Yun.

The noisy woodpecker, too,
Spares the hut still standing in silence
In summer-clustered trees.

I left that patchwork of verses on a beam.