I trust that all are familiar with the bamboo lattice fence. It's the simplest of fences, open and airy. One like myself can pass at will through its openings. Its presence in no way hinders me. Then again, the principal of Rakuunkan did not build his bamboo fence on account of us cats. He brought in his workers, rather, to restrict the wanderings of the young gentlemen under his charge. And that it does. While breezes pass easily through, human beings do not. Even Chōseison himself, the great Chinese illusionist, would struggle to slip through its squares, tied off as they are with stiff bamboo at twelve or so centimeters on a side. Where humans are concerned, the lattice fence is effective and functional. It's understandable, then, that the master would gaze with joyful satisfaction on the finished fence, believing his problems behind him. However, there was a tremendous gap in the master's reasoning. A gap larger than the fence itself. A gap through which even the famed colossal fish, large enough to swallow a boat, could easily slip. The master supposed that fences are not to be breached. He supposed that any fence worth calling a fence, even of simplest build, sufficed to mark a boundary. And he supposed that any student worth calling a student would respect such boundary and refrain from intrusion. Supposing for the moment one did wish to intrude, he assured himself that all was still well. The bamboo lattice was tight enough to thwart even the smallest of boys. Therefore, he concluded in his haste, the fear of intrusion was nil. Rightly enough, unless they were cats there was no way they'd pass through that fence. Much as they'd like to, it just wasn't possible. At the same time, though, to hop it or climb it was easy enough. To do so, in fact, was great sport.