This book was awarded the John Newbery Medal by the Children’s Librarians’ Section of the American Library Association, for the most distinguished contribution to American Children’s literature during the year 1925.

SHEN OF THE SEA

A Book for Children

BY

ARTHUR BOWIE CHRISMAN

“Author of The Wind That Wouldn’t Blow”

Illustrated with over Fifty Silhouettes

BY

ELSE HASSELRIIS

NEW YORK

E. P. DUTTON & CO., Inc.

Copyright 1925 by

E. P. DUTTON & CO., INC.

Copyright renewal 1953

by Arthur Bowie Chrisman

————————

Thirty-fifth Printing November 1966

Printed in the U. S. A.

To

V. T. S.

This Book

Is Dedicated

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

I have heard

That the Plain of Fat Melons

Is more than flat.

It is hollowed like a bowl.

And my purse

Was quite as flat.

Then the Philadelphia North American,

And What To Do, of Elgin,

Bought some of my stories—

Paying good round money—

Which the baker was quick to take from me.

Furthermore,

These papers

Have given permission

To put the stories in a Book.

And the Book

Is open before you.

The North American,

And What To Do,

Have been as kind to me

As Wu Ta Lang was

To the red cherry tree.

And I thank them—

Not once—but twice—

And twice that—

More times than there are leaves

In Hu Pei Forest.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

SHEN OF THE SEA

SHEN OF THE SEA

AH MEE’S INVENTION

“A shamelessly rainy day, my honorable Brother Chi.”

“That is truth, esteemed Brother Cha. It rains perfectly hard. There will be plenty of leisure in which to beat the children.”

Ching Chi was merely quoting an old Swa Tou saying. Every one knows that on rainy days old and young are crowded, arm against elbow, in the house; often to get in each the other’s way—and misunderstandings are likely to arise. Then the bamboo is brought into play—and there are wailings. That is how the Swa Tou saying originated. When Ching Chi used it, he did so in fun, and, no doubt, to make talk.

But Ching Cha thought that his brother was speaking with earnestness. His face, made glum by the rain and by secret troubles, brightened at such a pleasing prospect. “Ho. Leisure to beat the children? What an utterly excellent idea. I, myself, will cut bamboos for your hand. Ah Mee is the one to beat. He played at being a mad wild elephant—oh, so perfectly wild, and with such trampling—in the midst of my huang ya tsai patch.”

Ching Chi seemed altogether astonished. His face showed that he thought Ching Cha must be overstepping the truth. “What? What do you say to me, honorable Brother Cha? Ah Mee playing wild elephant in your cabbage patch? But I thought that I told him, emphatically, to break no more of your cabbages.”

“It is no blemish upon my lips. It is the truth,” said Ching Cha, sullen and hurt because Chi disbelieved. “He played elephant in my cabbages. Come and I will show you.”

“Oh, no.” Ching Chi shook his head. “It is raining far too hard. I’ll speak of the matter again to my son.”

Ching Cha adjusted his wei li (rain hat) the straighter and shuffled off through the downpour. As he went he muttered something that sounded like “Wou ton meng.” If that is what he really said, he called Ching Chi a stupid old noddy.

But Ching Chi merely laughed. He had no intention of beating Ah Mee, his “pearl in the palm,” his son.

Now whether Ching Chi was right or wrong is a pretty question. Some persons answer it one way, and some, another. But there is no question about this. . . . Ah Mee was terrible. If anything, he was as bad as that lazy Ah Fun, son of Dr. Chu Ping. Here is their only difference. Ah Fun never did what he was told to do. Ah Mee always did what he was told not to do. But he did it in such manner as to leave a loophole. He always had a perfectly good excuse. Take the matter of his uncle Ching Cha’s cabbage patch. . . .

Only a day or so before, Ah Mee had pretended that he was a fierce and furious dragon—a loong. As a fierce and furious dragon, he threshed this way and that through Uncle Ching Cha’s very delectable cabbages—causing much hurt. Ching Chi, the parent, told Ah Mee never again to play dragon in Uncle Cha’s cabbages. “Ah Mee, you must never again play dragon in your honorable uncle’s cabbage patch. If you do, I shall speak to you most sharply.” And Ah Mee said, “Yes, sir,” and obeyed. He pretended to be a ferocious wild elephant. He didn’t play dragon again. Oh, no. Not at all. He was very careful not even to think of a dragon. He was a weighty elephant—amid the cabbages.

Ching Chi, the fond parent, lived with his wife—her name is forgotten—and the son, Ah Mee, and a little daughter, in a neat house that stood in the Street of The Hill Where The Monkey Bit Mang. Ching Chi was a carver of wood, and ivory, and jade. His bachelor brother Ching Cha who lived next door, did scrivening—wrote things with a blackened brush upon parchment and paper—and the wall, when he had no paper. Some people said they were stories, but certainly they brought in no money. As for that, neither did Ching Chi’s carvings bring in any money. Yet Chi was a good carver. His designs were artistic, and his knife was obedient to the slightest touch. From an inch block of ivory he could carve seven balls—one inside the other. Howbeit, Chi was neither famous nor wealthy. Instead of carving pagodas and trinkets for sale in the bazaars, he spent most of his time in carving toys for Ah Mee—who promptly smote them with an axe, or threw them in the well, or treated them in some other manner equally grievous.

For six months Ching Chi worked to carve a dragon. When finished, the loong was a thing of beauty. In the bazaar it would, perhaps, have fetched a bar of silver from some rich mandarin. But fond Ching Chi gave it to Ah Mee. And Ah Mee, tiring of it after five minutes of play, hurled it through the paper-covered window.

Are windows made to be broken? Are toys fashioned only to be thrown away? Certainly not. Papa Chi wagged a finger at Ah Mee and he spoke thus, “Ah Mee, most wonderful son in the world, you must not throw your dragon through the window into the back yard again. What I say, that I mean. Don’t throw your dragon into the yard any more.” Having said, he proceeded with his work, carving beautiful designs upon teak-wood blocks . . . for Ah Mee’s pleasure.

And Ah Mee said, “Very well then, Tieh tieh (Daddy), I won’t.” He proceeded with his work—which was to pile carven teak-wood blocks high as his not-so-long arms could reach. There was one block covered with so much exquisite carving that it gave little support to the blocks above. For that reason the tower wavered and fell. Ah Mee promptly lost his temper. Made furious beyond endurance, he seized the offending block and hurled it through a paper-paneled door.

Who will say that Ah Mee was disobedient? He had been told not to throw his toy dragon through the window. But had his father, Ching Chi, told him not to heave a block through the door? Not at all. Ching Chi had said nothing about blocks, and he had pointed his finger at the window. Nevertheless, Mr. Ching felt almost inclined to scold his son. He said, very sternly, “Ah Mee. . . .”

“Whang. Bang. Bang,” came the sound of sticks on the door frame. Crash—the door flew open. In rushed stalwart men, dressed in the King’s livery, and bearing heavy staves. “Oh, you vile tung hsi (east west—very abusive talk), you murderer,” screamed the men. “Are you trying to assassinate your King? What do you mean by hurling missiles into the King’s sedan as he is carried through the street? Answer, before your head falls.”

But Ching Chi was unable to answer. He could only press his forehead to the floor, and tremble, and wait for the quick death he expected. Meantime, Ah Mee pelted the King’s men with various large and small toys—including a hatchet.

King Tan Ki, seated comfortably in a sedan chair, was being carried through the Street of The Hill Where The Monkey Bit Mang. He had no thought of danger. Peril had no place in his mind. The street seemed a street of peace. When lo—from a paper-covered door there came a large missile, striking a slave and falling into the King’s lap. Instantly the body-guard rushed to the terrible house and battered in the door. But King Tan Ki felt more curiosity than alarm. He examined the object that had so unceremoniously been hurled into the sedan. At once his interest was quickened. The King knew good carvings—whether they came from old masters, or from hands unknown. Here was a block carved with superlative art. Tan Ki wished to know more of the artist who carved it.

Ching Chi was still kneeling, still expecting instant death, when the King’s chamberlain rushed in. The Chamberlain uttered a sharp order. The body-guards grasped Ching Chi and hastened him out of the house, to kneel at the King’s sedan. Ah Mee fired a last volley of broken toys at the retreating chamberlain. . . . Not especially nice of him, perhaps, but then, no one had forbidden it.

Fortune had smiled her prettiest upon the house of Ching Chi. King Tan Ki was immensely pleased with the old engraver’s work. The odds and ends of toys that had been fashioned for Ah Mee, now graced the palace. There they were appreciated. Every day Ching Chi worked faithfully, carving plaques and panels and medallions for the King. He was wealthy. Upon his little skull-cap was a red button. He was a mandarin, if you please. Only mandarins of the highest class may wear ruby buttons on their caps. . . . And Ah Mee was worse than ever.

To say it again, for emphasis, Ah Mee was worse than ever—if possible. He dabbled in all the hundred-and-one varieties of mischief. All day long it was “Ah Mee, don’t do that.” “Ah Mee, don’t do the other.” “Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.” Papa Ching was so tired of saying “Don’t” that his tongue hurt every time he used the word. Occasionally he changed his talk and said the opposite of what he really meant. Thus he would say, “That’s right, little darling, fill papa’s boots with hop toads and muddy terrapins, and that will make papa happy.” Or, “Pray take another jar, my precious. Eat all the jam you possibly can. Six jars is not at all too much.” For Ah Mee doted on jam. It was a passion with him. He started the day on jam, finished the day on jam. Every time a back was turned, his fingers sought the jam pot. Indeed, rather frequently he ate so much jam that there were pains . . . and the doctor.

Ching Chi took a bird cage from the wall and hung it on his arm. (In that land when gentlemen go for a stroll they usually carry their pet larks, instead of their pet chous.) At the door he paused and said to Ah Mee: “Little pearl in the palm, please refrain from too much mischief. Don’t [there it was again] be any worse than you are really compelled to be. Of course, it’s quite proper for you to put arsenic in Mother’s tea, and to hit baby sister with the axe again. And you may burn the house if you feel so inclined. . . . I want you to have plenty of innocent fun. But don’t [again] be bad. For instance, don’t, I beg of you, don’t get in those jars of jam any more.”

Off went Ching Chi with his lark singing blithely.

Ah Mee was quite puzzled. “Don’t get in the jars of jam.” How in the world could he get in the little jars? It was silly. He was much larger than any one of the jars. But perhaps Tieh tieh meant not put a hand in the jars. That must be it. Ah Mee made a stern resolve to keep his hands out. Not so much as a finger should go in those jars. . . .

Obedient Ah Mee arranged several of his father’s carven plaques on the floor, and tilted a jar. The plaques were beautifully decorated flat pieces of wood, somewhat larger than dinner plates. They made reasonably good dishes for the stiff jam. Surrounded by little mountains of jam, Ah Mee sat on the floor and . . . how the mountains disappeared. Really, it was fairish tasting jam.

When Ching Chi came home and discovered his carvings smeared with black and sticky jam, that good soul fell into a passion. First he screamed. Next he howled. Then he seized the plaques and flung them from him, flung them with all his strength. Flinging seems to have been a family failing.

Ching Chi was weeping for sorrow, and howling with rage when his brother Cha entered the room. The quick eyes of Brother Cha soon saw that something was amiss. He gazed at the wall where the plaques had struck. He gazed at the jam-coated plaques. Then he too howled, but with joy. “Oh, Brother Chi,” he shouted. “You have chanced upon a wonderful invention. It is a quick way for making books. What huge luck.” He led Brother Chi to the wall and pointed. “See. For reason of its jam, each plaque has made a black impression on the wall. Every line of the carving is reproduced upon the wall. Now do you understand? You will carve my thoroughly miserable stories upon blocks of wood. Ah Mee will spread black jam upon the carven blocks. Then I will press the blocks upon paper, sheet after sheet, perhaps a hundred in one day. . . . With the laborious brush I can make only one story a month. With the blocks—I can make thousands. Oh, what a wonderful invention.”

Ching Chi carved his brother’s stories upon wooden blocks. Ah Mee spread the jam thickly—only pausing now and then for a taste. Ching Cha pressed the blocks upon paper, sheet after sheet. . . . There were the stories upon paper—all done in a twinkling, and with little expense. The poorest people in the land could afford to buy Ching Cha’s most excellent stories.

Thus was invented Yin Shu (Make Books) or, as the very odd foreign demons call it in their so peculiar language—“Printing.” Ching Chi, his brother Ching Cha, and Ah Mee, all had a hand in the invention. As a matter of exact truth, Ah Mee had two hands in the invention (or in the jam), so he is generally given all the credit. His monument reads, “Ah Mee, the Inventor of Printing.”

SHEN OF THE SEA

Kua Hai City stands on a plain in northern China. The plain is called Wa Tien, and it is very smooth and fertile, giving many large melons. . . . Life there is good. The plain is likewise extremely low. Any reliable geography will tell you that Kua Hai is below sea level. And that, I know, is a fact, for I, lazily seated in my garden, have often gazed at sailing ships, large-eyed—wide-staring-eyed junks as they fetched into the Bay of The Sharp-Horned Moon, and to view them I had to raise my eyes. It is very true. I had to look up, as one looks up to behold the sky-hung eagles of Lo Fan.

I had as often wondered if the sea ever broke through its restraining walls and flooded Kua Hai. A storm coming down from the northeast would most likely thrust billows to overtop the wall. So I said to my gardener, Wu Chang: “Wu Chang, did fishes ever swim up the Street of A Thousand Singing Dragons? Did the sea ever come into Kua Hai?” Wu Chang paused in his scratching among the hung lo po (the radishes). Since thinking it over, I am inclined to believe that he welcomed an opportunity to change from the working of his fingers to the working of his tongue. “Once, and once only, Honorable One, has the sea invaded Kua Hai. But it can never do so again. Chieh Chung was fooled once, but he was far too clever to be fooled twice. He buried the bottle, perhaps in this very garden, for who knows? He buried it so deep that no ordinary digging shall discover it. And so, the sea may look over the walls of Kua Hai, but it may not enter.”

“Indeed?” said I. “And pray, who was this Chieh Chung? And what was in the bottle?”

Such astounding ignorance gained me a look of compassion from old Wu Chang. “The Honorable One is surely jesting. He, of course, knows that Chieh Chung was the first King of Wa Tien.”

“Oh, to be sure,” I interrupted. “It was Chieh Chung who invented—hum—er radishes.” That was a guess, and a miss.

Wu Chang corrected me. “Not radishes, but writing. A mistaken thing to do, in my opinion. But beyond doubt he did a great service when he bottled the water demons. Ho. Ho. Ho. He bottled the demons as if they were melon pickles. Ho. Ho. Ho.”

“Sit here in the shade, Wu Chang,” said I. “So Chieh Chung pickled the water demons—and then what?”

“Not pickled, Honorable One, bottled. Chieh Chung bottled the demons. Ho. Ho. Ho. . . . You must understand that in those days the plain hereabouts was much lower than it is now. It had not been built up. And the sea was much higher in those days, for then there were no heavy ships to weigh it down, and flatten it. The sea was very high then-a-days, far too high for its breadth. On every side the land held it back, and it was retarded and had no freedom of motion. So the Shen, the demons of the sea, got them together and took thought. They said: ‘Our sea is far too small. We must have more room. We are mighty, are we not? Then let us take some land and occupy it, so that our sea may expand.’

“Accordingly, the water demons swam along the coast, seeking land to conquer. They passed the shores of Fu Sang without stopping, for that region is high and mountainous. They passed the region of San Shen Shan, for in that place lives the powerful land demon named Hu Kung. The water demons were in no great haste to gain Hu Kung’s hatred. They passed without a second glance. But when the Shen swam up to Kua Hai, it was to rejoice. The demons looked over the wall; they smiled down upon Kua Hai and said, ‘This land we shall take for our beloved sea. It is low, and suited to our purpose. Rightfully it is ours. Yes, we shall take Kua Hai, and all the vast plain hereabout.’ But the ocean demons were possessed of decency. They did not dash over the walls, calling on their sea to follow, and so drown all the people of Kua Hai. Demons though they be, the Shen that time had mercy in their hearts. While the night dew lay upon the fields of Wa Tien, those demons, to the number of seven, made their way into Kua Hai. There they waited in the garden of the palace.

“When King Chieh Chung, who ruled over Wa Tien, took him to the garden for an early morning stroll, he discovered the demons waiting. He knew at once they were no ordinary men. Not once did they kou tou (knock their heads on the ground) as men should do. Nor did they look like the men of Wa Tien. Their mouths were wide mouths, like those of codfishes. Their bodies were covered with iridescent scales. Nevertheless, Chieh Chung permitted the Shen to approach. ‘What manner of men are you?’ asked the King. ‘And what is your pleasure?’

“ ‘We are the Shen, demons of the sea,’ answered the seven. ‘We are Shen of the ocean, and we come to claim our own.’ ‘And what is that?’ asked the King, smiling tolerantly upon them, though in truth he felt more like weeping, for he knew what would be the answer.

“ ‘We have come to possess ourselves of the city and all the low plain that surrounds it. It is our right, and our might—we mean to have it.’ Then Chieh Chung’s heart dropped down to a level with his sandals. His heart was weighted as if with millstones, as if weighted with Mount Tai. Long he stroked his beard, pondering, grieving, praying. And the water demons danced in the dew. Jubilant were they, flinging their toes high, spattering dewdrops upon the palace roof, and singing the terrible song of the ocean.

“Finally the King answered. ‘Shen,’ said he, ‘what time do you grant me? Kua Hai is a large city. In it are half a million souls. It will be moons and moons before I can count my people safely upon the Mountain of The Yellow Ox.’ One of the demons was shaking a pai shu (shaking a cypress tree) so that its dew fell upon him and upon his companions, for already the sun was up and they were beginning to feel the day and its dryness. ‘What time?’ said the Shen, taking his answer from the pai shu. ‘We shall give you until this tree is in flower. Have all your people gathered upon high ground when this pai shu blossoms, for at that time we shall lead the sea upon Wa Tien, and the sea shall stand three li deep above your palace. That is our answer. And now we must go for the sun has lit his fire.’

“The Shen made a move as if to depart, but no sooner were they out of the shadows than they halted abruptly, murmuring in displeasure. And small wonder. The sun had dispelled the dew and there was no moisture upon the land. A water Shen cannot exist where there is no moisture. In that respect he is like the yin yu and the shih pan (fishes). So the Shen turned to Chieh Chung and said, ‘Is there water here, O King, where we may spend the day hours?’ ‘There is little,’ said Chieh Chung; ‘I dare say too little for your purpose. But in such quantity as it is, you are welcome.’ He pointed to a crystal bowl in which burgeoned a sacred lily. There was water in the bowl, water surrounding the lily bulb. Too, there were stones in the bowl—blue lapis lazuli, and green jade, and yellow topaz (precious stones, as befitted a palace garden), for that is the way sacred lilies are grown—in bowls filled with water and pretty pebbles. ‘You are quite welcome to it,’ reiterated the King. The Shen shook their heads half in despair. ‘It is too little,’ groaned they, ‘far too little.’ ‘But,’ said Chieh Chung, ‘you are demons—hence magicians. Why do you not make yourselves smaller? Why not change yourselves into red hung pao shih and recline in the bowl amid the lily roots? I am sure you would make handsome rubies. Beyond a doubt, my courtiers would say “Ah” and “How lovely” and admire you greatly when they saw you. Of a certainty, you would make resplendent gems, dazzling and superb.’ ‘Well,’ agreed the Shen, somewhat dubiously, ‘we shall try it. If you have no more water it is the only thing we can do.’ And so, in a twinkling the Shen were gone, and seven beautiful rubies appeared in the crystal bowl.

“ ‘How lovely,’ said Chieh Chung—and deliberately winked at the cypress tree, first with one eye and then with the other. He went to a cabinet that stood in his chamber, and from the cabinet took a bottle fashioned out of fei yu (a cloudy jade). And the bottle had a wide mouth. Into it Chieh Chung poured water. Returning to the lily bowl, he quickly took therefrom the seven red hung pao shih and dropped them into the jade bottle—closing the mouth securely.

“ ‘Now,’ exulted the King, ‘my city is saved. My people may walk in security and without fear. The seven water demons are in my keeping, and please Heaven may they never escape my hand.’ And in his joy, King Chieh Chung ordered that ten thousand catties of rice be given to the poor.

“Weeks lengthened into months. Lengthened the months to years. Still languished the water demons in the clouded jade bottle. Still broke the sea on Kua Hai’s walls—but did not enter. Chieh Chung added to his kingdom and ruled with beneficence. His name was heralded throughout the length of the world. Not by the spear, but by wisdom he added to his dominions. Peoples of far-distant regions came seeking to place themselves under the rule of Chieh Chung—wisest and best.

“At length came ambassadors from Wei Chou, yes, even from distant Kou Pei, offering to give their allegiance to Chieh Chung. Ah, but that was a great day, a day of all proud days. The ambassadors were a hundred for number, haughty mandarins all. There was a great stir about the palace, you may well believe, retainers rushing hither and thither to provide food and drink and entertainment for the foreign great men.

“A foolish servant, ransacking cupboard and closet for what victuals and drink he could find, came upon the dusty jade bottle that stood in Chieh Chung’s cabinet. ‘Ah,’ said the servant, trying to peer through the cloudy jade. ‘Beyond a doubt, here is something of rare excellence. This will do for the highest of the mandarins, for the red-button mandarins with peacock feathers. It rattles—rock candy in it.’ And the foolish one removed the stopper. A thousand pities he was not stricken dead before the seal was broken.

“Chieh Chung came into the chamber and saw what had happened. For a moment he was stunned. Then, ‘Let me have the bottle.’ The bottle was empty, all save for a bit of water. ‘They are gone,’ said the King. ‘The Shen have escaped. But even so, I may baffle them, for they promised with binding oaths not to take my kingdom until the pai shu blossoms. And—in this region the cypress tree never blossoms—it never comes into flower.’ The King smiled in spite of himself.

“Meanwhile, the water demons, having escaped from the bottle, hastened through the palace toward the garden. They were very angry—were those demons, gnashing their teeth with a noise like that of waves lashing a rock-guarded coast. They were determined on vengeance.

“The Wei Chou ambassadors were encamped in the palace garden. Their servants had been washing garments, brilliant-hued garments such as the wealthy and noble of that land wear. The garments had been hung on the cypress tree to dry. And there the garments hung when the water demons appeared. The tree was aflame with color. Instantly the Shen raised a great shout. ‘Come billow. Come ocean.’ They shouted in triumph. ‘The pai shu blossoms (the cypress tree blooms)’—for they thought the garments were flowers—‘and our promise is ended. Kua Hai is ours.’

“Fathoms deep, roaring, grinding, relentless, the sea swept over Kua Hai, buried the city, buried the plain. The water demons raced before it, calling it on. They who had been the people of Kua Hai rode upon white-crested billows—without life—drowned. Out of all the vast population perhaps a thousand escaped. And among those who escaped was the King.

“Chieh Chung sat under a pine tree on the mountain, grief-stricken, heartbroken, gazing upon what had been a city, and now was sparkling sea. Hour after hour sat the King, grieving and thinking, meditating a way to regain his country. Now and then the seven water demons appeared before him, mocking, splashing him with spray.

“One day, having meditated long, Chieh Chung arose and shouted exultantly: ‘I have it. I know how I shall regain my city. I shall go immediately and put the plan in writing, while it is fresh in my mind.’ Having said, he walked to the little hut that served for his palace and sat down at a table to write. On the table stood a crystal bowl, with a lily, and with green, blue, and yellow stones.

“Chieh Chung sat writing meaningless stuff upon parchment. All the while he kept an eye on the crystal bowl. Lo. There appeared seven red stones at the root of the lily. The demons had come to spy upon the King’s writing. They had come to learn his plan, and so triumph over him. But they, unwittingly, were giving themselves into bondage again. For Chieh Chung quickly thrust them into a bottle and sealed it against all escape. Six of the demons he thus imprisoned. The seventh, who was a small fellow, Chieh Chung threw back into the sea. ‘Go,’ said the King, ‘and take your sea with you. Take your sea, and never trouble me again. Else I shall most certainly destroy your six brothers. It is a warning.’

“So the seventh demon sped away, taking the sea with him. Then did Chieh Chung descend to Kua Hai and build up the city, people coming in from far countries. Once more the city was inhabited, and the land was more rich, by reason of its flooding.

“And the six Shen, the six water demons are buried deep, in a jade bottle—perhaps under this very garden.”

HOW WISE WERE THE OLD MEN

With the first splash of ink it should be stated that this, the story of Meng Hu, is not intended for those who disbelieve in signs and portents. Such persons will merely say “Pish” and “Tush” together with other hurtful remarks, and remain unconvinced and scornful. But the open-minded—they are the people. They will nod their heads in understanding.

So. The history of Meng Hu, a merry rascal and a clever.

Upon the night that Meng Hu was born, in the house of his father Hao Shou, in the village named Two Roads Meeting, which stands at the foot of Mount Chieh Man (meaning: “Do not hurry—it is tremendously steep”), in Ping Shan Province, there happened many queer and unseemly happenings. A pack of wolves came down from Mount Chieh Man, and, leaping into Hao Shou’s pigsty, carried off a well-fattened red-and-black pig, for which Hao Shou had been offered eighty cash—every one good. Between the howling of the wolves and the squealing of the red-and-black pig, all Two Roads Meeting Village was aroused.

The excitement had scarcely subsided when Hao Shou’s pet monkey, for some reason best known to himself and the Shen of mischief, entered the house where Hao Shou’s fowls roosted. The disturbance thus created caused Two Roads Meeting Village again to leap from bed.

Only an hour later a tiger, which some coolies were carrying as a gift to the King, escaped from his cage, and with much roaring pounced upon Hao Shou’s amiable white cow. There was no more sleep in Two Roads Meeting Village that night. And no wonder.

Now the village called Two Roads Meeting was much like any other village, in that it housed some extremely wise men—men who knew everything about practically everything. These men gathered and wagged their beards much. Some of them said: “It is a sign, an omen. Hao Shou’s son, born in the midst of last night’s disturbances, will gain his fortune by the agency of animals. With the help of animals he, undoubtedly, will become King. . . . He may even become mayor of our excellent village.” Other wise men, however, said to the first: “Do you fellows live in a well? (You don’t know much of the world.) To be sure it is an omen—but mei chi (a bad one). The son of Hao Shou will be done to death by animals. Mark our words.” Then the old men of the two parties fell to fighting and forgot all about Meng Hu, son of Hao Shou, the innocent cause.

Having lost his pig, his cow, and many of his fowls, the father of Meng Hu found himself a pauper. He who had been rich was now poor. Worse still, a suit was brought by the tiger’s owner. The great beast had been gored while pulling down Hao Shou’s sinful white cow, and its owner sued in a court for damages. Being unable to pay, Hao Shou went to jail—and lucky he was to escape with his miserable life. For the tiger was being sent, a gift, to the King.

Thus beset by poverty, the boy Meng Hu was no sooner able to walk than he was bound over to a herder, who immediately put him to work. It was Meng Hu’s duty to watch over a flock. Early every morning he drove his sheep into the green hills, watching over them throughout the day, and with night’s coming, marshaled them back to the lowland fold. It was lonesome work, very. Meng Hu had no companions with whom to play and chatter. The solitude oppressed him. He sometimes thought that his mind must surely break—insanity would claim him. A flute, such as the other shepherds used to beguile away loneliness, was beyond his means to buy. But he must have something, must do something.

While thinking of a plan to amuse, he became aware that he was making strange noises in his throat. He opened his mouth. A long, weird howl echoed between the hills. It was the howl of a wolf—yet it came from the throat of Meng Hu. It came without effort; a perfect wolf cry. The boy was quite as surprised as were his sheep. He went away from the flock to a secluded valley, where he could practice the cry without harm. “Ow-w-w-w-wh,” and again “Ow-w-w-w-w-wh.” The sound was terrifying. Any gray leader of a pack might have been proud of it.

At last Meng Hu grew tired of making wolf howls. He tried his voice at imitating the calls of other animals. A cow—“Am-oo-ooh.” Sun-awakening rooster—“Cockadoodledoo.” A tiger; Meng Hu gave the buzzing sound of pleasure, the open-mouthed roar of anger, the coughing “woof” of pain. He found it easy to give the various calls of hou erh (the monkey). He squealed in a manner most pig-like. He imitated the “Onkee Onkee” of his master’s donkey. He gave the neigh of a horse.

Day after day Meng Hu practiced in the hills, imitating the calls of many animals, usually in a low voice so that his sheep would receive no fright. Lonesomeness no longer oppressed him. He had a toy more entrancing than a lute with ivory bands. He was wolf, and tiger, and clucking biddy by turns. He knew all cries of the wild.

A train of coolies trudged along the road below. Meng Hu, seeing them, thought to have great fun. He placed his hands trumpet fashion to his mouth and gave the wolves’ hunting song: “Ow-w-w-w-wh.” Instantly the coolies flung down their burdens and ran as fast as men can run to the village. Those scary fellows had no wish to help fatten a famine-maddened wolf. Naturally, their fright lent great powers to their imaginations. Not only had they heard the wolf—they had seen him—as large as the Emperor’s battle horse. And the flock owners had better see about their sheep. A dozen sheep would be only a trifling morsel for that huge beast. This large—holding their hands high in air.

How the village hubbubbed with excitement. Such a collection of spears and scythes and warlike jingals as rushed to the wolf-haunted hills.

When Meng Hu saw half of the village’s population drawing near in a glorious gleam of weapons, he realized what had happened. Beyond a doubt, he would be questioned. Had he seen the wolf? They would ask him that. No—he hadn’t seen the wolf, but most certainly he had heard it. Perhaps the beast was hiding in the thicket. Then hunt for it. That would prevent suspicion.

The villagers came up to find Meng Hu bravely poking with his staff in the bushes. Oh, but they praised him. “See,” said the villagers, “brave Meng Hu all alone hunts the wolf. How courageous is Meng Hu. His heart is as bold as the heart of Mi Tze—he who pulled the King’s beard. Valiant Meng Hu is an added honor to the Village of Two Roads Meeting—renowned for its heroic men.”

Meng Hu said nothing—just then. When alone, he brayed like a donkey. It was so funny, so laughably ridiculous. He had fooled the wisest men of Two Roads Meeting Village.

For the next several days Meng gave the villagers plenty of violent exercise. He had them come puffing up the hill at all hours. “Ow-w-w-w-w-w-wh.” One long-drawn-out howl was sufficient to set scythes and spears in motion.

But the villagers were not so gullible as one might think. They had eyes. Why was it that they never saw the wolf? Never a glimpse could they catch of the rogue. And there were no tracks to be found. Suspicion dawned. Could it be that someone was making sport of Two Roads Meeting Village? Several men hid in the bushes. Meng Hu was seen to climb a rock that overhung the lowland. He raised his hands to form a trumpet. “Ow-w-w-w-w-wh.” The wolf.

“Oho,” said the men, of whom the flock owner was one. “Aha. So it was you all the time.” They rushed upon Meng Hu and gave him a good taste of bamboo sauce, which is served upon the back, and sounds “Swish, thump. Swish, thump.” The flock owner then paid Meng what few cash were due and bade him, “Chu pa (Away with you). And don’t dare ever to return. Hsiao tsai tzu (You young animal).”

Meng Hu called to his heels for assistance. He ran and ran, till the hills were far behind. Every now and again he murmured sadly: “How wise were the old men. They said that an animal would be my downfall. A wolf. A mock wolf was my undoing.”

The lowland was a pleasant country, with here and there a ripening field, and here and there a forest. Young Meng stood at the edge of a wood, casting about for a bed to serve him the night. A clatter of hoofs broke the silence. Some twenty men or more dashed into view. From their weapons and general swashbuckling appearance Meng knew them to be robbers. And knowing—he swiftly clambered up a tree.

The robbers halted and gazed about them right and left. Their chieftain said: “I thought I saw a man here. If you find him, kill him, for the people hereabouts are fierce enemies. Ho. . . . What’s That in Yonder Leafy Tree?”

Meng Hu could imagine a knife at his throat. He shook the tree with his trembling. Nevertheless, his wits worked faithfully. From his lips came the scolding chatter of hou erh (the monkey). It was exceedingly well done. The robber chieftain laughed. “Only a monkey—and what vile names he seems to call us. Ho. Ho. Ho. Only a silly monkey.”

Meng Hu tossed down a ripened fruit from the tree—that being the way of all monkeys. The fruit spattered its juices in the chieftain’s eyes. “What a sweet-tempered old brute,” complained the chief. “Hurry on. We’ve no time to waste with a monkey.”

The robbers rode deeper into the forest and under a spreading tree dismounted. Meng Hu, now feeling that he was a match for forty robbers, followed the trail and spied upon the camp. He saw the knaves divide their booty—gold and jewels flashing in the firelight. There were bales of rich silk; brocades and moires—all rich stuffs. The eyes of Meng popped with amazement. He wished that some day he might own such treasure. But why not own it at once—why wait for some day? Could there be any way to take it from the robbers? He shut his dazzled eyes and thought.

The night was at its most eerie hour—the hour when whitened ghosts appear—when the yao mo (the ghosts that have no chins) appear. A monkey chattered in frantic warning. The robber chief awoke and said to his men: “Do you hear that sound? Monkeys always make such alarm when danger is near. That monkey warns us—a tiger is near. Get to your horses.”

Before the thieves could mount their horses, the horror-striking, the flesh-chilling roar of a tiger filled the forest. Instantly the horses dashed away. Shrieking with fear the brigands followed. Three roars emptied the camp. Six roars emptied the forest. Between roars Meng Hu found breath enough to murmur: “How wise were the old men of the village. They said that an animal would bring me my fortune. A tiger. A pretty tiger am I. Ho. Ho. Ho.” And he roared again for good measure.

Morning’s glow was still faint in the east when Meng rounded up the horses. Those that had strayed too far he ignored. No telling when the robbers would return. Besides, the boy had plenty, in all conscience. As blithe as any bobolink he bobbed up and down, pounding the road toward Chang An, the capital city.

The fortunate fellow settled down in a comfortable mansion and converted his goods into gold as rapidly as possible. To put the merchants in better humor and make them more disposed to buy his silks and jewels, Meng Hu often howled and mooed and cackled. He gave the buyers much entertainment. His strange antics became the talk of Chang An City.

The upshot was that Lui Tsung, Mightiest King, heard of the youth who made such marvelous noises. His Majesty sent a courier bidding Meng Hu appear in the square that fronted the palace, there to entertain. Meng promptly appeared, bringing with him a tiger robe, a calf skin, a wolf hide, and other disguises. He intended that the performance should seem very real. And so it was, at first. As a wolf, he frightened three soldiers into running. His bawling was so true to life that an old peasant rushed to the square, declaring that he recognized the voice of his lost calf, and would someone lend him a rope. Oddly enough, the tiger mimicry created no astonishment. It caused neither laughs nor screams. Meng Hu was surprised. Had he not thrown fear into the robbers’ very marrow with his tiger noise? Roaring furiously, he rushed at a soldier. The soldier merely yawned. Roaring ten times more furiously, the “tiger” sprang at Lui Tsung, The Mighty King. . . .

Now, of course, Meng Hu was merely a peasant boy. He knew nothing of royalty and its ways. But, is ignorance ever an excuse? Never. Meng Hu should have known better than to spring at his Monarch, and to tooth the royal robes. His Majesty gasped and beckoned to a captain of the guard. “Seize this audacious person and imprison him. Hold him until I can think of an utterly new punishment to fit his crime. He merits something more severe than mere sword or fire.”

With such delightful prospects to ponder, Meng Hu languished behind lock and key. Over and over he moaned: “How wise were the old men. They said that I would meet my death because of an animal. A tiger. A tiger. Ai ja (Alas).” Though extremely downcast, yet he kept a faint hope. His mind fabricated numerous schemes for escape. He had noticed that the Queen seemed extremely fond of a ridiculous little yipping Chou. (The scamp; with his noise he had frightened the poor dog in a manner most scandalous.) While thinking of the Chou, he hit upon an idea that promised much.

Directly after the new guards had been posted, Meng Hu began to yelp dismally. His yelping was enough to bring tears of pity to the soldiers’ eyes. It was distressing. Presently a voice said: “O soldiers, my dear little dog is locked up, and I don’t know where. Hasten and open all the doors.” That voice was the Queen’s voice. Every soldier of the guard recognized it. Every soldier hastened along the corridor—slip slap, slip slap—opening doors. One and all they hastened to free the Queen’s dear little pet Chou.

The Queen’s voice commanded that the doors be opened. Yet, at that very moment the Queen was in a sedan chair, several miles away, taking her evening ride. Perhaps Meng Hu could have explained the mystery—had he waited. But there was no waiting. The guards had not finished opening the farther doors when Meng crawled away. He didn’t even pause to thank the guards. Their kindness went unrewarded.

To the wall. To the gate. Toward the Great Wall galloped Meng Hu. The night cloaked his hurry. No one hindered. No one pursued. Over the mountain—a mile to go. There stood the Great Wall—there the gate. There lay safety.

Meng paused for a breath and turned in his saddle. Far behind appeared a streak of light. That would be a torch—and a King’s man bearing it. They were pursuing—upon the King’s swift horses. Then hasten. Speed. To the gate.

Away galloped Meng Hu. . . . The gate was before him. . . . Closed. . . . Closed. Ai ja. His escape was blocked by the ponderous gate. He would be captured. He would be killed, and alas for it. Ai yu. The gate was closed for the night. It would not be opened till morning came. No ten bags of gold could open it before the morning dawned. Not even a royal order could open it.

The warden of the gate slept peacefully.

“Cockadoodledoo.”

The warden turned in his quilt.

“Cockadoodledoo.”

The warden opened his eyes. “Can it be so late?”

“Cockadoodledoo.”

“Heigho. Morning already—and—what a noisy fowl.”

“Cockadoodledoo.”

“Yes, it must be morning. Time to open the gate, so that the early caravans can pass.”

“Cockadoodledoo.”

The key clicked in the lock. The heavy hinges groaned.

Clatter, clatter of hoofs that were urged.

“How wise were the old men of the village,” murmured Meng Hu. “They said that an animal would save my neck some day. A rooster. What a toothsome fowl am I. Ho Ho. Ho.”

He laughed as his horse took the open road.

CHOP-STICKS

What is better than roast duck with sweet ginger dressing? Is anything—anything—in the world and all, superior? Two roast ducks—as Ching Chung said—are more to be desired? Ah, of a certainty. Two. Two roast ducks, with hong keong dressing, and ling gow, and jung yee, and tou ya, and yu chien (the very fine tea that grows only in three gardens of Ku Miao), and—but really that’s enough for any dinner. More might mean misery.

Those were the dishes that Cheng Chang prepared with matchless perfection. Those were the dishes that Ching Chung ate with the utmost gusto. Cheng Chang, the very fine cook, and Ching Chung, the extremely appreciative master. They were old bachelors, those two worthies. Little Cheng Chang and large Ching Chung were foot-free, funny, and forty. Cheng Chang came within an inch of being a dwarf. He was only a mere trifle taller than his own willow-wood ladle. Why, he was nearly as short as Wu Ta Lang, who, as you’ll remember, when standing under his cherry tree could not reach the limb, and when on the limb could not touch earth.

Beyond a doubt, Cheng Chang was little—but . . . how he could cook. He was ugly—but . . . how he could cook. He tied his queue with a leather string—but . . . how he could cook. He taught his own grandmother how to roast eggs—and that’s something few men could do.

Ching Chung was the master. He was a tremendous person. He was nearly as large as Ho Lan, the giant, who, one day when stretching, burned his hand on the hot red sun. Surely no one could ask for more proof that Ching Chung was quite large. And how the man could eat. He worked hard, from crow of cock till the owl said “Time for bed.” And how he could eat. Four roast ducks at a sitting . . . how he could eat. But his voice was so powerful that it often shook the pots from Cheng Chang’s stove. Then there was nothing to eat.

Ching Chung frequently complimented Cheng Chang upon his so glorious cookery. He would say to Cheng Chang: “Cheng Chang, this roast duck is simply tou ming. If I were king and you my cook, I would make you Governor of Kwang Ting, where the best ducks grow.” And Cheng Chang would say: “To the Gracious Master I offer my no-account thanks. I sorrow that my terrible cooking is not better.” Or, again, Ching Chung would say: “Cheng Chang, this exquisite roast duck has infused me with new strength. One more morsel, or maybe two, and I could conquer the world.” And Cheng Chang would reply, “It is nothing, Honorable Master.”

Strengthened and made bold by Cheng Chang’s roast duck and perhaps by a sip of the stuff called sam shu (which is fire and madness in a bottle), Ching Chung one day went a-courting. Before a body could say “Chang wang li chao” (about the same as “Jack Robinson”), the beauteous lady, Li Kuan, was pledged to be Ching Chung’s bride. Whereat, the happy groom to be, who had always proclaimed that a bachelor’s life was the only life, promptly changed the burden of his song and declared that all old bachelors should be boiled in rancid bean oil and used as candles to lighten the darkness. And, no doubt, he was very right.

Said master to cook: “Cheng Chang, why don’t you follow the excellent example that I have set and take unto yourself a bride? There’s Pang Tzu, a buxom lady, and wealthy. Why not marry Pang Tzu?” So Cheng Chang answered, “Very well then, Honorable Master; I’ll do as you advise.” And he did.

With Ching Chung married and Cheng Chang wed, both of the old bachelors were husbands, and their lives were changed, utterly. For marriage is a most peculiar thing. It promotes the fortunes of some men. Other men go from bad to worse. The wedding bell has two tongues. One tongue speaks good; the other, evil.

Consider the case of Ching Chung. His wife had no wealth whatsoever. But her fifth cousin was a general in the royal army. The general came to visit, riding a handsome donkey, and wearing his two swords. He tasted the roast duck (cooked, mind you, by Cheng Chang), upon Ching Chung’s table, and instantly took a great liking for Ching Chung. He thought his host a most hospitable and excellent man. Nor was he wrong. (But Cheng Chang had cooked the duck.)

It was no time till Ching Chung received a commission in the royal and brave army. He became a general. Before one could say “Chang wang li chao,” he won a great victory. . . . And, the king having died meanwhile, Ching Chung was placed upon the throne. There he was—upon the throne—a king. And hail to King Ching Chung.

On the other hand, consider Cheng Chang, the cook. Poor Cheng Chang. He was afraid of his wife. Horribly afraid. His wife had but to whisper “Chang,” and Chang trembled like jelly, spilled on the king’s highroad. His wife had but to say “Cheng Chang,” and Cheng Chang fell upon the floor. It often happened that his wife said “Chang,” just as the poor man seasoned a duck on the stove. Then Cheng Chang would tremble, and drop in too much salt or garlic or ginger, and the dinner would be ruined. Frequently Cheng Chang had to throw away a dozen ducks, before he dished up one that was really excellent. Of course, his own purse had to pay for the loss. Almost before one could say “Chang wang li chao,” the timid Cheng Chang was a pauper. A lucky thing for him that his wages were raised as soon as Ching Chung became King.

How remarkable are the tricks played by fate. She gives the wheel of life a turn. What was top becomes bottom. Strangely enough, what was bottom—becomes top. The once mighty eat humble pie. The once lowly sit upon gilt chairs, drinking yu chien from cups of egg-shell porcelain, and eating birds’ nests. Cheng Chang was at the bottom. And fate gave the wheel a whirl.

The wife of Cheng Chang went to visit her three brothers, who conducted a large go-down in Ning Poo. The art of cookery, so nearly lost to Cheng Chang, once more thrilled in his finger tips. A pinch of this. A mite of that. A dash of something else. Cheng Chang cooked as he had never cooked before. The roast duck that he served up for King Ching Chung was—was—was—. There are many words in the language of men, but not one of them can describe the duck that Cheng Chang presented his King and master, Ching Chung. Sublime, delicious, perfect—those words are weak and unable. Away with them. The duck must remain undescribed. But, oh, what a duck it was. King Ching Chung ate half of it. Perhaps he ate a trifle more than half. He kept his gaze upon the platter. He said neither “Good,” nor “Bad.”

Cheng Chang lingered near by to receive the praise that he felt was due. But the praise was slow in forthcoming. The wondering cook began to fear that he had dropped in too much chiao fen. Horrors. Horrors twice. Suppose he had? He deserved to be killed.

King Ching Chung laid his knife aside. He placed his fork in company. He raised his eyes and gazed at Cheng Chang. For a full minute he gazed. He questioned, “Cheng Chang, did you cook this duck?” Poor Cheng Chang. Down he went, kneeling three times. Each time he knelt, his head rapped the floor thrice. “Yes, most gracious and forgiving Majesty, I cooked the duck. I, Cheng Chang, alone am guilty. Oh, have mercy.” He could almost feel the headsman’s sword.

Steadily for another minute the monarch stared. Then he spoke. “You did, did you? Well, all I can say is this. The man who cooked this duck should be King. And, by the teeth of the bobtailed dragon who brings famine, I am going to make him King. I shall abdicate and appoint him to rule in my stead. Arise, King Cheng Chang, ruler of the universe—and the best cook that ever roasted a duck.”

So soon as Cheng Chang’s wife heard of her smaller half’s good fortune she hurried back to the palace. With her she fetched the three brothers, feeling sure that King Cheng Chang would appoint them to high places. If he wouldn’t, she would. She had things planned to the last detail. One brother was to be keeper of the royal and full treasury. What a clever idea. He had the largest pockets. Another brother was to be Governor of Kwang Ting. The third was to be made Commander-in-chief of the royal and never-run army.

At breakfast, the eldest brother mentioned his desire. “Oh,” said King Cheng Chang, “I can’t make you keeper of the treasury. I’ve already put in a man who has no hands.” “Well, what appointment have you saved for me?” “For you? Let’s see. You can be Ambassador to Ho Chung Kuo.” (A far-off country—America, in fact.) “Indeed?” screamed the Queen’s brother in terrible rage. He took his knife from his mouth and lunged at the King. . . . Only a remarkable quickness of foot saved King Cheng Chang.

His Majesty, very properly, was much displeased at such unseemly behavior. Who wouldn’t be? “I shall have your eldest brother beheaded,” he told the Queen. “Indeed?” said the Queen. “Then I shall beat you.” So that ended that. He was little and she was large. There was no beheading.

At dinner the Queen’s second brother remarked in a casual tone: “It’s an exquisite day, isn’t it? I hope it will be this pleasant when I am inaugurated Governor of Kwang Ting.” “You? Governor? I have appointed Ching Chung to be Governor of Kwang Ting. You can be constable at. . . .” “Indeed?” screamed the would-be governor in an ungovernable rage. He seized his fork and rushed at the King. Fortunately a mat slipped from beneath his feet. His fork tore a deep furrow in the floor. The monarch escaped injury.

Nevertheless, King Cheng Chang was highly indignant. Surely that was his kingly right. He said to the Queen, “I shall have your brother be. . . .” The Queen interrupted, “If you do, I shall beat you.” She rather had him there. The King crawled under his throne. The subject was closed, and the headsman’s sword was unstained.

Supper had barely begun when the Queen’s youngest brother, a huge brawny yokel, remarked that he had already purchased his uniform and would take over the army to-morrow. The King was taken back. “You command the army? Huh. I shall make you Minister to Yin Yung.” (A place twenty thousand li distant at the ships sail.) “Indeed?” roared the Queen’s brawny youngest brother. Clutching his soup spoon he leaned across the table and struck at King Cheng Chang, “Swish,” with all his might.

Thanks to him who made the table, he made it of generous width. The Queen’s youngest brother could not quite reach across it. His murderous spoon merely parted the King’s beard. It was a most atrocious deed, meriting extreme punishment, but it caused no actual pain. Its main effect was upon the King’s dignity. But this time His Royal Mightiness said nothing of the headsman. He imagined that his wife would most likely raise objections. No. The King said nothing of punishment. Instead, he rewarded the Queen’s youngest brother, appointed him director of the Imperial Gunpowder Factory, with a bed in the factory. . . . And gave him six pounds of smoking tobacco.

The three attempts upon his life worked havoc with Cheng Chang’s nerves. When eating breakfast, he could never look at a knife without shuddering. Seated at dinner, each time he touched a fork cold chills raced down his marrow. At supper, he could scarcely eat because of the spoon. Each glance at the spoon wrought from His Majesty a groan of dread.

So King Cheng Chang did a most wise thing. He abolished knives and forks and spoons. He ate his rice and duck with the aid of two harmless, delicate, little sticks. There was nothing about the sticks to inspire uneasiness. They were incapable of hurt.

The little sticks used by King Cheng Chang were called Chop-Sticks. Chop means good.

Naturally enough, all the people in Cheng Chang’s kingdom soon were using chop-sticks. They wished to do as the King did. People are like that. Chop-sticks became, first, fashionable, then, universal. Every one used them.

Wherefore, today King Cheng Chang is remembered not for his roast duck—which was heavenly, and gained him the throne—but for his chop-sticks—which are wood, mere wood.

BUY A FATHER

The Street of Wang’s Broken Tea Cup lies between Seven Thieves Market and the long wharf where ship bottoms from all the world (and, as some say, the moon) discharge their varied cargoes. Queer sights are so excessively common there that the Phoenix bird lighting a match to his feathers would, probably, excite only ordinary interest. Nevertheless, the people do possess eyes, and they are provided with ears. Now and again they can be made to open those eyes, and sharpen those ears into eager hearing. The ridiculous, in especial, rouses their attention. There was the wit-wandering beggar, Weng Fu, as an instance.

Weng Fu walked in the Street of Wang’s Broken Tea Cup, bearing a great bundle of bamboo switches upon his back, and shouting thunderously. . . . “Who’ll buy? Who’ll buy? What young man wishes to buy him a father?” Whereat, several persons gathered, laughing. “I, Weng Fu, will sell myself as a father to any young man for only five cash.” The crowd and the laughter increased. “Who’ll buy a pretty father? An orphan may have me for only one cash. A most excellent father I’ll be to my son. I promise to beat him twice each day. Of every hundred cash he earns I’ll take only ninety-nine and he may keep one. I’ll even let him sleep upon warm ashes in the bed-stove. Ho—young men, come buy—come buy.”

The shopkeepers left their stalls unguarded as they gathered round Weng Fu to mock and express their not-flattering opinions. “Surely,” said they, “this is the oddest fellow we have had in a long while. He must think our young men are silly as Ko Chih, who scrabbled in the deep snow of January, searching for plums. Ho. Ho. Ho. Was there ever anything more ridiculous? A pretty father he would make. Pretty indeed.” A crowd of boys assembled to have sport with the fantastic beggar. “Here, most honorable Father—here is five cash, and I will be your dutiful son.” A richly dressed youth held out some money to Weng Fu. But when Weng Fu grabbed at it, the boy shut his hand and ran away swiftly, cackling in well-pleased laughter. After him plunged the greedy beggar, his tattered clothing flapping like strings on a scarecrow. A bystander put out a foot. The old man tripped heels over head in the deep black mud. Then the crowd slip-slapped on, mildly interested in a fight between Wan the hunchback who had only one leg, and a blackamoor who had no arms.

The boy Ah Tzu, an orphan, approached Weng and tugged to assist him. The beggar’s rags tore away by the handful. A train of laden donkeys labored down the street. “Ho. Good man, you must get out of this,” shouted Ah Tzu, pulling. “The donkeys will shred your flesh from the bones. Come.” “Will you buy me for a father?” “Certainly. Now see if you cannot arise.” Ah Tzu pulled manfully, and the contrary old beggar moved his limbs in helping. The two staggered aside just in time to avoid being trampled. “Where shall we go—Father—where is your house?” asked Ah Tzu. “In the Street of The Place Where The Cow Lost Her Horn,” answered Weng Fu. “And don’t walk so fast, my son, else I shall beat you.”

The house of Weng Fu was luxurious in the extreme. A goat could have leapt through any one of a dozen holes in the walls. The roof was made of straw, so thin that the rain demon, Yu Shih, laughed at it, and the stars peered in nightly. There was no kang (bed-stove), no table. Chairs were lacking. For furniture it had a heap of bean straw in a corner, a dozen bricks in another corner, a cupboard on a wall—thus was the house of Weng Fu furnished.

Weng Fu sat upon the earthen floor and bade Ah Tzu do likewise. “My son,” said the beggar, “this is your future home—and excellent it is. This is your home—provided you prove worthy. But I warn you, I am hard to please. A son of mine must be as prompt as Ching Chi, as devoted as Wei Sheng, as brave as Meng Feu. Faithful and honest must my son be. You must ask no questions and do as I say. Otherwise, I shall beat you, and turn you out in the street. . . . Open the cupboard and bring me a bundle of straw.” Ah Tzu obeyed. His new father continued: “Braid this straw into a pair of sandals. Work swiftly and have them finished by the time I return. And give me what money you have so that I may purchase food.” Ah Tzu turned over his tiny bag of money. Then his fingers worked nimbly, braiding the straw.

Weng Fu returned in a very few minutes. His face was purple. His voice pitched high. “What? Ya shu (idle rascal). Are you not finished? Well, you shall get no dinner till you complete the sandals.” With that he put down a silver tray and began to eat. On the tray was roast duck. There was celery and tea-soaked eggs and rice and bean sprouts and brine-aged cabbage and almonds and garlic and many another dish of equal goodness. Weng Fu’s teeth clicked busily. Every few seconds he grunted his satisfaction. Ah Tzu braided straw.

The silver tray was emptied long before Ah Tzu completed his task. Finally, “Here, my father, are the sandals, and I hope they will be to your liking,” Weng Fu gazed. “They are not very well braided. But perhaps in time you will learn. Reach in the cupboard and get a bean cake for your dinner.” Ah Tzu searched in the cupboard and found a small, hard, dry bean cake. “Here, give me half of it,” ordered the queer father. “I am still hungry.” The old fellow took at least three-fourths of the cake—all but a portion that had been nibbled by mice. Then he put on his new sandals, took up the tray and departed. “Do not go out,” he admonished Ah Tzu. “Stay here and guard the house against thieves.” The door closed behind him. Just what a thief could have desired in that house would be hard to decide. Nevertheless, Ah Tzu stayed close at home, that night, and the following day, and the night that came after.

During the second night three men came to the door and tried to gain entrance, saying that they must have gold. Ah Tzu fanned about him so earnestly with a cudgel that all three were piled in a heap on the threshold. They went away limping and howling, one holding his hands to his pate, as if troubled with nao tai teng (as if troubled with head aching badly).

The next day saw Weng Fu’s return. He asked Ah Tzu many questions, and Ah Tzu answered them. But the boy showed no inquisitiveness about the large bandage round Weng Fu’s head, nor did he ask questions about Weng’s bundle. The beggar finally opened his bundle and from it took food. He shared the food with his son—and this time he himself ate little. This time Ah Tzu had sufficient.

When the meal was finished, the beggar again opened his bundle and disclosed garments such as very young babies wear. “Put on these garments, my son. They will make you look many years younger. And I, seeing my son so young, will feel the years drop from my shoulders and be again in the prime of my manhood—at least ten years younger.” Ah Tzu did as he was told. “Cha, Tieh tieh (Certainly, Papa).” On went the small garments. “Now, Ah Tzu, we’ll go for a walk. Here is a calabash for you to rattle.”

They went into the street. Ten steps and a crowd gathered. Such jeering. Such laughter. “Ho. Ho. Ho. Here is old back of the hands turned down (a beggar) and his infant son. What a pretty baby. Tieh tieh, has your baby cut his teeth?” Ah Tzu rattled his calabash and tried hard to keep from blushing. Weng Fu sauntered on in utter unconcern. When they reached Seven Thieves Market, all shopkeepers boarded up their stalls, thinking a mob had come to plunder.

At home once more, Weng Fu produced more food and told Ah Tzu to eat. Then he cupped his hand to his ear as if listening. “I thought I heard someone shout my name. There it is a second time.” He dashed out. At the door a bag fell from his girdle. The bag flew open and from it rolled rubies and pearls, to a value of at least ten bars of gold. Ah Tzu called to his father, but receiving no answer, he hastily gathered up the baubles and hid them.

Night came, but with it no father. When the moon had been set for an hour, a noise brought Ah Tzu to his feet. The thieves? Let them come. The boy was expecting some such visitation. He had a stouter club and a kettle of hot water in readiness. . . . There was little short of murder done in the Street of The Place Where The Cow Lost Her Horn. Ah Tzu had eaten strengthening food that night. Though he wore the clothes of an infant, that is no sign that his arm was the arm of an infant. Such howling.

Old Weng Fu merely grunted when he received the bag of rubies and pearls. Counting them he said, “I thought there were fifty large pearls.” And he gazed keenly at Ah Tzu. If he expected to see a guilty flush, he was disappointed. “I did not count them, my father. All that I found I put in the bag.” The beggar grunted. “So—here is the missing one. . . . But perhaps there were fifty-one. Look outside the door. You may find another.”

As Ah Tzu sifted the earth, his nostrils told him of a smoke. Even as he straightened up Weng Fu rushed from the house. No need to yell “Fire.” Flames were darting like dragons’ tongues out of the thatch, out of the walls. The old beggar ran in a circle, screaming: “Now what shall I crack nuts on? What? What? Oh. Oh. Oh. Ah Tzu, my son, get me the brick that lies on the floor in the northeast corner. The brick. The brick.” Ah Tzu thought it strange that his father should set such high value on a brick. But strange or not strange, an order was an order—to be obeyed. Shielding his face with a sleeve he entered the house. Wisps of burning straw fell upon him. Smoke seared his eyes. Smoke griped his throat, periling his life. Straight he went to the farthest corner. He stooped. A quick dash. He was safe, beyond the door. Ah Tzu’s task had been accomplished. He handed to his father a brick . . . a worthless yellow brick . . . a chipped and fissured brick. For that he had been made to risk his life.

Weng Fu spoke no word of praise. He did not so much as look at Ah Tzu. Only a close observer could have noticed that his lips quivered ever so slightly. Finally he said: “I have one more errand for you, my son, then you may rest. See—I have lost the string that bound my queue. Go you to the Emperor and ask His Majesty for an old ribbon. Tell the Emperor you wish to borrow a queue ribbon for Weng Fu, the beggar.”

Sadly troubled, Ah Tzu hastened toward the palace. He had every reason for thinking that his impudent request would gain him not a ribbon for Weng Fu but a rope for his own neck . . . and death for Weng Fu.

It was the hour when Shang Tien Hao, The Emperor, sat in public audience. Any citizen might approach the throne. The aspen leaves never tremble so violently as Ah Tzu trembled, kneeling before his monarch. With much stammering, he stated the business that brought him. All the time his forehead was tight pressed to the floor.

Strangely enough, the Emperor made no beckon to the executioner. Instead, he smiled and said: “No, my son, I sha’n’t give you a ribbon for old Weng Fu. He no longer exists. However, I shall give you ribbons a-plenty and fine clothing for your own wear. You must learn that I, being without heir, dressed as a beggar and wandered the streets to find me a son brave as Meng, pure as Pao Shu, and devoted as Wei. Such I found in you. No longer are you Ah Tzu, the orphan. Henceforth you are Lieh Shih—hero—and beloved son of Shang Tien Hao, The Emperor.”

FOUR GENERALS

Prince Chang petitioned his father, the King. “My Honored Parent, give me permission to make a journey throughout the kingdom. I would learn how the people live, and note wherein they are contented and discontented. Thus I shall be prepared against the time when I ascend the throne.” The King nodded approval. “Your plan is good, my son. I shall immediately order that new gold tires be put upon the royal carriage, and summon ten troops of cavalry to guard you.” But the prince would not listen to such arrangements. “Oh, no, sire, I mean to go alone and in disguise. Instead of the carriage, a stick will serve for my vehicle. Instead of the troops, that selfsame stick will guard me.”

Whereat, the King was greatly troubled, and the prince was put to much argument before he won his point. “Then do as you wish, my only and much beloved son,” said the King, grudgingly. “But it behooves you to observe extreme care. Disorder is rife in all the provinces. Go, and may your stick be as strong as the magic mace of Sun How Erh.”

“Farewell, my royal father.”

“Farewell, my noble son.”

Now it must be remembered that Prince Chang was no graybeard. In years he was nearing thirteen. Is it, after all, such a great wonder that homesickness caused his heels to drag, and his eyes to need the kerchief? He had walked all of twenty li. That, he began to imagine, was journey enough for the present. To the edge of Hu Pei Forest he continued. At the edge of the forest he stopped. The woodland was so dark . . . so dark. The wolves howled “Oo-o-o-o-o-wh—We starve.” And such a futile little stick with which to enter the forest of Hu Pei. “Oo-o-o-o-owh.” What wolves. . . .

The prince had turned his face toward home when a merry voice hailed him. “Ho. Brother, I’m glad you are come. Tell me if my fiddle be in tune.” A comical fellow hopped down from a stump and chinned his fiddle while Prince Chang stared. “Eek. Eek. Eeek.” “How does it sound, little brother?” “I dare say it——” But the fiddler was not waiting for an answer. His bow arm fell to sawing while his legs and voice joined in the tune—“A beggar asked the King to dine.” And that’s a foolish song. Prince Chang thought he had never before heard or seen anything so funny by half. The more he laughed the greater his need for laughter. Such a comical beggar and how he could play and sing.

From one end of Hu Pei Forest to the other Prince Chang laughed while the beggar capered and fiddled. No wolves at all appeared. Homesickness was a thing of the past—forgotten. “Let me give you a copper cash, merry stranger,” said Chang, when they came to a Y of the road. “Not now,” said he of the fiddle and bow. “I judge you are poorer than I.” “Indeed?” laughed the prince. “When I am King (he forgot himself there), I shall reward you handsomely.” “Ho. Ho,” shrieked the beggar. “When you are King. When you are King, I’ll accept a reward. Make me a general in your army.” “It shall be done,” said Chang. “What is your very nice name?” “My pitiful name is Tang—Tang, the fiddler. Farewell, my little King, who rides a bamboo horse.” So, they parted, both merry.

Sad to relate, Prince Chang’s merriment was to be of brief duration. A band of robbers sprang up from the roadside and surrounded him, pummeling him without mercy—all striking at one time. They took his stick and his clothing and the little bag of coins that hung from his neck. They left him in the road for dead. A sorry ending, that, to his journey. . . .

Shortly, another traveler chanced by, and he was a man of warm heart. He revived Prince Chang and took him on his shoulder, carrying him to a village. There he set out food and clothing and bade the prince ask for what more he desired. Chang was deeply thankful. “How can I ever repay you?” “Ya ya pei (Pish tush),” said the man. “It is nothing. What is a bit of food? And what is a gift of clothing? Besides, you must know that I am a tailor and will charge my next customer double. ‘A tailor—a rogue,’ says the proverb.” “I do not believe it,” exclaimed Chang, “and when I become King——” (There he forgot himself again.) “Ho. Ho. Ho,” roared the tailor. “When you become King. Ho. Ho. When you are King, you may reward me. You may make me a general in your army.” “It shall be done,” declared Chang. “What is your honorable name?” “Wang is my miserable name. Wang, the tailor. Farewell, and good luck be with you, my future King.” So they parted, merrily enough—each laughing at the excellent jest.

Prince Chang continued his journey. For three days he saw no man of flesh and bone, nor came upon a dwelling. At the end of the third day he was weak and unsteady from hunger. His stick broke beneath his weight and he lay beside the road, waiting for death to come. Instead of death, there came a shepherd with sheep and goats. The shepherd picked up Chang and saw that the boy was far spent. It was quite plain that hunger had used him evilly. Promptly the quick-witted fellow slung Chang on his shoulder and carried him off to a cave. Milk in bottles of leather hung on the cavern walls. Also, there were cheeses. Chang was made to drink of the milk—a little at first—only enough to moisten his throat. With the return of strength, he drank greedily, completely emptying a goatskin. And the emptier the bottle grew, the more he thanked the shepherd. “You have done me a great service,” said Chang. “If I had money I——” “Ya ya pei (Pish tush),” said the shepherd. “It is nothing. I fed you with no thought of reward.” “Nevertheless,” declared Chang, “when I am made King I——” The shepherd was like to strain his throat with guffawing. “Ho. Ho. Ho. When you are made King. What a merry chap you seem to be. Very well, when you are King you may reward me. Make me a general in your army. Ho. Ho. Ho.” “I shall. I shall.” The prince was emphatic. “What is your honorable name?” “My paltry name? Most folk call me Mang—Mang, the shepherd. And here, you must carry some food with you, for the nearest house is thirty li distant. Take this cheese—and may good luck be your companion, my King of the wandering road.”

Burdened as he was, Prince Chang made slow work of getting over the mountain. He had begun to think seriously of dropping the cheese when a troop of soldiers clattered up the road behind him. “How fortunate,” said Chang. “Here are my father’s soldiers. They will take me on their horses to the next village.” But the soldiers halted with a “Who are you, and what brings you here?” queried most fiercely and with scowls. The prince stammered that he was sometimes called Chun, a most unfortunate invention, for Chun was the name of a local bandit. The soldiers’ frowns turned to pleased smiles (there was a reward offered), and the captain said: “So you are Chun, and you have just robbed some poor person of a new suit and a cheese. Off with his head, my braves.” Chang now saw that he was indeed in a tangle. A bold face seemed the only escape. He put on a stern look, saying: “How dare you execute men without a trial? Do you not know that I am Prince Chang, son of your noble King?” The captain bowed in mock humility. “Your Highness seems large for such a tender age. I happen to know that King Yen Chi’s eldest son is only two years old. Let your swords drink, men.”

The terrible truth was made plain to Chang. He had wandered across the border of his father’s kingdom. He was in a neighboring and hostile country. . . .

The swords were lifted to strike, when—swish—came an arrow. After it, quickly, another, and another. Each found its mark. For each arrow a soldier crumpled. The others dug heels in their horses galloping pell-mell for their lives.

A stalwart youth stepped out from a pine. “You had better go quickly,” he said to Chang. “The border of our own country lies a full mile back.” “I thank you with all my heart,” declared Prince Chang, “and shall reward you fittingly when——” “When you are King?” finished the other. “I heard what you said to the soldiers, and wondered at your daring. Very well. Make me a general when you become King, and that will be ample reward.” “It shall be done,” vowed the prince. “What brave name do you bear?” “Name? Oh, you may call me Lang. Lang, the very indifferent archer. And now you must go, for more soldiers will come, and my arrows are few.”

Prince Chang was not long returned from his journey when the King passed away in an illness. Immediately the crown was placed on Chang’s brow, and all the people burned much incense of la ka wood, crying “Hail.” And almost with their next breath they shouted “Kou chou (The Enemy).” An enemy was marching upon Ku Hsueh. The new King had barely seated himself upon the heighty throne before he found it necessary to see about raising an army. There were two great troubles with the old army. It was dwarfish small and it boasted more generals than bowmen. Of course, the generals never fought. They did nothing but plan—usually what they’d have for dinner, and which sword they’d wear to the King’s next reception. Yet, King Chang added more generals to the army.

The first complaint raised against King Chang by his people was that he had added four more generals to the army. His new generals were named Tang, Wang, Mang, and Lang—though doubtless, such information is hardly necessary. They were old friends of the King. The four arrived at the capital in time to see a huge army of hostiles encamp on the far side of the river that bordered the city. By great good fortune, the river was past fording, so holding the enemy in check. The King and his generals gazed across the river. Said he: “It is easily seen that the enemy has twenty men for every one we muster. What are your plans?” Of all his generals, only Wang seemed to have so much as the shadow of a plan. Wang said, “Give me all the tailors in the city, and all the cloth stored in the royal go-downs.” “Take them,” said King Chang. “If you don’t, the enemy will.”

Throughout the night General Wang and his tailors slaved needle and thread. The click of thimbles made a continuous humming sound. The hostiles on the farther shore heard, and wondered what strange warlike engines King Chang might be preparing.

With day’s coming, Chang moved all his troops—he had only a thousand. The thousand men marched in parade along the river’s brim. Their uniforms were old and dowdy. The words, “We are brave,” that adorned their tattered jackets seemed a poor and weak boast. They were ragamuffins. They marched as if weary. The enemy jeered.

But, lo. The first thousand had no sooner disappeared than another thousand circled past the river—stepping smartly, smartly uniformed in cloth of gold, the words “Very brave” embroidered upon their fronts. The enemy was not so quick to jeer.

Following the second thousand came a thousand men in trig red uniforms. Upon their breasts were broidered “Extremely brave.” They stepped it briskly, shouting dares across the river. The enemy replied with little heart.

Another thousand followed. Jade green uniforms clothed them. Rumbledumblededum sang their drums, and their steps kept perfect time. Upon their breasts were the words “Still braver,” and upon their lips great threats. The enemy said little.

Now came men in crow’s-wing black. Upon their breasts were the words “Braver by far.” Their taunts were hard to bear. Yet, the enemy remained silent.

A thousand men in pink, the same number in blue. Came white-clad men and orange-clad men. Violet uniforms replaced uniforms of brown. . . . The enemy thought it hardly fair. King Chang, evidently, had a million soldiers. . . . How could they fight against a million? The tents came down and the enemy vanished.

General Wang continued to sew until the last hostile disappeared. He and his tailors were terribly tired. But the thousand soldiers were even more tired. All day long they had marched and changed uniforms, then marched again. They had changed from red to green, to black, to every color in the spectrum. They were color blind and weary. But King Chang merried much and blessed the day that had sent him General Wang, the tailor.

In a month or so King Chang’s happiness turned to gloom. The enemy had learned of Wang’s clever trick, and resolved to march again. The army of Chang was scarcely larger than before. To come off victorious each man would have to whip a dozen of the enemy. There was no time to increase the royal army. And the enemy lay on the other side of Ku Hsueh River, waiting for the waters to lower.

King Chang rode with his generals to the river. Said he: “There lies the enemy. The depth of the river lessens with each minute. Who has a plan?” Some of the generals stroked their beards. Others twisted their mustachios. All wrinkled their brows. Not one of them parted his lips. “Come. Come, my doughty generals. Have you no plan? General Tang?” Tang bowed his head the three times required by law and courtesy. “Sire, with your permission, I have a small scheme that may serve.” “Chen hao (Very good); spare no expense. Draw on the treasury for whatever you may desire—silk, tailors, fans, or false faces—anything except more soldiers, for soldiers we have not.” “Then, please, Your Majesty,” said Tang, “may I ask you to sign an order on the treasury for one ounce of pine resin.” Then the King thought Tang jesting. His first impulse was to strike off his head. Instead of doing so, however, he signed the order for two cents’ worth of resin.

At night General Tang sat upon a crag that towered above the river. He fondled his precious violin. A little breeze sprang up at his back. Tang the general was no more, but Tang the musician lived and thrilled. Bow swept strings with a magic sweetly sad. The breeze caught up the melody. The river was its sounding board. The soldiers on the farther shore turned in their blankets to listen. Than home there is no spot dearer—and the violin sang of home. More and more sad came the music. The musician wept. Across the river ten thousand eyes grew moist. The soldiers wept and were unashamed. Why had they left their warm hearthstones—to die in an alien land? Fierce resolve faded, and a longing took its stead, a longing for home and the loved ones it sheltered.

Morning saw the hostile camp deserted. Soldier after soldier had stolen away in the darkness, thinking only of home. Not one remained to threaten Ku Hsueh City.

King Chang assembled his generals and spoke high praise of Tang. Then he discussed the need of preparation for the future. He knew very well that the enemy would return. “Have any of you, my trusty generals, a plan for humbling the enemy in his next invasion?” General Mang, the former shepherd, voiced a plan. “I would suggest that all horses be replaced by lean sheep of the mountain.” General Lang, the archer, said, “I would suggest that all cases at law be settled by trial with bow and arrow.” “So be it,” said the King, “I grant both requests.”

The enemy soon marched upon Ku Hsueh in greater numbers than before. Grasshoppers in the August fields were never thicker. It was plain that only a miracle could save the city. All eyes were turned to General Mang, turned beseechingly, and rather doubtfully. Could a mountain shepherd save Ku Hsueh?

That night the question was answered. Mang herded his sheep in a tremendous body toward the enemy camp. At the proper moment he raised a great din and startled the animals into flight. Through the camp of the enemy they rushed, and instantly the camp was confusion. The soldiers had fared none too well on their march. They were hungry. And here was good food to be had for the catching. Away went sheep. Away went soldiers. Thoroughly frightened, the lean-limbed sheep sped their fastest. Thoroughly desirous, the hungry soldiers followed at their fastest.

While the camp was empty, Mang and a score of daring men darted from tent to tent. In their hands were torches. Behind them rose a flare of ever-spreading flame. “To roast their meat when they catch it,” said Mang. The wind was a helpful friend, scattering brands with a will. The destruction was soon finished. What had been a white encampment became a red and rolling flame. The tents were burned, and the spears and the bows. Nothing was spared. A thoroughly discomfited enemy stole away from Ku Hsueh that night.

So far, General Lang had done nothing of a warlike nature—nothing at all—unless stepping upon the toes of a citizen be considered warlike. Lang had done that. Naturally, the citizen was incensed. He wished to see justice done and went to a court of law. The judge said: “Take this bow and shoot five arrows in yonder target. He who shoots best has the right on his side.” The young citizen shot first, and his marksmanship was poor to say the least. Whereupon, Lang drew the bow. Oddly enough, his aim was no better than that of the citizen. With that the judge declared the suit undecided and set a future date for its retrial. General Lang left court well pleased. The young citizen went home to spend many hours in practice with bow and arrow.

Thereafter the courts were flooded with lawsuits. From morn till night the bow strings twanged. It appeared that all the men of Ku Hsueh had grievances to be settled. And they who were wise spent much time in archery practice ere they went to court. Many became quite expert with the bow and arrow. . . .

King Chang impressed all of them into his army. At last he had a large force, a force that would give pause to any foe. Long the King waited for his enemy’s return. But he waited in vain. Spies had watched the men of Ku Hsueh at practice with the bow. They sent messages that Ku Hsueh was prepared. So the country was troubled no more by alarms of hostile armies.

Thus, without loss of a man, was the kingdom saved for Chang, by Wang, Tang, Mang, and Lang—a thousand years ago all this, but very learned men still dispute as to which was the greatest, Lang, Mang, Tang, or Wang—which of the four generals.

THE RAIN KING’S DAUGHTER

The people of Shen Su were starving. A famine blighted all the land. Rice swamps yielded only empty husks. The millet fields were barren. The ti tan patches, for all their blossoms, produced no earth eggs—no potatoes. The chu groves gave no tender stalks. . . . And the people starved.

Every astrologer and wise man in the kingdom was summoned to King Ta Lang’s palace. “Tell us, wise men, why we starve. Why is food denied us?” Thus the King questioned the graybeards, and they, the learned, consulted their charts, and sand trays, and crystal globes. One said: “The Shen of Falling Water, Yu Shih, is angry. We have burned no incense to him within a year.” “It is a rat. A rat is eating our food,” said another. The others, for the most part, echoed approval. “Yes,” said they, “it is a rat.”

“A rat? Where is the rat?”

“There, the mountain. The mountain we have called Che Chou.”

King Ta Lang gazed in a line with their pointed fingers. At first, he saw merely a mountain. A longer look disclosed that the mountain was shaped like a crouching rat. “Trap the rat, and Shen Su will once more abound with food,” declared the wise men.