Chapter V: T. S (1)

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

PAGE
Ah Mee’s Invention...................... 1
Shen of The Sea......................... 16
How Wise were The Old Men............... 32
Chop-Sticks............................. 51
Buy A Father............................ 65
Four Generals........................... 79
The Rain King’s Daughter................ 100
Many Wives.............................. 115
That Lazy Ah Fun........................ 129
The Moon Maiden......................... 144
Ah Tcha The Sleeper..................... 159
I wish It would Rain.................... 173
High as Han Hsin........................ 189
Contrary Chueh Chun..................... 206
Pies of The Princess.................... 220
As Hai Low kept House................... 235

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE
Oh, no, not at all. He was very careful not
even to think of a dragon. He was a weighty
elephant—amid the cabbages................. 5

Then he seized the plaques and flung them
from him................................... 13

We are the Shen, demons of the sea........... 21

So the seventh demon sped away taking the sea
with him................................... 30

It was the howl of a wolf.................... 36

Meng Hu could imagine a knife at his throat.. 42

The king crawled under his throne............ 62

The house of Weng Fu was luxurious in the
extreme.................................... 69

He kept his forehead tight-pressed to the
floor...................................... 77

The king and his generals gazed across the
river...................................... 90

More and more sad came the music............. 95

At that same hour a basket was found in the
garden..................................... 103

So Chai Mi sat beside the river and sewed and
wept....................................... 107

Of course, they wore hideous false faces..... 111

The first portrait he painted was that of
Ying Ning, a monstrous ugly maiden......... 123

“Broooomp”................................... 137

Doctor Chu Ping beamed upon him; “Ah Lun, my
pearl, my jade, my orange tree, it is
discovered”................................ 142

By look and action he was a maiden........... 148

A whanging of wings that lifted . . . Up
. . . Higher . . . Swifter................. 151

When Ah Tcha had eaten his Evening Rice, he
took lantern and entered the largest of his
mills...................................... 162

How could she make beds when her hair needed
burnishing?................................ 175

Tiao Fu snatched up her little-used
embroidery scissors. Snip, Snip, Snip...... 178

“. . . And cut leaf-shaped pieces”........... 182

Han Hsin raised a bridge from island to
mainland................................... 191

“I—I—I—am hungry,” stammered Han Hsin........ 198

Prince Chin Pa tried in vain to hold his
followers.................................. 202

Therefore—upon his donkey—the contrary
husband started for Tsun Pu................ 209

It was a well-plucked traveler who returned.. 213

This nice large one is for your dinner....... 225

He made a V of the bowstring................. 244

The royal generals . . . knelt before Hai Low
and bumped their heads in the dust......... 251

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 shi_h 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.