Chapter I: Wish It Would Rain (1)

It rains and rains in Kiang Sing. And then it rains some more. No sooner is one cloud past then another comes treading on its heels. By day and by night the raindrops patter, and _ko tzu_ from his lily pad croaks “More rain. More rain.” Old men going to bed wear their _wei li_ (rain hats), instead of tasseled nightcaps. Many young people have only a hazy idea as to what the word “sun” means. Pour and beat and drizzle, drizzle and drive with the gale. And that is Kiang Sing.

Three reasons are given by the people of Kiang Sing for their extremely weepy climate. Some say that the _shen_ Yu Shih, who lords it over the clouds, lives near by on the Daylight Mountain. Others are firm in their declaration that Moo Yee, the mighty archer, and a naughty fellow withal, shot the sky above Kiang Sing full of arrow holes. Naturally, a sky full of arrow holes is bound to leak. There are still others, and very learned folk among them, who declare that Mei Li weeping for her lost hero, Wei Sheng, is responsible for the torrents. Dear only knows which is the correct theory. It may be that all three are to blame. The only certainty is that Kiang Sing has a very heavy rainfall, and that Tiao Fu lived there and learned to love wet weather. . . . _To love it?_ She hated it.

Tiao Fu was a very pretty maiden—no gainsaying that. She had the most wonderful black long hair in all Kiang Sing. But beauty was her one and only possession. She had no skill with the needle, whether to sew or embroider. Her cooking was more than a disgrace. When her fingers touched the _pi pa_, that usually sweet-toned instrument gave out a demon’s wail. She could not even smooth a quilt on the _kang_. The beds were all hills and hollows. How could she make beds when her hair needed burnishing? She scarce knew which end of a broom was meant for the floor. How could she sweep when her hair required glossing? New matting would cover the floor’s disarray. Tiao Fu smoothed her hair and dreamed of the time when she would marry a rich mandarin and be carried in glory away from Kiang Sing and its terrible rains. The hateful rains of Kiang Sing.

No wonder her father, Ching Chi, became so poverty-stricken. Gradually his fortune slipped away until his only property was the large and poorly furnished, extremely ill-kept house in which he lived. Even so, this house when viewed from the street appeared superior to its fellows. It was the handsomest and most considerable _yamen_ in Pin Jen Village.

The size and appearance of the _yamen_ accounts for what happened. One fiendish night, in a mighty drumming of rain, there came a more noisy drumming of maces upon Ching Chi’s door. “Open, in the King’s name,” commanded voices outside. Forthwith Ching Chi flung open the door. He beheld runners dressed in the royal livery, and in their hands the gold-banded staves of their authority. “Prepare to receive and entertain the illustrious person of Ho Chu the King. His Most Gracious Majesty will arrive _sha shih chien_ (within a slight shower’s time). Therefore prepare. It is a command.”

Far from entertaining royalty, old Ching Chi had never so much as glimpsed a King. Heart and knees failed him utterly. He could only grovel upon the floor and mutter weakly of his unworthiness. Tiao Fu, however, was not so deeply affected. A King? Let him enter. Say what you please, kings are mortal men. No food in the house? _Ya ya pei_ (Pish pooh). And the tradesmen refused all credit? What of it? No tradesman in his senses would refuse a bargain. And what would the bargain be?

Tiao Fu snatched up her little-used embroidery scissors. Snip. Snip. Snip. Down fell a cataract of her long black hair. Snip. Snip. Again and again. The hair that was her vanity lay upon the floor. Her lustrous hair—sacrificed—to make a feast for the King. Hastily donning her father’s _wei li_, she dashed from the house. There was no trouble in making a bargain. The tradesman’s first offer was almost within reason and Tiao Fu had no time to wrangle. She bartered her hair for cooked fowls and rice and all that goes to make a dinner.

King Ho Chu arrived betimes. The weather despite, he was in good spirit. He was such a considerate and jolly monarch that he soon had old Ching Chi at perfect ease. The dinner was a delight to eye and tongue. It was the best meal that had been served in Ching Chi’s home for many a moon. And Tiao Fu’s hair bought it.

After the cups were turned down, King Ho Chu inquired about his horse. To reiterate, he was a most considerate sovereign. He wished to feel sure that his steed was housed from the rain, and shoulder deep in a well-filled manger. Ching Chi beamingly affirmed that the horse had been provided for, lavishly. What else _could_ he say? However, he would make sure, doubly sure, by going to the stable again.

Of course, the poor horse had not a mouthful. There was not so much as a wisp of hay in the stable, not so much as a bean, or a stalk. Ching Chi was sunken in weepy despair when the girl Tiao Fu appeared with a matting from her bedroom floor. It was a newly made matting, of bright clean straw. Tiao Fu tore it into shreds and filled the manger heaping. Thus was the King’s horse supplied with food—food none too nourishing, but food nevertheless.

There are many channels through which kings may receive news and rumors and tittle-tattle. What with the secret police and the mandarins who wish to gain favor and the—the sparrows—the royal palace keeps well informed. (Besides, one historian takes several pages to prove that Tiao Fu possessed a tongue and could use it to her advantage.) However that may be, the news spread. Within a day King Ho Chu learned how the maid Tiao Fu had provided a feast at the expense of her hair. He learned all about the shredded matting, and his laughter shook the throne. He bestowed more than a passing thought upon Tiao Fu of the quaintly bobbed locks—the maiden a thousand years ahead of her time. And having thought—he acted. He said to the Minister of Domestic Affairs, “Prepare a room with hangings of orange-colored silk.” To the Minister of the Treasury he said, “Bestow a dozen or so bars of gold upon the mandarin Ching Chi.” The Minister of Matrimony received his command, “Arrange me a wedding with the maid Tiao Fu, of Kiang Sing.” So all things were arranged and came to pass.

King Ho Chu was well pleased. Old Ching Chi was the happiest man living. The maid Tiao Fu was quite content—for a space. She had gowns of gorgeousness undreamed. She had slaves to kneel and knock their heads whenever she beckoned. She had priceless jewels and food of the rarest. Incidentally, she had in the King a doting husband. She had everything—everything—except rain. . . .

Is it not hard to believe that Tiao Fu grew homesick for the rains of Kiang Sing? It is a strain upon belief, yet it is true, indubitably. Tiao Fu longed for the rains of her drenched and soggy much be-drizzled Kiang Sing. Did the King present her with a new necklace—she threw it petulantly away, exclaiming that she wanted rain—“Oh, I wish it would rain,” said Tiao Fu. “Why don’t you make it rain?” “Then I will,” said the King. He installed a myriad high-spouting fountains, at no slight drain to the treasury. “Are you pleased, my beauteous Tiao Fu?” “No,” fretfully. “It is not like the rains of Kiang Sing. Why are the trees not green? The trees are bare and brown. Oh, I wish it would rain—a green-bringing rain.”

The trees might very well be bare and brown. Winter’s greedy fingers had stripped them thoroughly. King Ho Chu gazed at the barren limbs for a lengthy period before his mind hit upon a scheme for bringing back the green. At length he summoned the royal tailor and to him said: “Take many bales of green-colored silk and cut leaf-shaped pieces. Dip the pieces in wax; then sew them upon those bare branches. And use such artistry that no eye can discover they are not true leaves. _Tsu po_ (be quick).” The _cheng i_ (make clothes) hastily employed all the city’s master workmen, some cutting and many sewing. Overnight the trees took on a color. Indeed, the tailor went beyond his orders, for on the peach trees he sewed lovely pink blossoms. And some blossoms he tacked to the ground—as if in their ripeness they had fallen.

For a few days Tiao Fu was in somewhat better humor. Once she actually smiled. But all too soon those few days were over and her crossness returned. “What now, my pearl of southern seas?” said the King. “Have the leaves lost their freshness? Do they no longer please?” “Oh [pout], it isn’t the leaves. They are quite homelike. It’s the wind that I miss. I long to hear the shrieking wind of Kiang Sing, hurling its rain against my lattice. Oh, I wish it would rain.”

Poor King Ho Chu was hard put. Wind? Wind? . . . By the uprooted pine tree of Mount Tai, how was he to produce the wind. A good half hour—sixty minutes in that land—passed before he had an inspiration. Again he called for the royal tailor. “Procure,” he told the tailor, “many bales of the stoutest silk. Then place some of your brawniest men outside yonder lattice, and have them rip the silk, tear it into strips—with all the noise possible.” With which King Ho Chu entered the treasury to see how his gold was dwindling.

Huge-armed stalwarts stood outside Tiao Fu’s window. Their hands clutched the woven silk. A pull. “Sh-r-r-r-r-iek. Pull. Sh-r-r-r-iek.” For two days the brow of Tiao Fu was smooth and untroubled. She actually spoke kindly to the King. He, poor soul, didn’t hear it. He was too busy wondering what the next task would be, and how expensive.

Scarcely a hundred bales of silk had been torn when Tiao Fu hurled her crown across the room and began to weep. “My dear, what’s the trouble? What _is_ the trouble?” questioned Ho Chu. “Is the wind too violent?” “Oh, no. The wind is natural enough, and it pleases me. I miss—oh, how I _do_ miss the rumbling thunder of Kiang Sing, and the fall of lightning-shattered trees. I miss them and oh, I wish it would rain—real rain.” The tears fell faster with each word.

Now King Ho Chu had a tremendous army encamped on the palace grounds. He summoned General Chang and explained matters—with an order. No sooner ordered than accomplished. The soldiers in their heaviest shoes marched ponderously beneath the latticed window. “Boom. Boom. Bru-u-u-um. Bru-u-u-um. Bru-u-u-u-ump.” And how do you like our thunder? Little drums and great, they rattled and roared. “Rap-p-p. Boom. Boom. . . .” In endless line the soldiers marched. One day. Two days. Three days. Four. Some of them slept while the others marched. Boom. Boom. Boom. The sun on their spears blazed and flickered—the lightning. By night there were flashing fires.

It is gratifying to relate that Tiao Fu was moderately pleased. Her appetite returned and the tears were withheld. She spoke to the King with kindness—several times. All might have gone well had not some malcontents down Kan Su way started a rebellion. Off went the army—General Chang waving his sword, and the smallest drummer boy thumping with glee. That was at midnight.

The dawn was at its breaking when beacons along the line of march flared up. “Halt” was the signal. The army halted. Again the beacons flared. They spelled the word “Return.”

Tiao Fu was not so well. She longed for the roll of the drums to remind her of Kiang Sing’s thunder. What could the poor King do but recall his army? The rebellion in Kan Su continued merrily. And General Chang, who was an old-time soldier, expressed his opinion—rather explosively—to a sympathetic staff officer. But never mind that. Let the drums sound.

When the rebellion spread to Kan Si, the King felt that things had gone quite far enough. It was time to teach those rebels a lesson. Away went the army again.

A whole day passed and no return order was signaled. Night came and the army tramped onward. . . . A pillar of flame shot up from a hilltop. It was a beacon. “Return,” said the beacon. “Not I,” said General Chang; “I’ve had enough of the Queen’s whims. Besides, it’s raining right now. Forward. March.”

The army entered Kan Su and there encountered the rebels. It is better that the fight go undescribed. Here suffice it to say that if so much as one rebel escaped, he took pains to keep the fact secret. There is no mention of him in the books.

General Chang was jubilant. Surely the King would be highly pleased. The King—good gracious—King Ho Chu, himself, on a breathless steed, stumbled across the battlefield. “Why didn’t you return?” panted the King. “I—I—I——” stammered General Chang. But the King said more. “The Tartars swooped down just a few hours ago, carrying off my Queen, raiding my treasury (though it was empty), and forcing me to flee for my life. They carried off the Queen.”

“How terrible,” exclaimed General Chang, looking into his sleeve. “And my army is so tired that it can’t march a step—besides the roads will soon be _pu neng chu_ (can’t go) with the rain.”

HIGH AS HAN HSIN

Han Hsin was not at all high as to stature. He was short, short as a day in the Month of Long Nights. But as a leader of bow-drawing men, his place is high. As inventor of the world’s first kite, he rose very high indeed, and that accounts for the saying, “High as Han Hsin.”

The night that saw Han Hsin’s birth was no ordinary night. It was a night of fear and grandeur. The Shen who places the stars in the sky had a shaking hand that eve. His fingers were palsied and could not hold. Star after star dropped down toward earth, and the people prayed and wept, the while they exploded firecrackers. It’s a sinister sign when the stars tumble out of the sky. This the people knew. Therefore, they trembled.

But, amid the falling stars, was one that rose, as if the Shen had tossed it, as if the Shen had thrown it high. One large star mounted higher and higher the while its companions fell. Wise men, astrologers, they who scan the heavens, said: “The stars that fall—are mighty men who die. The star that rises—that is the star of a future great man—born this night.”

The wise men of the village kept careful watch over Han Hsin. He had been born on the night of the Rising Star. They thought perhaps he might be the ward of the Star. They watched closely for signs to strengthen their belief. But for some years Han Hsin disappointed them. He rattled his calabash in an extremely ordinary manner. There was no hint of greatness in the way he bounced a ball. Yet the astrologers held to their faith and watched—and finally were rewarded.

There came a rain, not a hard rain, nevertheless a wetting rain, sufficient to drive the villagers under shelter. But Han Hsin remained in the open where quick drops pelted. A foolish villager noticed him and said, laughing: “Look you at our future great man. He knows not enough to seek cover from the storm. Ho. Ho. Ho. How wise.”

An old astrologer said: “Hush, _Chieh Kuo_ (Dunce), do you not see that the youth makes a bridge? Come with me.” They went closer to have a more complete view. The flowing water had formed a little island in the street. Upon the island were many ants. As the water rose, the island grew smaller—and the number of ants grew smaller, many being swept away to their death. Han Hsin raised a bridge from island to mainland. The ants quickly discovered his bridge and crossed to safety. “It is a sign,” said the old astrologer, “_Chi li_ (a good omen). He has befriended the ants. The ants will remember. Some day they will do him an equal service—helping him to become great.”

Han Hsin discovered in the King’s paved road a hatchet of better than fair metal. None of the villagers could prove ownership. Little Han was permitted to keep his treasure. Quite soon a spirited chopping was heard—steel ringing upon stone. A foolish villager said: “Look. Han Hsin uses his fine hatchet to chop the old millstone—thus demonstrating his great genius. Ho. Ho. Ho. He uses valuable edged steel to chip stone.”

The old astrologer said, “Hush, _Sha Tzu_ (Imbecile), come with me, and behold.” A wornout millstone lay at the edge of the road. Through the hole in its center grew a bamboo tree. The hole was small. Already it hindered the tree’s growth. Retarded as it was, the bamboo could never reach a full growth. Han Hsin belabored the stone till it split in two pieces. Then there was plenty of room for the tree. There was nothing to “pull its elbow.”

“That is good,” asserted the astrologer. “He saves the bamboo from death. Some day the bamboo will reward him—help him to become great.”

Shortly afterward, the astrologer gave Han Hsin a note of recommendation to the King. Han went to the King, seeking employ. He wished a command in the army. But His Majesty was in a sulky mood and would not see the boy. Therefore, Han continued his journey into Chin Chou, a neighboring country. He went to the ruler, Prince Chin, and exhibited his note. The prince read—and laughed. “You are too small to serve in my army. My soldiers are giants, all—very strong. You—are _Ko Tsao_ (Little hopping insect). No.” Han solemnly declared that his strength was that of a river in flood, and begged for a trial. “Well, if you are determined,” said the prince, “take my spear and raise it above your head.” The prince’s spear was solid iron from point to heel, and longer than the mast of a sea-venturing junk. Furthermore, it had been greased with tiger fat to prevent rust. Han grasped the spear to raise it. His fingers slipped. Down crashed the heavy weapon. “Take whips and lash him out of the city—clumsy knave that he is,” Prince Chin roared in a great voice—angrily. The spear had missed His Royal Person by the merest mite.

An old councillor spoke. “Your Highness, surely it cannot be that you intend to let the rogue live? He will some day return with an army to take revenge.” “Nonsense,” said the prince. “He is no more than an ant—and idiotic besides. How could such a fellow secure an army?” “Nevertheless, I fear the ant will work your downfall. He must be killed.” The councillor insisted. He argued so strongly for Han’s death that, rather than hear more, the prince consented. “It is useless. But do as you wish. Send a squad of horse to overtake him and fetch back his head.”

When Han Hsin beheld the soldiers approaching at top speed, there was no doubt in his mind as to what harsh errand brought them. He knew they intended to have his head. But Han, having lived so long with his head, had become fond of it, and preferred to keep it on his shoulders. But how? How could it be saved? There was no escape by running. There was no place to hide. The boy must use his wits.

Hastily tying a cord to his bamboo staff, he threw the staff into a tiny, shallow puddle of water that lay beside the road. The soldiers galloped up to find him seated on the bank—fishing—and weeping. “And what ails you, simpleton?” a soldier asked. “Have you lost your nurse?” Between sobs Han answered, “I am hungry and I can’t catch any fish.” “What a booby,” said another soldier. “He fishes in a puddle no larger than a copper cash.” “Look,” said yet another, “he throws in the pole, and holds the hook in his hand. What a _chieh kuo_; as foolish as Nu Wa, who melted stones to mend a hole in the sky.” “Do you suppose this is the creature we were told to kill?” He was answered: “Nonsense. Prince Chin doesn’t send his cavalry to kill an ant. Spur your horses.”

When the troops returned and reported their lack of success, there was much talk. The councillor raged, offering to resign. He was positive that so long as Han Hsin lived the government would be in danger. He was bitter because the troops had mistaken Han’s cunning for imbecility. Merely to humor the councillor, Prince Chin mounted a horse and galloped away with his troops.

Han Hsin put his best foot foremost, hurrying toward the border. He longed to trudge the turf of his own country once more. It was not that homesickness urged his steps. Han felt reasonably sure that his friends, the soldiers, would shortly take the road again. The next time they might not be so easily deluded. Therefore, he hastened. But it was useless. His own country was still miles distant when he beheld the dust of men who whipped their horses.

It is not pleasant to have one’s head lopped off. At times it is almost annoying. Han thought quickly. Near by was a melon patch. The melons were large in their ripeness. Upon a huge striped _hsi kua_ the boy sat him down and wept. The tears coursed down his cheeks, and his body shook with sobbing. Undoubtedly, his sorrow was great.

Prince Chin stopped his steed with a jerk. “_Ai chi_—such grief. Are you trying to drown yourself with tears?” “I—I—I am hungry,” stammered Han Hsin. “Hungry? Then why don’t you eat a melon?” “I would, sire, but I’ve lost my knife. So I must s-s-starve.” The prince was well assured that he had met with the most foolish person in the world. “What? Starve because you have no knife? . . . Strike the melon with a stone. . . . Such a dunce. It would never do for me to behead this fellow. The Shen who watches over imbeciles would be made angry.” A trooper slashed a dozen melons with his sword. Surely, a dozen would save the idiot from starvation. Oh, what an idiot.

Han Hsin sat on the ground, obscuring his features in the red heart of a melon as the prince and his men departed. His lips moved—but not in eating. His lips moved in silent laughter.

Han Hsin bothered no more Kings with notes setting forth the argument that he had been born under a lucky star, and so deserved well. Quite casually, he fell in with King Kao Lin’s army. He received no pay. His name was not on the muster. He hobnobbed with all the soldiers and soon became a favorite. The boy had a remarkable memory. He learned the name of every soldier in the army. Further, he learned the good and bad traits of each soldier, knew who could be depended upon and who was unreliable. He knew from what village each man came, and he could describe the village with exactness. All from hearing the soldiers talk.

A fire destroyed the army muster-roll. Han Hsin quickly wrote a new list, giving the name of each man, his age, his qualities, his parents, and his village. King Kao Lin marveled. Shortly afterward, he added Han’s name to the list—a general.

Prince Chin made war upon King Kao Lin. He marched three armies through the kingdom, and where the armies had passed there was desolation, and no two stalks of grain remained in any field. Han Hsin moved against the smallest of the three armies. The enemy waited, well hidden above a mountain pass through which Han must march. It was an excellent ambush—there was no other passage. The mountain was so steep no man could climb it.

Han caused his soldiers to remove their jackets and fill them with sand, afterward tying bottom and top securely. The sand bags were placed against a cliff, to form a stair way. Up went Han and his men, to come upon the enemy from behind and capture the whole army—cook and general.

The second hostile army retreated to the river Lan Shui. It crossed the river, then burned all boats and bridges. So safe from pursuit felt the hostile general, he neglected to post sentries. Instead, he ordered all the men to feast and make pleasure. Han Hsin ordered his men to remove the iron points from their spears. The hollow bamboo shafts of the spears were lashed together, forming rafts. Armed only with light bows the men quickly crossed Lan Shui River and pounced upon their unready enemy. The feast was eaten by soldiers other than those for whom it had been intended.

Prince Chin led the third and largest army. He had far more braves than Han commanded. There could be no whipping him in open battle. In strategy lay the only hope. Han Hsin clothed many thousand scarecrows and placed them in the battle-line—a scarecrow, a soldier—another scarecrow, another soldier. In that manner, to all appearance, he doubled his army. Forthwith, he wrote a letter demanding surrender—pointing out that since his army was so much larger than Chin Pa’s, to fight would be a useless sacrifice.

Prince Chin took long to decide upon his course. So long it took him that Han grew impatient and sat down to write again. While he wrote, a strong wind broke upon the camp. The papers on Han’s table were lifted high in air. Higher and higher they swirled, higher than an eagle—for the Shen of Storms to read. Han’s golden knife, resting on a paper, was lifted by the wind, transported far over the foeman’s camp.

Immediately an idea seethed in the leader’s mind. If a small piece of paper could carry a knife, might not a large piece carry the knife’s owner? Especially, when that owner happened to be not much more weighty than a three-day bean cake? It seemed reasonable. Again the little general took spears from his soldiers. The iron points were removed and the long bamboo shafts were bound together in a frame. Over the frame was fastened tough bamboo paper in many sheets. Away from prying enemy eyes, the queer contrivance was sent into air. It proved sky-worthy, lifting its maker to a fearsome height. Thus was the _feng cheng_ invented. Thus was the kite, little brother of the aeroplane, invented by Han Hsin.

The night showed no moon. Not a star had been lighted. The wind blew strong, with an eerie whistling. It was such a night as demons walk about their mischief, and honest men keep under their quilts. Out of the sky above the enemy camp came a great flapping sound. Could it be a dragon? All eyes peered upward through the darkness. . . . Two red eyes appeared. . . . Nothing more could be seen. . . . Only the two evil eyes. A voice came from the sky. “Return to your homes,” boomed the voice. “The battle is lost. Return to your homes, ere they too are lost.” The men of Chin shook with their fear. The Shen of the sky had spoken. They had heard his voice. They had heard the flapping of his wings. They had seen his red and terrible eyes. How could the men of Chin know that the words they heard were uttered by Han Hsin? How could they know that the flapping was caused by a man-made thing, later to be named “_feng cheng_” (kite)? And how could they know that the eyes were mere bottles filled with insects called “Bright at night (Fireflies)”? The men of Chin could not know. They loosened the ropes of their tents—and the tents came down.

Prince Chin tried in vain to hold his followers. No longer followers were they. They were fugitives, fleeing to their homes. Only a few hundred remained true to their prince. Doubly armed with the weapons that had been thrown away, they ascended a steep and rocky hill, there to make their last great fight.

But Han Hsin had anticipated just such action, and had prepared for it. Unseen, he had slipped through the enemy lines and climbed the hill. With a brush dipped in honey he wrote words upon a stone. As he wrote, came hungry ants. The ants came—to aid—and to feast. Soon the stone was black with a crawling multitude.

Prince Chin scaled the hill to its summit. Ten thousand swords could not dislodge him from those rocks. He would make the enemy pay a red price for success. . . . His gaze fell upon the rock. . . . He saw a host of ants forming characters that read “The Battle is Lost.” His men also beheld, and they said, “The ant is wisest of all animals. Let us crawl in the dust, for we are conquered.”

So, Han Hsin victored over the three hostile armies. His country was invaded no more. In time it became really his country, for he ruled it—as a King—ruled it well. But now his wise rule is forgotten. He is remembered as the man who first made kites.

CONTRARY CHUEH CHUN

The most contrary man that ever drew a full dozen breaths was Chueh Chun, living in Tien Ting Village, thirty minutes by donkey, by up and down very bad road, north of the Great Wall, the far-famed Chinese Wall.

Queer Chueh Chun had been named Ma Tzu by his honorable parents. He had been named Ma Tzu, which means Face Rather Ugly. He, himself, changed his name to Chueh Chun, which means Absolutely Beautiful.

The good people of Tien Ting Village lived tidily in made houses, above ground. Chueh Chun lived in a cave, a deep and winding fox den, below ground. Such of the neighbors as were permitted by law to wear hats, wore little round hats, on their heads. Chueh Chun wore hats on his feet. Moreover, he wore straw hats in winter, fur in summer. On his head perched an ancient sandal. He pretended that the arrangement was excellent. The sandal shaded his eyes, yet permitted his head to remain cool.

The neighbors when going upon long journeys commonly rode their shaggy mountain ponies. Chueh Chun when setting forth on an arduous trip—say fifty miles—was most likely to walk. But to go from his fox lair home to the nest of his speckled hen, he invariably rode a little donkey.

Yu Yuch Ying, aunt to Chueh Chun, willed her obstinate nephew thirty thousand cash, just when his purse was at its flattest. The neighbors gathered round Chueh Chun to congratulate and envy him. Said they: “What a fortunate person are you, dear Chueh Chun. The thirty thousand cash that your late lamented Aunt Yu Yuch Ying left will set you up in noble style. A most opportune windfall was that. Plenty of luck you have.”

But Chueh Chun nodded his head. He always nodded his head to show that he differed. “Quite the contrary,” said Chueh Chun, “I fear me, honorable neighbors, that my aunt’s bequest is an ill thing altogether. It is luck the worst. Thirty thousand cash are so heavy that I shall be compelled to make at least two trips to fetch them. Besides, the beggars will be annoying me without let-up from break of day till I break their heads. And think of thieves. The money will bring me ill, I am sure.” And Chueh Chun laughed heartily, for that was his way of expressing sorrow.

However, Chueh Chun’s excellent wife knew how to manage him. She said: “Quite right. If I were you, I wouldn’t dream of going for the fortune. And I wouldn’t once think of riding the donkey, not once.” And she spoke as if she meant her words.

Therefore—upon his donkey—the contrary husband started for Tsun Pu, where his beloved aunt had lived and left riches. Immediately outside Tien Ting Village the traveler was forced to cross a river. The current was swift and it washed the hat-shoes from Chueh Chun’s feet. Down the stream swirled the hats, with their owner in splashy pursuit. The neighbors, who had gathered to bid old Contrary a fine journey, were loud in lamentation over his loss. They exclaimed, beating their breasts: “Oh, Chueh Chun, we are so sorry that you have lost your hat-shoes, so utterly sorry. With our eyes we weep for you and cry ‘alas.’ What terrible luck. It is demon-sent luck in truth.”

But Chueh Chun paused in his splashing and answered them: “Why, no. I dare say it is not bad luck at all. Quite the opposite, my esteemed neighbors, it may be very fortunate indeed.” He wept to show that he was well pleased.

Meanwhile, the onward swept hat-shoes disappeared from view. Chueh Chun raced along the bank, calling, and anxiously scanning the water for a trace of his lost property. The neighbors, too, hurried after, one leading the donkey. Rounding a willow-draped elbow of the river, Chueh Chun stumbled over a boat that had drifted ashore. He fell headlong and heavily, his chin plowing a prodigious furrow in the sand. Up panted the neighbors, shouting: “Alas, likewise alack. What woe. Such woe. Poor Chueh Chun, how we ache for you. Our own bones pain out of sympathy. What a horrible calamity.”

Chueh Chun stretched out a hand to pick up his two hat-shoes, drifted against a willow bough. Said he, rather indistinctly because of the sand in his mouth: “Nothing of the kind, greatly respected neighbors. My fall was most beneficial, for it placed me nearly atop my lost shoes. Otherwise I might never have found them.” He sobbed to prove his joy.

It is doubtful if the others heard. They, inquisitive fellows that they were, had hands and eyes and tongues busy as they investigated the boat that had caused Chueh Chun’s downfall. Lifting a drab and unpromising rain-cloth, they discovered underneath a cargo of precious tribute silks—only the best—stuffs such as are sent in tribute to His Majesty, The Emperor. There were bales of silk and sewn garments of silk. There were reds and greens and purples, brown and black and gold. Orange, blue, and pink, they surpassed the rainbow in vivid hue. “How marvelous,” gasped the neighbors. “Your fortune is made, Chueh Chun. What stupendous good luck. We who have always been your truest friends, aiding you with turnips and money in time of need, now rejoice with you.”

Chueh Chun nodded. “I must beg leave to disagree on that,” was his contradiction. “It is no very good luck. I would sooner have stepped on a fretful tiger. Really, it is terrible—finding this boat.”

The neighbors squinted eyes at each other and spoke. “A pity that you won’t take of the find. Howbeit—good for us. We can make profitable use of these things.” They were silly to say that.

Chueh Chun promptly loaded his donkey with silks, a burden worth, even in a beggars’ market, double or more the thirty thousand cash left by his aunt. He donned a most sightly lilac-colored coat and departed.

Thus with his donkey laden and his own back resplendent, Chueh Chun fared onward toward Tsun Pu. Scarce had he gone two li when a band of brigands espied him. “There goes old Chueh Chun,” said a brigand. “He is too poor to rob. That donkey of his is older than my own dear great-grandfather, and possesses a most deplorable temper.” But the robber chief spoke. “Nonsense, you shallow pate. Look at his lilac robe. Look at the silks upon his beast. We could scarcely have better fortune though we opened sacks within our noble Emperor’s treasury.” So the robbers fell upon Chueh Chun and stripped him of his stuffs. His donkey, his robe, his purse, all they took.

It was a well-plucked traveler who returned to Tien Ting Village and related his misadventure. The villagers, to a man, sympathized greatly. “Our hearts go out to you, most excellent Chueh Chun,” they condoled. “Undoubtedly, you have suffered. How you must grieve. And we also grieve. It is all pleasure swept away.”

Stubborn Chueh Chun could not agree. Said he: “Who knows but that it was good luck? Had I continued through the mountains I might have been killed by falling rocks. Think of that. Beyond doubt the robbers saved my life. Yet you, my supposed friends, say it was bad luck.”

Early next morning, Chueh Chun’s ancient donkey returned to the village. She had broken loose from the brigands and ambled home with all her load of silks intact. How the neighbors rejoiced. A person might easily have thought that the little donkey belonged to them, so jubilant were they. “Oh, Chueh Chun, awake,” they screamed. “Here is your donkey, all hearty and hale—with not so much as a yard of silk missing. What wonderful, wonderful luck.”

Chueh Chun said: “I’m afraid, good gracious yes, it’s very bad luck. No good can come of this. It’s unfortunate as can be. Alas. Alas.” Nor was he far wrong. That very morning, while ministering to a wound upon the donkey, that sinful little beast kicked with such violence as to break her master’s leg. The somewhat inquisitive neighbors gathered, as bees gather to the blossoming beans. “Oh. Oh. Oh,” they screamed. “What is the matter? Did the shameless donkey kick our handsome neighbor?”

“Truly, she did,” laughed Chueh Chun. “So hard that I think my leg has come apart.” And as he thought, so it was. He could not walk.

The neighbors redoubled their wails, asking each other, “Is not that the extreme height of ill fortune?”

“Not at all,” denied old Chueh Chun, perhaps a trifle grumpily. “In my opinion it may be a blessing. It, no doubt, will save me from something worse. Besides, it convinces me that my donkey is very strong, despite her age.”

By darkest midnight the Khan of the warlike Tartars, with fifty thousand men, swooped down to raid such villages as had, rather foolishly, been built outside the Great Wall. Tien Ting suffered. Every able-bodied man was taken prisoner. Only the very young, the extremely ancient, the lame, the blind, and the bedridden were left in their homes. Chueh Chun was one of those thus spared. Lameness and age were in his favor. By torchlight a toothless, grinning old neighbor dropped into Chueh Chun’s cave to say that the danger was no more. “The Tartars are gone, my admirable friend, Chueh Chun—and so are all of our young men, and our goods, even to house chimneys. I think you and I are about the only ones spared. How fortunate we are.”

“It may be all very fortunate for you,” put in Chueh Chun, “but as for me, I have a feeling that things could be much better, and still be not so good. I wish the Tartars had carried me into captivity astride my own poor lost donkey.” For, of course, his donkey was gone again.

With the dawning, His Majesty, The Emperor Ching Tang, entered the village to learn of its losses. He was told that all of the men, save half a dozen, Chueh Chun among them, had been carried off. “Why wasn’t such a one taken?” asked the Emperor. He was told: “A cripple for ninety years and a day.” “Why wasn’t Chueh Chun taken?” asked the Emperor. “Because, Noble Majesty,” answered a villager, kneeling three times and knocking his head on the ground thrice with each kneeling, “because, most gracious light of the sun and beauty of the moon, lord of the earth and sea and sky, Chueh Chun was kicked by his own donkey, and I well remember his saying at the time that it was extremely fortunate his leg was broken—a blessing—those were his words. And they were true.”

“What say you?” thundered the Emperor “A blessing—to be crippled? Why then this Chueh Chun must have known beforehand that the Tartars were coming to carry away my people. He must have known it, and knowing, gave us no warning. Bid this traitorous fellow appear. Soldiers—go. Headsman—draw your sword.”

Fortunately, Chueh Chun’s wife heard the Emperor’s command. Swiftly she ran home. As she entered the cave Chueh Chun sneezed. “Kou Chu.” The sneeze led to an excellent idea. Said the wife: “Aha. Aha,” with much emphasis. “You were out in your boat on the river last week, and now you have a cold.” Adding with proper severity, “Don’t you dare go near the river again. Do you hear?” She knew very well what would happen. “My husband—come back.”

Lame as he was, Chueh Chun promptly left the cave and got into his boat. The good wife smiled and screamed, “Don’t row with such vigor.”

Soldiers ran to the bank of the stream and called, “Come back.” And louder they shouted, “Come back.” That was extremely foolish of them. They should have said, “Go on.”

Contrary to the last, Chueh Chun sat the wrong way in his boat and rowed for dear life.

PIES OF THE PRINCESS

Three plump mandarins hid behind a single tiny rose bush. The chancellor crawled under a chair. All courtiers fell upon their chins, and shivering, prayed that soft words might prevail.

For no slight reason did they shiver and hide and pray. King Yang Lang was angry. And he was an old-fashioned monarch, living in the long ago. Nowadays, any greasy kitchen lout may tweak a King’s beard, and go forth to boast of his bravery. But then-a-days, Kings were Kings, and their swords were ever sharp.

King Yang Lang was such a ruler—and more angry than is good to see. His face was purple, and his voice boomed like a battle drum. “Keeper of the Treasury, has all my gold been used to make weights for fishing lines?”

Time after time the treasurer knocked his head against the paving. “Most Glorious and Peaceful Monarch, your gold is so plentiful that seven years must pass before I can finish counting the larger bars—ten years more for the smaller.”

That was rather pleasant news. The King’s voice lost some of its harshness. “What of ivory? Has all my ivory been burned for firewood, a pot to boil?”

The treasurer continued to knock his Head. “Supreme Ruler of The World and The Stars, your ivory completely fills a hundred large and closely guarded vaults.”

The King hadn’t dreamed that his wealth was so vast. His voice was not more moderately furious as he asked: “For what reason have you disposed of my jade? Do you mean to say that my jade has been used to build a stable for donkeys?”

Tap, tap, tap, went the treasurer’s head on marble paving: “Oh, Powerful Potentate, the store of green jade grows larger each day. Your precious white jade is worth more than green, and gold, and ivory combined. It is all quite safe, under lock and key and watchful spears.”

The King was astonished and put in somewhat better humor. His voice was no louder than thunder as he again questioned the treasurer. “Then why, tell me why is my daughter, the Princess Chin Uor, not given suitable toys. If the treasury holds gold and ivory and jade, why is my daughter compelled to use toys of common clay?”

The treasurer could not explain: “Monarch whose word compels the sun to rise, we have pleaded with the wee Princess Chin Uor. We have given her a thousand dolls of solid gold, with silver cradles for each, cradles set with rubies—and the dolls have eyes of lustrous black pearl. For the princess we have made ivory cats, and ivory mice for the cats to catch—two thousand of each. For the princess we have fashioned from jade, lovely tossing balls, wonderful dishes, and puppy dogs that bark and come when called. Yet, the princess ignores these things . . . and makes mud pies—Mud Pies. Mightiest Majesty, I do not know why, unless it may be that the princess is a girl, as well as a princess.”

A trifle relieved, King Yang Lang passed into the garden. Beside the river bank he found his daughter, the Princess Chin Uor, or Princess Many Dimples—for that is the meaning of Chin Uor. Nurses standing near kept watch upon wheelbarrows spilling over with golden dolls. But Chin Uor had no thought for such toys. Her royal hands shaped the tastiest of mud pies. Very pretty pies they were—made of white clay.

The King said: “Littlest and most beautiful daughter, the golden dolls are longing for your touch. Why do you not please them? It is not seemly for a princess to dabble in clay. Then why do you make pies?”

The princess had a very good answer ready. “Because, Daddy, I want to make pies. This nice large one is for your dinner.”

The King was so shocked that he could say nothing more. Mud pies for a King’s dinner? Such nonsense. His Majesty was scandalized at the thought. He departed in haste.

But the Princess Chin Uor smiled and kneaded more and more pies. And when she had made enough she placed them in a wheelbarrow and trundled them to the palace.

And now the story changes. Far away to the west, in a mountain named Huge Rocks Piled, the famous dragon, Oo Loong, made his home. This fierce dragon was a creature of consuming greed. He was ever hungry and anxious to dine. A rabbit or an elephant—nothing was too large, nothing too small. A turtle or a jellyfish—nothing was too hard, nothing too soft. A man he considered fine eating. Boys he liked somewhat better. Girls? Girls were far superior to boys—in the dragon’s opinion.

Much sorrow this ferocious _loong_ had created in His Majesty’s kingdom. A reward of one hundred silver pieces had been offered for the dragon’s horns, two hundred for his ears. Magicians had worked charms to slay him—only themselves to be slain. Hunters had loaded their jingals with yellow paper, and had fired where the dragon was thickest, fired where he was thinnest—only to be eaten—their guns with them. Made angry by the loss of so many people, King Yang Lang marched an army into the Mountain of Huge Rocks Piled. And the army was well armed with thumping drums and fifes and smoking guns.

Then the dragon became doubly furious and ferocious. To punish King Yang Lang, he resolved to visit the palace. That, he knew, would cause the army to be withdrawn. Accordingly, at the hour of deepest slumber, darksome mid of night, he prowled round Yang Lang’s palace, seeking entrance. He had no easy task. Upon the King’s door were pictures, also the word “Chi,” written in gold. And so that door was well protected. The Queen’s door likewise was dragon proof. It was covered with whole sentences taken from the black book of Hu Po, master magician. The door that led to where Princess Chin Uor slept was made strong by magic words and symbols. More of Hu Po’s sorcery. Useless to prowl there. Dangerous to prowl there. The dragon was a knowing beast and prudent. The signs were against him. Hence, he tarried not, but crawled down the hallway in leaving.

A wheelbarrow stood in his path. He could not pass to the right. To the left he could not pass. Nor could he leap over the obstruction. But the dragon was not one to be baffled by such a weak and wooden contrivance. His huge mouth opened and his white hot breath rushed forth. In a twinkling the wooden barrow vanished. Like a butter cake dropped upon the summer sun it melted, burned to a cinder of nothingness.

Now the wheelbarrow thus destroyed was property of the little Princess Chin Uor. In it had been golden dolls, dolls of the princess. The dolls were dolls no longer. Under the dragon’s fiery breath they changed to a pool of liquid gold. The hard gold became soft and flowing.

In the barrow had been pretty mud pies, pies of the princess. Under the dragon’s burning breath they were changed to discs of stony hardness. The soft clay took on a hardness as of flint. The princess had wished her pies to dry. And her wish had been granted.

Next morning, the palace, from presence room to pantry, buzzed with excitement. Oo Loong had dared intrude within the royal dwelling. It could not be doubted. He had left his footprints in the molten gold, and the gold, in hardening, had preserved his tracks.

Witches and wizards came to make more able charms. Messengers galloped away to summon the distant army. The King raged and roared. Said His Majesty: “Let that reprobate dragon return, if he dares. If he dares, let that reprobate dragon return.” The courtiers trembled and gasped: “Pray may the wicked _loong_ never return. Never, never return.” But little Princess Many Dimples played with her pies and was happy. Her pies had been baked to a queen’s taste—or rather to the taste of a princess. Beside the river she worked faithfully in wet white clay. Such beautiful pies. “I do hope that the nice _loong_ will return,” said Princess Chin Uor. “He is such a fine oven. I shall make a hundred more pies for his baking.”

Pie after pie. Even the nurses helped. Instead of saying, “Please, will your Royal Highness not play with this lovely doll?” they said, “Please, is this one rounded enough?” and “Please, shall I scallop the edges a trifle deeper?” and “Shall I imagine that this one contains cherries, or radishes?” or whatever it may be that makers of pies would say in a royal kitchen. So, a hundred pies were made and wheeled to the palace. In reality, they numbered a hundred and one, but the odd one was so thick that it must be called a cake. Howbeit, that is not so important as you might think.

Night followed day—a habit that most nights have. The soldiers slept—as they had been ordered not to do. The hour approached when clock hands point to the highest sky. Midnight came, and with it the mountainous mountain _loong_. Unseen by those whose duty was seeing, the dragon entered King Yang Lang’s courtyard. And there he was perplexed and paused. The King’s door was a hodgepodge of magic signs, plastered with yellow paper. Vain to think of entering there. The Queen’s door was upside down—best charm of all. To think of entering was vain. The door that led to Princess Chin Uor’s sleeping chamber was written thick with words to still a dragon’s heart, circles to dizzy his head. Say what you please, the witches and wizards had done good work upon that door. Their charms were written with clearness and force. The _loong_ dared not take a second glance. He felt his limbs grow weak. Wisely hastened he from the spell-guarded threshold.

Now in the reign of the Emperor Ming, a crazed and knavish fellow, known to the world as Wing Dow, invented a contrivance called by him “Look-through-the-wall,” but which we of today call a “Window.” His invention gave the Emperor Ming a severe cold, and Wing Dow came within a sword’s width of losing his ears—but more of that later. Here it is necessary to say only that Look-through-the-walls became popular, and many such were to be found in King Yang Lang’s palace. In the Princess Chin Uor’s room were many wing-dows (or windows), and—hard to believe—those wing-dows were unguarded either by charm or by apple wood beam, which is as good as a charm. Could the dragon pass by such a fine chance? Could he pass the wing-dow and not have a try? When he had come with purpose to do harm? It is easy to imagine the thing that happened. And yet not so easy as may seem.

The dragon’s lumpish head entered the wing-dow. His deer horns, his rabbit eyes, his snake tongue, all entered, and easily enough. A ponderous sofa-cushion foot he placed upon the window ledge. . . .

Crash, and smash, and clatter. . . .

The nurses awoke and screamed, “Save us.”

The Princess Chin Uor awoke and said, “Shoo.”

Soldiers in the courtyard awoke and lighted green fires as they smote their drums, saying: “Come if you dare. Help. Help.”

The dragon was already awake—awake to the danger. Promptly he vanished. Such noise he could not abide.

King Yang Lang came with a golden torch. Greatly he was pleased that the _loong_ had been routed.

But Princess Chin Uor was far from pleased. Indeed, she was fretful. From the floor she took a sliver of flint-hard clay. “My pies are all broken. All. All are broken,” mourned Princess Many Dimples. “I had placed them in the wing-dow. And the dragon knocked them down and broke them.” And beyond doubt so had he done. There were the pieces.