THE SILVER LEAVES
There was a fringe of trees along an open field. They were not very tall trees, neither were they trees that flowered or fruited; but to the eyes of Ah Leen they were very beautiful. Their slender branches were covered with leaves of a light green showing a silvery under surface, and when the wind moved or tossed them, silver gleams flashed through the green in a most enchanting way.
Ah Leen stood on the other side of the road admiring the trees with the silver leaves.
A little old woman carrying a basket full of ducks’ eggs came happily hobbling along. She paused by the side of Ah Leen.
“Happy love!” said she. “Your eyes are as bright as jade jewels!”
Ah Leen drew a long breath. “See!” said she, “the dancing leaves.”
The little old woman adjusted her blue goggles and looked up at the trees. “If only,” said she, “some of that silver was up my sleeve, I would buy you a pink parasol and a folding fan.”
“And if some of it were mine,” answered Ah Leen, “I would give it to my baby brother.” And she went on to tell the little old woman that that eve there was to be a joyful time at her father’s house, for her baby brother was to have his head shaved for the first time, and everybody was coming to see it done and would give her baby brother gifts of gold and silver. Her father and her mother, also, and her big brother and her big sister, all had gifts to give. She loved well her baby brother. He was so very small and so very lively, and his fingers and toes were so pink. And to think that he had lived a whole moon, and she had no offering to prove the big feeling that swelled and throbbed in her little heart for him.
Ah Leen sighed very wistfully.
Just then a brisk breeze blew over the trees, and as it passed by, six of the silver leaves floated to the ground.
“Oh! Oh!” cried little Ah Leen. She pattered over to where they had fallen and picked them up.
Returning to the old woman, she displayed her treasures.
“Three for you and three for me!” she cried.
The old woman accepted the offering smilingly, and happily hobbled away. In every house she entered, she showed her silver leaves, and told how she had obtained them, and every housewife that saw and heard her, bought her eggs at a double price.
At sundown, the guests with their presents began streaming into the house of Man You. Amongst them was a little old woman. She was not as well off as the other guests, but because she was the oldest of all the company, she was given the seat of honor. Ah Leen, the youngest daughter of the house, sat on a footstool at her feet. Ah Leen’s eyes were very bright and her cheeks glowed. She was wearing a pair of slippers with butterfly toes, and up her little red sleeve, carefully folded in a large leaf, were three small silver leaves.
Once when the mother of Ah Leen brought a cup of tea to the little old woman, the little old woman whispered in her ear, and the mother of Ah Leen patted the head of her little daughter and smiled kindly down upon her.
Then the baby’s father shaved the head of the baby, the Little Bright One. He did this very carefully, leaving a small patch of hair, the shape of a peach, in the centre of the small head. That peach-shaped patch would some day grow into a queue. Ah Leen touched it lovingly with her little finger after the ceremony was over. Never had the Little Bright One seemed so dear.
The gifts were distributed after all the lanterns were lit. It was a pretty sight. The mother of the Little Bright One held him on her lap, whilst each guest, relative, or friend, in turn, laid on a table by her side his gift of silver and gold, enclosed in a bright red envelope.
The elder sister had just passed Ah Leen with her gift, when Ah Leen arose, and following after her sister to the gift-laden table, proudly deposited thereon three leaves.
“They are silver—silver,” cried Ah Leen.
Nearly everybody smiled aloud; but Ah Leen’s mother gently lifted the leaves and murmured in Ah Leen’s ear, “They are the sweetest gift of all.”
How happy felt Ah Leen! As to the old woman who sold ducks’ eggs, she beamed all over her little round face, and when she went away, she left behind her a pink parasol and a folding fan.
THE PEACOCK LANTERN
It was such a pretty lantern—the prettiest of all the pretty lanterns that the lantern men carried. Ah Wing longed to possess it. Upon the transparent paper which covered the fine network of bamboo which enclosed the candle, was painted a picture of a benevolent prince, riding on a peacock with spreading tail. Never had Ah Wing seen such a gorgeous lantern, or one so altogether admirable.
“Honorable father,” said he, “is not that a lantern of illuminating beauty, and is not thy string of cash too heavy for thine honorable shoulders?”
His father laughed.
“Come hither,” he bade the lantern man. “Now,” said he to Ah Wing, “choose which lantern pleaseth thee best. To me all are the same.”
Ah Wing pointed to the peacock lantern, and hopped about impatiently, whilst the lantern man fumbled with the wires which kept his lanterns together.
“Oh, hasten! hasten!” cried Ah Wing.
The lantern man looked into his bright little face.
“Honorable little one,” said he, “would not one of the other lanterns please thee as well as this one? For indeed, I would, if I could, retain the peacock lantern. It is the one lantern of all which delights my own little lad and he is sick and cannot move from his bed.”
Ah Wing’s face became red.
“Why then dost thou display the lantern?” asked the father of Ah Wing.
“To draw attention to the others,” answered the man. “I am very poor and it is hard for me to provide my child with rice.”
The father of Ah Wing looked at his little son.
“Well?” said he.
Ah Wing’s face was still red.
“I want the peacock lantern,” he declared.
The father of Ah Wing brought forth his string of cash and drew therefrom more than double the price of the lantern.
“Take this,” said he to the lantern man. “’Twill fill thy little sick boy’s bowl with rice for many a day to come.”
The lantern man returned humble thanks, but while unfastening the peacock lantern from the others, his face looked very sad.
Ah Wing shifted from one foot to another.
The lantern man placed the lantern in his hand. Ah Wing stood still holding it.
“Thou hast thy heart’s desire now,” said his father. “Laugh and be merry.”
But with the lantern man’s sad face before him, Ah Wing could not laugh and be merry.
“If you please, honorable father,” said he, “may I go with the honorable lantern man to see his little sick boy?”
“Yes,” replied his father. “And I will go too.”
When Ah Wing stood beside the bed of the little sick son of the lantern man, he said:
“I have come to see thee, because my father has bought for my pleasure the lantern which gives thee pleasure; but he has paid therefor to thy father what will buy thee food to make thee strong and well.”
The little sick boy turned a very pale and very small face to Ah Wing.
“I care not,” said he, “for food to make me strong and well—for strong and well I shall never be; but I would that I had the lantern for the sake of San Kee.”
“And who may San Kee be?” inquired Ah Wing.
“San Kee,” said the little sick boy, “is an honorable hunchback. Every evening he comes to see me and to take pleasure in my peacock lantern. It is the only thing in the world that gives poor San Kee pleasure. I would for his sake that I might have kept the peacock lantern.”
“For his sake!” echoed Ah Wing.
“Yes, for his sake,” answered the little sick boy. “It is so good to see him happy. It is that which makes me happy.”
The tears came into Ah Wing’s eyes.
“Honorable lantern man,” said he, turning to the father of the little sick boy, “I wish no more for the peacock lantern. Keep it, I pray thee, for thy little sick boy. And honorable father”—he took his father’s hand—“kindly buy for me at the same price as the peacock lantern one of the other beautiful lanterns belonging to the honorable lantern man.”
CHILDREN OF PEACE
I
They were two young people with heads hot enough and hearts true enough to believe that the world was well lost for love, and they were Chinese.
They sat beneath the shade of a cluster of tall young pines forming a perfect bower of greenness and coolness on the slope of Strawberry hill. Their eyes were looking ocean-wards, following a ship nearing the misty horizon. Very serious were their faces and voices. That ship, sailing from west to east, carried from each a message to his and her kin—a message which humbly but firmly set forth that they were resolved to act upon their belief and to establish a home in the new country, where they would ever pray for blessings upon the heads of those who could not see as they could see, nor hear as they could hear.
“My mother will weep when she reads,” sighed the girl.
“Pau Tsu,” the young man asked, “do you repent?”
“No,” she replied, “but—”
She drew from her sleeve a letter written on silk paper.
The young man ran his eye over the closely penciled characters.
“’Tis very much in its tenor like what my father wrote to me,” he commented.
“Not that.”
Pau Tsu indicated with the tip of her pink forefinger a paragraph which read:
Are you not ashamed to confess that you love a youth who is not yet your husband? Such disgraceful boldness will surely bring upon your head the punishment you deserve. Before twelve moons go by you will be an Autumn Fan.
The young man folded the missive and returned it to the girl, whose face was averted from his.
“Our parents,” said he, “knew not love in its springing and growing, its bud and blossom. Let us, therefore, respectfully read their angry letters, but heed them not. Shall I not love you dearer and more faithfully because you became mine at my own request and not at my father’s? And Pau Tsu, be not ashamed.”
The girl lifted radiant eyes.
“Listen,” said she. “When you, during vacation, went on that long journey to New York, to beguile the time I wrote a play. My heroine is very sad, for the one she loves is far away and she is much tormented by enemies. They would make her ashamed of her love. But this is what she replies to one cruel taunt:
“When Memory sees his face and hears his voice,
The Bird of Love within my heart sings sweetly,
So sweetly, and so clear and jubilant,
That my little Home Bird, Sorrow,
Hides its head under its wing,
And appeareth as if dead.
Shame! Ah, speak not that word to one who loves!
For loving, all my noblest, tenderest feelings are awakened,
And I become too great to be ashamed.”
“You do love me then, eh, Pau Tsu?” queried the young man.
“If it is not love, what is it?” softly answered the girl.
Happily chatting they descended the green hill. Their holiday was over. A little later Liu Venti was on the ferry-boat which leaves every half hour for the Western shore, bound for the Berkeley Hills opposite the Golden Gate, and Pau Tsu was in her room at the San Francisco Seminary, where her father’s ambition to make her the equal in learning of the son of Liu Jusong had placed her.
II
The last little scholar of Pau Tsu’s free class for children was pattering out of the front door when Liu Venti softly entered the schoolroom. Pau Tsu was leaning against her desk, looking rather weary. She did not hear her husband’s footstep, and when he approached her and placed his hand upon her shoulder she gave a nervous start.
“You are tired, dear one,” said he, leading her towards the door where a seat was placed.
“Teacher, the leaves of a flower you gave me are withering, and mother says that is a bad omen.”
The little scholar had turned back to tell her this.
“Nay,” said Pau Tsu gently. “There are no bad omens. It is time for the flower to wither and die. It cannot live always.”
“Poor flower!” compassionated the child.
“Not so poor!” smiled Pau Tsu. “The flower has seed from which other flowers will spring, more beautiful than itself!”
“Ah, I will tell my mother!”
The little child ran off, her queue dangling and flopping as she loped along. The teachers watched her join a group of youngsters playing on the curb in front of the quarters of the Six Companies. One of the Chiefs in passing had thrown a handful of firecrackers amongst the children, and the result was a small bonfire and great glee.
It was seven years since Liu Venti and Pau Tsu had begun their work in San Francisco’s Chinatown; seven years of struggle and hardship, working and waiting, living, learning, fighting, failing, loving—and conquering. The victory, to an onlooker, might have seemed small; just a modest school for adult pupils of their own race, a few white night pupils, and a free school for children. But the latter was in itself evidence that Liu Venti and Pau Tsu had not only sailed safely through the waters of poverty, but had reached a haven from which they could enjoy the blessedness of stretching out helping hands to others.
During the third year of their marriage twin sons had been born to them, and the children, long looked for and eagerly desired, were welcomed with joy and pride. But mingled with this joy and pride was much serious thought. Must their beloved sons ever remain exiles from the land of their ancestors? For their little ones Liu Venti and Pau Tsu were much more worldly than they had ever been themselves, and they could not altogether stifle a yearning to be able to bestow upon them the brightest and best that the world has to offer. Then, too, memories of childhood came thronging with their children, and filial affection reawakened. Both Liu Venti and Pau Tsu had been only children; both had been beloved and had received all the advantages which wealth in their own land could obtain; both had been the joy and pride of their homes. They might, they sometimes sadly mused, have been a little less assured in their declarations to the old folk; a little kinder, a little more considerate. It was a higher light and a stronger motive than had ever before influenced their lives which had led them to break the ties which had bound them; yet those from whom they had cut away were ignorant of such forces; at least, unable, by reason of education and environment, to comprehend them. There were days when everything seemed to taste bitter to Pau Tsu because she could not see her father and mother. And Liu’s blood would tingle and his heart swell in his chest in the effort to banish from his mind the shadows of those who had cared for him before ever he had seen Pau Tsu.
“I was a little fellow of just about that age when my mother first taught me to kotow to my father and run to greet him when he came into the house,” said he, pointing to Little Waking Eyes, who came straggling after them, a kitten in his chubby arms.
“Oh, Liu Venti,” replied Pau Tsu, “you are thinking of home—even as I. This morning I thought I heard my mother’s voice, calling to me as I have so often heard her on sunny mornings in the Province of the Happy River. She would flutter her fan at me in a way that was peculiarly her own. And my father! Oh, my dear father!”
“Aye,” responded Liu Venti. “Our parents loved us, and the love of parents is a good thing. Here, we live in exile, and though we are happy in each other, in our children, and in the friendships which the new light has made possible for us, yet I would that our sons could be brought up in our own country and not in an American Chinatown.”
He glanced comprehensively up the street as he said this. A motley throng, made up, not only of his own countrymen, but of all nationalities, was scuffling along. Two little children were eating rice out of a tin dish on a near-by door-step. The singsong voices of girls were calling to one another from high balconies up a shadowy alley. A boy, balancing a wooden tray of viands on his head, was crossing the street. The fat barber was laughing hilariously at a drunken white man who had fallen into a gutter. A withered old fellow, carrying a bird in a cage, stood at a corner entreating passers-by to pause and have a good fortune told. A vender of dried fish and bunches of sausages held noisy possession of the corner opposite.
Liu Venti’s glance travelled back to the children eating rice on the doorstep, then rested on the head of his own young son.
“And our fathers’ mansions,” said he, “are empty of the voices of little ones.”
“Let us go home,” said Pau Tsu suddenly.
Liu Venti started. Pau Tsu’s words echoed the wish of his own heart. But he was not as bold as she.
“How dare we?” he asked. “Have not our fathers sworn that they will never forgive us?”
“The light within me this evening,” replied Pau Tsu, “reveals that our parents sorrow because they have this sworn. Oh, Liu Venti, ought we not to make our parents happy, even if we have to do so against their will?”
“I would that we could,” replied Liu Venti. “But before we can approach them, there is to be overcome your father’s hatred for my father and my father’s hatred for thine.”
A shadow crossed Pau Tsu’s face. But not for long. It lifted as she softly said: “Love is stronger than hate.”
Little Waking Eyes clambered upon his father’s knee.
“Me too,” cried Little Sleeping Eyes, following him. With chubby fists he pushed his brother to one side and mounted his father also.
Pau Tsu looked across at her husband and sons. “Oh, Liu Venti,” she said, “for the sake of our children; for the sake of our parents; for the sake of a broader field of work for ourselves, we are called upon to make a sacrifice!”
Three months later, Liu Venti and Pau Tsu, with mingled sorrow and hope in their hearts, bade goodbye to their little sons and sent them across the sea, offerings of love to parents of whom both son and daughter remembered nothing but love and kindness, yet from whom that son and daughter were estranged by a poisonous thing called Hate.
III
Two little boys were playing together on a beach. One gazed across the sea with wondering eyes. A thought had come—a memory.
“Where are father and mother?” he asked, turning to his brother.
The other little boy gazed bewilderedly back at him and echoed:
“Where are father and mother?”
Then the two little fellows sat down in the sand and began to talk to one another in a queer little old-fashioned way of their own.
“Grandfathers and grandmothers are very good,” said Little Waking Eyes.
“Very good,” repeated Little Sleeping Eyes.
“They give us lots of nice things.”
“Lots of nice things!”
“Balls and balloons and puff puffs and kitties.”
“Balls and balloons and puff puffs and kitties.”
“The puppet show is very beautiful!”
“Very beautiful!”
“And grandfathers fly kites and puff fire flowers!”
“Fly kites and puff fire flowers!”
“And grandmothers have cakes and sweeties.”
“Cakes and sweeties!”
“But where are father and mother?”
Little Waking Eyes and Little Sleeping Eyes again searched each other’s faces; but neither could answer the other’s question. Their little mouths drooped pathetically; they propped their chubby little faces in their hands and heaved queer little sighs.
There were father and mother one time—always, always; father and mother and Sung Sung. Then there was the big ship and Sung Sung only, and the big water. After the big water, grandfathers and grandmothers; and Little Waking Eyes had gone to live with one grandfather and grandmother, and Little Sleeping Eyes had gone to live with another grandfather and grandmother. And the old Sung Sung had gone away and two new Sung Sungs had come. And Little Waking Eyes and Little Sleeping Eyes had been good and had not cried at all. Had not father and mother said that grandfathers and grandmothers were just the same as fathers and mothers?
“Just the same as fathers and mothers,” repeated Little Waking Eyes to Little Sleeping Eyes, and Little Sleeping Eyes nodded his head and solemnly repeated: “Just the same as fathers and mothers.”
Then all of a sudden Little Waking Eyes stood up, rubbed his fists into his eyes and shouted: “I want my father and mother; I want my father and mother!” And Little Sleeping Eyes also stood up and echoed strong and bold: “I want my father and mother; I want my father and mother.”
It was the day of rebellion of the sons of Liu Venti and Pau Tsu.
When the two new Sung Sungs who had been having their fortunes told by an itinerant fortune-teller whom they had met some distance down the beach, returned to where they had left their young charges, and found them not, they were greatly perturbed and rent the air with their cries. Where could the children have gone? The beach was a lonely one, several miles from the seaport city where lived the grandparents of the children. Behind the beach, the bare land rose for a little way back up the sides and across hills to meet a forest dark and dense.
Said one Sung Sung to another, looking towards this forest: “One might as well search for a pin at the bottom of the ocean as search for the children there. Besides, it is haunted with evil spirits.”
“A-ya, A-ya, A-ya!” cried the other, “Oh, what will my master and mistress say if I return home without Little Sleeping Eyes, who is the golden plum of their hearts?”
“And what will my master and mistress do to me if I enter their presence without Little Waking Eyes? I verily believe that the sun shines for them only when he is around.”
For over an hour the two distracted servants walked up and down the beach, calling the names of their little charges; but there was no response.
IV
Thy grandson—the beloved of my heart, is lost, is lost! Go forth, old man, and find him.”
Liu Jusong, who had just returned from the Hall, where from morn till eve he adjusted the scales of justice, stared speechlessly at the old lady who had thus accosted him. The loss of his grandson he scarcely realized; but that his humble spouse had suddenly become his superior officer, surprised him out of his dignity.
“What meaneth thy manner?” he bewilderedly inquired.
“It meaneth,” returned the old lady, “that I have borne all I can bear. Thy grandson is lost through thy fault. Go, find him!”
“How my fault? Surely, thou art demented!”
“Hadst thou not hated Li Wang, Little Waking Eyes and Little Sleeping Eyes could have played together in our own grounds or within the compound of Li Wang. But this is no time to discourse on spilt plums. Go, follow Li Wang in the search for thy grandsons. I hear that he has already left for the place where the stupid thorns who had them in charge, declare they disappeared.”
The old lady broke down.
“Oh, my little Bright Eyes! Where art thou wandering?” she wailed.
Liu Jusong regarded her sternly. “If my enemy,” said he, “searcheth for my grandsons, then will not I.”
With dignified step he passed out of the room. But in the hall was a child’s plaything. His glance fell upon it and his expression softened. Following the servants despatched by his wife, the old mandarin joined in the search for Little Waking Eyes and Little Sleeping Eyes.
Under the quiet stars they met—the two old men who had quarrelled in student days and who ever since had cultivated hate for each other. The cause of their quarrel had long been forgotten; but in the fertile soil of minds irrigated with the belief that the superior man hates well and long, the seed of hate had germinated and flourished. Was it not because of that hate that their children were exiles from the homes of their fathers—those children who had met in a foreign land, and in spite of their fathers’ hatred, had linked themselves in love.
They spread their fans before their faces, each pretending not to see the other, while their servants inquired: “What news of the honorable little ones?”
“No news,” came the answer from each side.
The old men pondered sternly. Finally Liu Jusong said to his servants: “I will search in the forest.”
“So also will I,” announced Li Wang.
Liu Jusong lowered his fan. For the first time in many years he allowed his eyes to rest on the countenance of his quondam friend, and that quondam friend returned his glance. But the servant men shuddered.
“It is the haunted forest,” they cried. “Oh, honorable masters, venture not amongst evil spirits!”
But Li Wang laughed them to scorn, as also did Liu Jusong.
“Give me a lantern,” bade Li Wang. “I will search alone since you are afraid.”
He spake to his servants; but it was not his servants who answered: “Nay, not alone. Thy grandson is my grandson and mine is thine!”
“Oh, grandfather,” cried Little Waking Eyes, clasping his arms around Liu Jusong’s neck, “where are father and mother?”
And Little Sleeping Eyes murmured in Li Wang’s ear, “I want my father and mother!”
Liu Jusong and Li Wang looked at each other. “Let us send for our children,” said they.
V
How many moons, Liu Venti, since our little ones went from us?” asked Pau Tsu.
She was very pale, and there was a yearning expression in her eyes.
“Nearly five,” returned Liu Venti, himself stifling a sigh.
“Sometimes,” said Pau Tsu, “I feel I cannot any longer bear their absence.”
She drew from her bosom two little shoes, one red, one blue.
“Their first,” said she. “Oh, my sons, my little sons!”
A messenger boy approached, handed Liu Venti a message, and slipped away.
Liu Venti read:
May the bamboo ever wave. Son and daughter,
return to your parents and your children.
Liu Jusong, Li Wang.
“The answer to our prayer,” breathed Pau Tsu. “Oh Liu Venti, love is indeed stronger than hate!”
THE BANISHMENT OF MING AND MAI
I
Many years ago in the beautiful land of China, there lived a rich and benevolent man named Chan Ah Sin. So kind of heart was he that he could not pass through a market street without buying up all the live fish, turtles, birds, and animals that he saw, for the purpose of giving them liberty and life. The animals and birds he would set free in a cool green forest called the Forest of the Freed, and the fish and turtles he would release in a moon-loved pool called the Pool of Happy Life. He also bought up and set free all animals that were caged for show, and even remembered the reptiles.
Some centuries after this good man had passed away, one of his descendants was accused of having offended against the laws of the land, and he and all of his kin were condemned to be punished therefor. Amongst his kin were two little seventh cousins named Chan Ming and Chan Mai, who had lived very happily all their lives with a kind uncle as guardian and a good old nurse. The punishment meted out to this little boy and girl was banishment to a wild and lonely forest, which forest could only be reached by travelling up a dark and mysterious river in a small boat. The journey was long and perilous, but on the evening of the third day a black shadow loomed before Ming and Mai. This black shadow was the forest, the trees of which grew so thickly together and so close to the river’s edge that their roots interlaced under the water.
The rough sailors who had taken the children from their home, beached the boat, and without setting foot to land themselves, lifted the children out, then quickly pushed away. Their faces were deathly pale, for they were mortally afraid of the forest, which was said to be inhabited by innumerable wild animals, winged and crawling things.
Ming’s lip trembled. He realized that he and his little sister were now entirely alone, on the edge of a fearsome forest on the shore of a mysterious river. It seemed to the little fellow, as he thought of his dear Canton, so full of bright and busy life, that he and Mai had come, not to another province, but to another world.
One great, big tear splashed down his cheek. Mai, turning to weep on his sleeve, saw it, checked her own tears, and slipping a little hand into his, murmured in his ear:
“Look up to the heavens, O brother. Behold, the Silver Stream floweth above us here as bright as it flowed above our own fair home.” (The Chinese call the Milky Way the Silver Stream.)
While thus they stood, hand in hand, a moving thing resembling a knobby log of wood was seen in the river. Strange to say, the children felt no fear and watched it float towards them with interest. Then a watery voice was heard. “Most honorable youth and maid,” it said, “go back to the woods and rest.”
It was a crocodile. Swimming beside it were a silver and a gold fish, who leaped in the water and echoed the crocodile’s words; and following in the wake of the trio, was a big green turtle mumbling: “To the woods, most excellent, most gracious, and most honorable.”
Obediently the children turned and began to find their way among the trees. The woods were not at all rough and thorny as they had supposed they would be. They were warm and fragrant with aromatic herbs and shrubs. Moreover, the ground was covered with moss and grass, and the bushes and young trees bent themselves to allow them to pass through. But they did not wander far. They were too tired and sleepy. Choosing a comfortable place in which to rest, they lay down side by side and fell asleep.
When they awoke the sun was well up. Mai was the first to open her eyes, and seeing it shining through the trees, exclaimed: “How beautiful is the ceiling of my room!” She thought she was at home and had forgotten the river journey. But the next moment Ming raised his head and said: “The beauty you see is the sun filtering through the trees and the forest where—”
He paused, for he did not wish to alarm his little sister, and he had nearly said: “Where wild birds and beasts abound.”
“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Mai in distress. She also thought of the wild birds and beasts, but like Ming, she also refrained from mentioning them.
“I am impatiently hungry,” cried Ming. He eyed enviously a bright little bird hopping near. The bird had found a good, fat grasshopper for its breakfast, but when it heard Ming speak, it left the grasshopper and flew quickly away.
A moment later there was a great trampling and rustling amongst the grasses and bushes. The hearts of the children stood still. They clasped hands. Under every bush and tree, on the branches above them, in a pool near by, and close beside them, almost touching their knees, appeared a great company of living things from the animal, fish, fowl, and insect kingdoms.
It was true then—what the sailors had told them—only worse; for whereas they had expected to meet the denizens of the forest, either singly or in couples, here they were all massed together.
A tiger opened its mouth. Ming put his sister behind him and said: “Please, honorable animals, birds, and other kinds of living things, would some of you kindly retire for a few minutes. We expected to meet you, but not so many at once, and are naturally overwhelmed with the honor.”
“Oh, yes, please your excellencies,” quavered Mai, “or else be so kind as to give us space in which to retire ourselves, so that we may walk into the river and trouble you no more. Will we not, honorable brother?”
“Nay, sister,” answered Ming. “These honorable beings have to be subdued and made to acknowledge that man is master of this forest. I am here to conquer them in fight, and am willing to take them singly, in couples, or even three at a time; but as I said before, the honor of all at once is somewhat overwhelming.”
“Oh! ah!” exclaimed Mai, gazing awestruck at her brother. His words made him more terrible to her than any of the beasts of the field. Just then the tiger, who had politely waited for Ming and Mai to say their say, made a strange purring sound, loud, yet strangely soft; fierce, yet wonderfully kind. It had a surprising effect upon the children, seeming to soothe them and drive away all fear. One of little Mai’s hands dropped upon the head of a leopard crouching near, whilst Ming gazed straight into the tiger’s eyes and smiled as at an old friend. The tiger smiled in return, and advancing to Ming, laid himself down at his feet, the tip of his nose resting on the boy’s little red shoes. Then he rolled his body around three times. Thus in turn did every other animal, bird, fish, and insect present. It took quite a time and Mai was glad that she stood behind her brother and received the obeisances by proxy.
This surprising ceremony over, the tiger sat back upon his haunches and, addressing Ming, said:
“Most valorous and honorable descendant of Chan Ah Sin the First: Your coming and the coming of your exquisite sister will cause the flowers to bloom fairer and the sun to shine brighter for us. There is, therefore, no necessity for a trial of your strength or skill with any here. Believe me, Your Highness, we were conquered many years ago—and not in fight.”
“Why! How?” cried Ming.
“Why! How?” echoed Mai.
And the tiger said:
“Many years ago in the beautiful land of China, there lived a rich and benevolent man named Chan Ah Sin. So kind of heart was he that he could not pass through a market street without buying up all the live fish, turtles, birds, and animals that he saw, for the purpose of giving them liberty and life. These animals and birds he would set free in a cool green forest called the Forest of the Freed, and the fish and turtles he would release in a moon-loved pool called the Pool of Happy Life. He also bought up and set free all animals that were caged for show, and even remembered the reptiles.”
The tiger paused.
“And you,” observed Ming, “you, sir tiger, and your forest companions, are the descendants of the animals, fish, and turtles thus saved by Chan Ah Sin the First.”
“We are, Your Excellency,” replied the tiger, again prostrating himself. “The beneficent influence of Chan Ah Sin the First, extending throughout the centuries, has preserved the lives of his young descendants, Chan Ming and Chan Mai.”
II
THE TIGER’S FAREWELL
Many a moon rose and waned over the Forest of the Freed and the Moon-loved Pool of Happy Life, and Ming and Mai lived happily and contentedly amongst their strange companions. To be sure, there were times when their hearts would ache and their tears would flow for their kind uncle and good old nurse, also for their little playfellows in far-away Canton; but those times were few and far between. Full well the children knew how much brighter and better was their fate than it might have been.
One day, when they were by the river, amusing themselves with the crocodiles and turtles, the water became suddenly disturbed, and lashed and dashed the shore in a very strange manner for a river naturally calm and silent.
“Why, what can be the matter?” cried Ming.
“An honorable boat is coming,” shouted a goldfish.
Ming and Mai clasped hands and trembled.
“It is the sailors,” said they to one another; then stood and watched with terrified eyes a large boat sail majestically up the broad stream.
Meanwhile down from the forest had rushed the tiger with his tigress and cubs, the leopard with his leopardess and cubs, and all the other animals with their young, and all the birds, and all the insects, and all the living things that lived in the Forest of the Freed and the Moon-loved Pool. They surrounded Ming and Mai, crouched at their feet, swarmed in the trees above their heads, and crowded one another on the beach and in the water.
The boat stopped in the middle of the stream, in front of the strip of forest thus lined with living things. There were two silk-robed men on it and a number of sailors, also an old woman carrying a gigantic parasol and a fan whose breeze fluttered the leaves in the Forest of the Freed.
When the boat stopped, the old woman cried: “Behold, I see my precious nurslings surrounded by wild beasts. A-ya, A-ya, A-ya.” Her cries rent the air and Ming and Mai, seeing that the old woman was Woo Ma, their old nurse, clapped their little hands in joy.
“Come hither,” they cried. “Our dear friends will welcome you. They are not wild beasts. They are elegant and accomplished superior beings.”
Then one of the men in silken robes commanded the sailors to steer for the shore, and the other silk-robed man came and leaned over the side of the boat and said to the tiger and leopard:
“As I perceive, honorable beings, that you are indeed the friends of my dear nephew and niece, Chan Ming and Chan Mai, I humbly ask your permission to allow me to disembark on the shore of this river on the edge of your forest.”
The tiger prostrated himself, so also did his brother animals, and all shouted:
“Welcome, O most illustrious, most benevolent, and most excellent Chan Ah Sin the Ninth.”
So Mai crept into the arms of her nurse and Ming hung on to his uncle’s robe, and the other silk-robed man explained how and why they had come to the Forest of the Freed and the Moon-loved Pool.
A fairy fish, a fairy duck, a fairy butterfly, and a fairy bird, who had seen the children on the river when the cruel sailors were taking them from their home, had carried the news to the peasants of the rice fields, the tea plantations, the palm and bamboo groves. Whereupon great indignation had prevailed, and the people of the province, who loved well the Chan family, arose in their might and demanded that an investigation be made into the charges against that Chan who was reputed to have broken the law, and whose relatives as well as himself had been condemned to suffer therefor. So it came to pass that the charges, which had been made by some malicious enemy of high official rank, were entirely disproved, and the edict of banishment against the Chan family recalled.
The first thought of the uncle of Ming and Mai, upon being liberated from prison, was for his little nephew and niece, and great indeed was his alarm and grief upon learning that the two tender scions of the house of Chan had been banished to a lonely forest by a haunted river, which forest and river were said to be inhabited by wild and cruel beings. Moreover, since the sailors who had taken them there, and who were the only persons who knew where the forest was situated, had been drowned in a swift rushing rapid upon their return journey, it seemed almost impossible to trace the little ones, and Chan Ah Sin the Ninth was about giving up in despair, when the fairy bird, fish, and butterfly, who had aroused the peasants, also aroused the uncle by appearing to him and telling him where the forest of banishment lay and how to reach it.
“Yes,” said Chan Ah Sin the Ninth, when his friend ceased speaking, “but they did not tell me that I should find my niece and nephew so tenderly cared for. Heaven alone knows why you have been so good to my beloved children.”
He bowed low to the tiger, leopard, and all the living things around him.
“Most excellent and honorable Chan Ah Sin the Ninth,” replied the Tiger, prostrating himself, “we have had the pleasure and privilege of being good to these little ones, because many years ago in the beautiful land of China, your honorable ancestor, Chan Ah Sin the First, was good and kind to our forefathers.”
Then arising upon his hind legs, he turned to Ming and Mai and tenderly touching them with his paws, said:
“Honorable little ones, your banishment is over, and those who roam the Forest of the Freed, and dwell in the depths of the Pool of Happy Life, will behold no more the light of your eyes. May heaven bless you and preserve you to be as good and noble ancestors to your descendants as your ancestor, Chan Ah Sin the First, was to you.”
THE STORY OF A LITTLE CHINESE
SEABIRD
A little Chinese seabird sat in the grass which grew on a rocky island. The little Chinese seabird was very sad. Her wing was broken and all her brothers and sisters had flown away, leaving her alone. Why, oh why, had she broken her wing? Why, oh why, were brothers and sisters so?
The little Chinese seabird looked over the sea. How very beautiful its life and movement! The sea was the only consolation the little Chinese seabird had. It was always lovely and loving to the little Chinese seabird. No matter how often the white-fringed waves spent themselves for her delight, there were always more to follow. Changeably unchanged, they never deserted her nor her island home. Not so with her brothers and sisters. When she could fly with them, circle in the air, float upon the water, dive for little fish, and be happy and gay—then indeed she was one of them and they loved her. But since she had broken her wing, it was different. The little Chinese seabird shook her little head mournfully.
But what was that which the waves were bearing towards her island? The little Chinese seabird gave a quick glance, then put her little head under the wing that was not broken.
Now, what the little Chinese seabird had seen was a boat. Within the boat were three boys—and these boys were coming to the island to hunt for birds’ eggs. The little Chinese seabird knew this, and her bright, wild little eyes glistened like jewels, and she shivered and shuddered as she spread herself as close to the ground as she could.
The boys beached the boat and were soon scrambling over the island, gathering all the eggs that they could find. Sometimes they passed so near to the little Chinese seabird that she thought she must surely be trampled upon, and she set her little beak tight and close so that she might make no sound, should so painful an accident occur. Once, however, when the tip of a boy’s queue dangled against her head and tickled it, the little Chinese seabird forgot entirely her prudent resolve to suffer in silence, and recklessly peeked at the dangling queue. Fortunately for her, the mother who had braided the queue of the boy had neglected to tie properly the bright red cord at the end thereof. Therefore when the little Chinese seabird pecked at the braid, the effect of the peck was not to cause pain to the boy and make him turn around, as might otherwise have been the case, but to pull out of his queue the bright red cord. This, the little Chinese seabird held in her beak for quite a long time. She enjoyed glancing down at its bright red color, and was afraid to let it fall in case the boys might hear.
Meanwhile, the boys, having gathered all the eggs they could find, plotted together against the little Chinese seabird and against her brothers and sisters, and the little seabird, holding the red cord in her beak, listened with interest. For many hours after the boys had left the island, the little Chinese seabird sat meditating over what she had heard. So deeply did she meditate that she forgot all about the pain of her broken wing.
Towards evening her brothers and sisters came home and settled over the island like a wide-spreading mantle of wings.
For some time the little Chinese seabird remained perfectly still and quiet. She kept saying to herself, “Why should I care? Why should I care?” But as she did care, she suddenly let fall the bright red cord and opened and closed her beak several times.
“What is all that noise?” inquired the eldest seabird.
“Dear brother,” returned the little Chinese seabird, “I hope I have not disturbed you; but is not this a very lovely night? See how radiant the moon.”
“Go to sleep! Go to sleep!”
“Did you have an enjoyable flight today, brother?”
“Tiresome little bird, go to sleep, go to sleep.”
It was the little Chinese seabird’s eldest sister that last spoke.
“Oh, sister, is that you?” replied the little Chinese seabird. “I could see you last of the flock as you departed from our island, and I did so admire the satin white of your under-wings and tail.”
“Mine is whiter,” chirped the youngest of all the birds.
“Go to sleep, go to sleep!” snapped the eldest brother.
“What did you have to eat today?” inquired the second brother of the little Chinese seabird.
“I had a very tasty worm porridge, dear brother,” replied the little Chinese seabird. “I scooped it out of the ground beside me, because you know I dared not move any distance for fear of making worse my broken wing.wing.”
“Your broken wing? Ah, yes, your broken wing!” murmured the second brother.
“Ah, yes, your broken wing!” faintly echoed the others.
Then they all, except the very youngest one, put their heads under their own wings, for they all, except the very youngest one, felt a little bit ashamed of themselves.
But the little Chinese seabird did not wish her brothers and sisters to feel ashamed of themselves. It embarrassed her, so she lifted up her little voice again, and said:
“But I enjoyed the day exceedingly. The sea was never so lovely nor the sky either. When I was tired of watching the waves chase each other, I could look up and watch the clouds. They sailed over the blue sky so soft and white.”
“There’s no fun in just watching things,” said the youngest of all the birds: “we went right up into the clouds and then deep down into the waves. How we splashed and dived and swam! When I fluttered my wings after a bath in silver spray, it seemed as if a shower of jewels dropped therefrom.”
“How lovely!” exclaimed the little Chinese seabird. Then she remembered that if her brothers and sisters were to have just as good a time the next day, she must tell them a story—a true one.
So she did.
After she had finished speaking, there was a great fluttering of wings, and all her brothers and sisters rose in the air above her, ready for flight.
“To think,” they chattered to one another, “that if we had remained an hour longer, those wicked boys would have come with lighted torches and caught us and dashed us to death against stones.”
“Yes, and dressed us and salted us!”
“And dressed us and salted us!”
“And dried us!”
“And dried us!”
“And eaten us!”
“And eaten us!”
“How rude!”
“How inconsiderate!”
“How altogether uncalled for!”
“Are you quite sure?” inquired the eldest brother of the little Chinese seabird.
“See,” she replied, “here is the red cord from the queue of one of the boys. I picked it out as his braid dangled against my head!”
The brothers and sisters looked at one another.
“How near they must have come to her!” exclaimed the eldest sister.
“They might have trampled her to death in a very unbecoming manner!” remarked the second.
“They will be sure to do it tonight when they search with torchlight,” was the opinion of the second brother.
And the eldest brother looked sharply down upon the little Chinese seabird, and said:
“If you had not told us what these rude boys intended doing, you would not have had to die alone.”
“I prefer to die alone!” proudly replied the little Chinese seabird. “It will be much pleasanter to die in quiet than with wailing screams in my ears.”
“Hear her, oh, hear her!” exclaimed the second sister.
But the eldest sister, she with the satin-white under-wings and spreading tail, descended to the ground, and began pulling up some tough grass. “Come,” she cried to the other birds, “let us make a strong nest for our broken-winged little sister—a nest in which we can bear away to safety one who tonight has saved our lives without thought of her own.”
“We will, with pleasure,” answered the other birds.birds.
Whereupon they fluttered down and helped to build the most wonderful nest that ever was built, weaving in and out of it the bright red cord, which the little Chinese seabird had plucked out of the boy’s queue. This made the nest strong enough to bear the weight of the little Chinese seabird, and when it was finished they dragged it beside her and tenderly pushed her in. Then they clutched its sides with their beaks, flapped their wings, and in a moment were soaring together far up in the sky, the little Chinese seabird with the broken wing happy as she could be in the midst of them.
WHAT ABOUT THE CAT?
What about the cat?” asked the little princess of her eldest maid.
“It is sitting on the sunny side of the garden wall, watching the butterflies. It meowed for three of the prettiest to fall into its mouth, and would you believe it, that is just what happened. A green, a blue, a pink shaded with gold, all went down pussy’s red throat.”
The princess smiled. “What about the cat?” she questioned her second maid.
“She is seated in your honorable father’s chair of state, and your honorable father’s first body-slave is scratching her back with your father’s own back-scratcher, made of the purest gold and ivory.”
The princess laughed outright. She pattered gracefully into another room. There she saw the youngest daughter of her foster-mother.
“What about the cat?” she asked for the third time.
“The cat! Oh, she has gone to Shinku’s duck farm. The ducks love her so that when they see her, they swim to shore and embrace her with their wings. Four of them combined to make a raft and she got upon their backs and went down-stream with them. They met some of the ducklings on the way and she patted them to death with her paws. How the big ducks quacked!”
“That is a good story,” quoth the princess.
She went into the garden and, seeing one of the gardeners, said: “What about the cat?”
“It is frisking somewhere under the cherry tree, but you would not know it if you saw it,” replied the gardener.
“Why?” asked the princess.
“Because, Your Highness, I gave it a strong worm porridge for its dinner, and as soon as it ate it, its white fur coat became a glossy green, striped with black. It looks like a giant caterpillar, and all the little caterpillars are going to hold a festival tonight in its honor.”
“Deary me! What a great cat!” exclaimed the princess.
A little further on she met one of the chamberlains of the palace. “What about the cat?” she asked.
“It is dancing in the ballroom in a dress of elegant cobwebs and a necklace of pearl rice. For partner, she has the yellow dragon in the hall, come to life, and they take such pretty steps together that all who behold them shriek in ecstasy. Three little mice hold up her train as she dances, and another sits perched on the tip of the dragon’s curled tail.”
At this the princess quivered like a willow tree and was obliged to seek her apartments. When there, she recovered herself, and placing a blossom on her exquisite eyebrow, commanded that all those of whom she had inquired concerning the cat should be brought before her. When they appeared she looked at them very severely and said:
“You have all told me different stories when I have asked you: ‘What about the cat?’ Which of these stories is true?”
No one answered. All trembled and paled.
“They are all untrue,” announced the princess.
She lifted her arm and there crawled out of her sleeve her white cat. It had been there all the time.
Then the courtly chamberlain advanced towards her, kotowing three times. “Princess,” said he, “would a story be a story if it were true? Would you have been as well entertained this morning if, instead of our stories, we, your unworthy servants, had simply told you that the cat was up your sleeve?”
The princess lost her severity in hilarity. “Thank you, my dear servants,” said she. “I appreciate your desire to amuse me.”
She looked at her cat, thought of all it had done and been in the minds of her servants, and laughed like a princess again and again.
THE WILD MAN AND THE GENTLE
BOY
Will you come with me?” said the Wild Man.
“With pleasure,” replied the Gentle Boy.
The Wild Man took the Gentle Boy by the hand, and together they waded through rice fields, climbed tea hills, plunged through forests and at last came to a wide road, shaded on either side by large evergreen trees, with resting places made of bamboo sticks every mile or so.
“My honorable father provided these resting places for the poor carriers,” said the Gentle Boy. “Here they can lay their burdens down, eat betel nuts, and rest.”
“Oh, ho,” laughed the Wild Man. “I don’t think there will be many carriers resting today. I cleared the road before I brought you.”
“Indeed!” replied the Gentle Boy. “May I ask how?”
“Ate them up.”
“Ah!” sighed the Gentle Boy. He felt the silence and stillness around. The very leaves had ceased to flutter, and only the soul of a bird hovered near.
The Wild Man had gigantic arms and legs and a broad, hairy chest. His mouth was exceeding large and his head was unshaved. He wore a sack of coarse linen, open in front with holes for arms. On his head was a rattan cap, besmeared with the blood of a deer.
The Gentle Boy was small and plump; his skin was like silk and the tips of his little fingers were pink. His queue was neatly braided and interwoven with silks of many colors. He wore a peach-colored blouse and azure pantaloons, all richly embroidered, and of the finest material. The buttons on his tunic were of pure gold, and the sign of the dragon was worked on his cap. He was of the salt of the earth, a descendant of Confutze, an aristocrat of aristocrats.
“Of what are you thinking?” asked the Wild Man.
“About the carriers. Did they taste good?” asked the Gentle Boy with mild curiosity.
“Yes, but there is something that will taste better, younger and tenderer, you know.”
He surveyed the Gentle Boy with glistening eyes.
The Gentle Boy thought of his father’s mansion, the frescoed ceilings, the chandeliers hung with pearls, the great blue vases, the dragon’s smiles, the galleries of glass through which walked his mother and sisters; but most of all, he thought of his noble ancestors.
“What would Your Excellency be pleased to converse about?” he inquired after a few minutes, during which the Wild Man had been engaged in silent contemplation of the Gentle Boy’s chubby cheeks.
“About good things to eat,” promptly replied the Wild Man.
“Very well,” politely replied the Gentle Boy. “There are a great many,” he dreamily observed, staring into space.
“Tell me about some of the fine dishes in your father’s kitchen. It is they who have made you.”
The Gentle Boy looked complacently up and down himself.
“I hope in all humility,” he said, “that I do honor to my father’s cook’s dishes.”
The Wild Man laughed so boisterously that the trees rocked.
“There is iced seaweed jelly, for one thing,” began the Gentle Boy, “and a ragout of water lilies, pork and chicken dumplings with bamboo shoots, bird’s-nest soup and boiled almonds, ducks’ eggs one hundred years old, garnished with strips of sucking pig and heavenly fish fried in paradise oil, white balls of rice flour stuffed with sweetmeats, honey and rose-leaves, candied frogs and salted crabs, sugared seaweed and pickled stars.”
He paused.
“Now, tell me,” said the Wild Man, “which of all things would you like best to eat?”
The Gentle Boy’s eye wandered musingly over the Wild Man’s gigantic proportions, his hungry mouth, his fanglike teeth. He flipped a ladybird insect off his silken cuff and smiled at the Wild Man as he did so.
“Best of all, honorable sir,” he slowly said, “I would like to eat you.”
The Wild Man sat transfixed, staring at the Gentle Boy, his mouth half open, the hair standing up on his head. And to this day he sits there, on the high road to Cheang Che, a piece of petrified stone.
THE GARMENTS OF THE FAIRIES
Why do we never see the fairies?” asked Mermei.
“Because,” replied her mother, “the fairies do not wish to be seen.”
“But why, honorable mother, do they not wish to be seen?”
“Would my jade jewel wish to show herself to strangers if she wore no tunic or shoes or rosettes?”
Mermei glanced down at her blue silk tunic embroidered in white and gold, at her scarlet shoes beaded at the tips so as to resemble the heads of kittens; and looking over to a mirror hung on the side of the wall where the sun shone, noted the purple rosettes in her hair and the bright butterfly’s wing.
“Oh, no! honorable mother,” said she, shaking her head with quite a shocked air.
“Then, when you hear the reason why the fairies do not appear to you except in your dreams, you will know that they are doing just as you would do were you in a fairy’s shoes.”
“A story! A story!” cried Mermei, clapping her hands and waving her fan, and Choy and Fei and Wei and Sui, who were playing battledore and shuttlecock on the green, ran into the house and grouped themselves around Mermei and the mother. They all loved stories.
“Many, many years ago,” began the mother of Mermei, “when the sun was a warm-hearted but mischievous boy, playing all kinds of pranks with fruits and flowers and growing things, and his sister, the moon, was too young to be sad and serious, the fairies met together by night. The sun, of course, was not present, and the moon had withdrawn behind a cloud. Stars alone shone in the quiet sky. By their light the fairies looked upon each other, and found themselves so fair and radiant in their robes of varied hues, all wonderfully fashioned, fringed and laced, some bright and brilliant, others, delicate and gauzy, but each and all a perfect dream of loveliness, that they danced for very joy in themselves and the garments in which they were arrayed.
“The dance being over, the queen of all sighed a fragrant sigh of happiness upon the air, and bowing to her lovely companions said:
“‘Sweet sisters, the mission of the fairies is to gladden the hearts of the mortals. Let us, therefore, this night, leave behind us on the earth the exquisite garments whose hues and fashions have given us so much pleasure. And because we may not be seen uncovered, let us from henceforth be invisible.’
“‘We will! We will!’ cried the sister fairies. They were all good and kind of heart, and much as they loved their dainty robes, they loved better to give happiness to others.
“And that is why the fairies are invisible, and why we have the flowers.”
“The flowers!” cried Mermei. “Why the flowers?”
“And the fairies’ garments! Where can we find them?” asked Fei with the starry eyes.
“In the gardens, in the forests, and by the streams,” answered the mother. “The flowers, dear children, are the bright-hued garments which the fairies left behind them when they flew from earth, never to return again, save invisible.”
THE DREAMS THAT FAILED
Ping Sik and Soon Yen sat by the roadside under a spreading olive tree. They were on their way to market to sell two little pigs. With the money to be obtained from the sale of the little pigs, they were to buy caps and shoes with which to attend school.
“When I get to be a man,” said Ping Sik, “I will be so great and so glorious that the Emperor will allow me to wear a three-eyed peacock feather, and whenever I walk abroad, all who meet me will bow to the ground.”
“And I,” said Soon Yen, “will be a great general. The reins of my steeds will be purple and scarlet, and in my cap will wave a bright blue plume.”
“I shall be such a great poet and scholar,” continued Ping Sik, “that the greatest university in the Middle Kingdom will present me with a vase encrusted with pearls.”
“And I shall be so valiant and trustworthy that the Pearly Emperor will appoint me commander-in-chief of his army, and his enemies will tremble at the sound of my name.”
“I shall wear a yellow jacket with the names of three ancestors inscribed thereon in seven colors.”
“And I shall wear silk robes spun by princesses, and a cloak of throat skins of sables.”
“And I shall live in a mansion of marble and gold.”
“And I in halls of jadestone.”
“And I will own silk and tea plantations and tens of thousands of rice farms.”
“All the bamboo country shall be mine, and the rivers and sea shall be full of my fishing boats, junks, and craft of all kinds.”
“People will bow down before me and cry: ‘Oh, most excellent, most gracious, most beautiful!’”
“None will dare offend so mighty a man as I shall be!”
“O ho! You good-for-nothing rascals!” cried the father of Ping Sik. “What are you doing loafing under a tree when you should be speeding to market?”
“And the little pigs, where are they?” cried the father of Soon Yen.
The boys looked down at the baskets which had held the little pigs. While they had been dreaming of future glories, the young porkers had managed to scramble out of the loosely woven bamboo thatch of which the baskets were made.
The fathers of Ping Sik and Soon Yen produced canes.
“Without shoes and caps,” said they, “you cannot attend school. Therefore, back to the farm and feed pigs.”
GLAD YEN
I’m so glad! so glad!” shouted little Yen.
“Why?” asked Wou. “Has any one given you a gold box with jewels, or a peacock feather fan, or a coat of many colors, or a purse of gold? Has your father become rich or been made a high mandarin?”
Wou sighed as he put these questions. He had voiced his own longings.
“No,” answered Yen, giving a hop, skip, and jump.
“Then, why are you glad?” repeated Wou.
“Why?” Yen’s bright face grew brighter. “Oh, because I have such a beautiful blue sky, such a rippling river, waterfalls that look like lace and pearls and diamonds, and sun-beams brighter and more radiant than the finest jewels. Because I have chirping insects, and flying beetles, and dear, wiggly worms—and birds, oh, such lovely birds, all colors! And some of them can sing. I have a sun and a moon and stars. And flowers? Wouldn’t any one be glad at the sight of flowers?”
Wou’s sad and melancholy face suddenly lighted and overflowed with smiles.
“Why,” said he, “I have all these bright and beautiful things. I have the beautiful sky, and water, and birds, and flowers, too! I have the sun, and the moon, and the stars, just as you have! I never thought of that before!”
“Of course you have,” replied Yen. “You have all that is mine, and I all that is yours, yet neither can take from the other!”
THE DECEPTIVE MAT
When Tsin Yen was about eight years old, he and his little brother were one fine day enjoying a game of battledore and shuttlecock on the green lawn, which their father had reserved as a playground for their use. The lawn was a part of a very elaborate garden laid out with many rare flowers and ferns and exquisite plants in costly porcelain jars. The whole was enclosed behind high walls.
It was a very warm day and the garden gate had been left open, so that the breeze could better blow within. A man stood outside the gate, watching the boys. He carried a small parcel under his arm.
“Will not the jewel eyes of the honorable little ones deign to turn my way?” he cried at last.
Tsin Yen and Tsin Yo looked over at him.
“What is your wish, honorable sir?” asked Tsin Yen.
And the man replied: “That I may be allowed space in which to spread my mat on your green. The road outside is dusty and the insects are more lively than suits my melancholy mood.”
“Spread your mat, good sir,” hastily answered Tsin Yen, giving a quick glance at the small parcel, and returning to his play.
The man began quietly to unroll his bundle, Tsin Yen and Tsin Yo being too much interested in their play to pay much attention to him. But a few minutes passed, however, before the stranger touched Tsin Yen’s sleeve, and bade him stand aside.
“For what reason, honorable sir?” asked Tsin Yen, much surprised.
“Did not you consent to my spreading my mat, most ingenuous son of an illustrious father?” returned the man. He pointed to his mat. Of cobweb texture and cobweb color, it already covered almost the whole green lawn, and there was a portion yet unrolled.
“How could I know that so small a bundle would make so large a mat?” exclaimed Tsin Yen protestingly.
“But you should have thought, my son,” said the father of Tsin Yen, who now appeared upon the scene. “If you had thought before consenting to the spreading of the mat, you would not, this fine afternoon, be obliged to yield your playground to a stranger. However, the word of a Tsin must be made good. Stand aside, my sons.”
So Tsin Yen and Tsin Yo stood aside and watched with indignant eyes the deceptive mat unrolled over the whole space where they were wont to play. When it was spread to its full capacity, the man seated himself in the middle, and remained thereon until the setting of the sun.
And that is the reason why Tsin Yen, when he became a man, always thought for three minutes before allowing any word to escape his lips.
THE HEART’S DESIRE
She was dainty, slender, and of waxen pallor. Her eyes were long and drooping, her eyebrows finely arched. She had the tiniest Golden Lily feet and the glossiest black hair. Her name was Li Chung O’Yam, and she lived in a sad, beautiful old palace surrounded by a sad, beautiful old garden, situated on a charming island in the middle of a lake. This lake was spanned by marble bridges, entwined with green creepers, reaching to the mainland. No boats were ever seen on its waters, but the pink lotus lily floated thereon and swans of marvellous whiteness.
Li Chung O’Yam wore priceless silks and radiant jewels. The rarest flowers bloomed for her alone. Her food and drink were of the finest flavors and served in the purest gold and silver plates and goblets. The sweetest music lulled her to sleep.
Yet Li Chung O’Yam was not happy. In the midst of the grandeur of her enchanted palace, she sighed for she knew not what.
“She is weary of being alone,” said one of the attendants. And he who ruled all within the palace save Li Chung O’Yam, said: “Bring her a father!”
A portly old mandarin was brought to O’Yam. She made humble obeisance, and her august father inquired ceremoniously as to the state of her health, but she sighed and was still weary.
“We have made a mistake; it is a mother she needs,” said they.
A comely matron, robed in rich silks and waving a beautiful peacock feather fan, was presented to O’Yam as her mother. The lady delivered herself of much good advice and wise instruction as to deportment and speech, but O’Yam turned herself on her silken cushions and wished to say goodbye to her mother.
Then they led O’Yam into a courtyard which was profusely illuminated with brilliant lanterns and flaring torches. There were a number of little boys of about her own age dancing on stilts. One little fellow, dressed all in scarlet and flourishing a small sword, was pointed out to her as her brother. O’Yam was amused for a few moments, but in a little while she was tired of the noise and confusion.
In despair, they who lived but to please her consulted amongst themselves. O’Yam, overhearing them, said: “Trouble not your minds. I will find my own heart’s ease.”
Then she called for her carrier dove, and had an attendant bind under its wing a note which she had written. The dove went forth and flew with the note to where a little girl named Ku Yum, with a face as round as a harvest moon, and a mouth like a red vine leaf, was hugging a cat to keep her warm and sucking her finger to prevent her from being hungry. To this little girl the dove delivered O’Yam’s message, then returned to its mistress.
“Bring me my dolls and my cats, and attire me in my brightest and best,” cried O’Yam.
When Ku Yum came slowly over one of the marble bridges towards the palace wherein dwelt Li Chung O’Yam, she wore a blue cotton blouse, carried a peg doll in one hand and her cat in another. O’Yam ran to greet her and brought her into the castle hall. Ku Yum looked at O’Yam, at her radiant apparel, at her cats and her dolls.
“Ah!” she exclaimed. “How beautifully you are robed! In the same colors as I. And behold, your dolls and your cats, are they not much like mine?”
“Indeed they are,” replied O’Yam, lifting carefully the peg doll and patting the rough fur of Ku Yum’s cat.
Then she called her people together and said to them:
“Behold, I have found my heart’s desire—a little sister.”
And forever after O’Yam and Ku Yum lived happily together in a glad, beautiful old palace, surrounded by a glad, beautiful old garden, on a charming little island in the middle of a lake.
THE CANDY THAT IS NOT
SWEET
Grandfather Chan was dozing in a big red chair. Beside him stood the baby’s cradle, a thick basket held in a stout framework of wood. Inside the cradle lay the baby. He was very good and quiet and fast asleep.
The cottage door was open. On the green in front played Yen. Mother Chan, who was taking a cup of afternoon tea with a neighbor, had said to him when she bade him goodbye, “Be a good little son and take good care of the baby and your honorable grandfather.”
Yen wore a scarlet silk skullcap, a gaily embroidered vest, and purple trousers. He had the roundest and smoothest of faces and the brightest of eyes. Some pretty stones which he had found heaped up in a corner of the green were affording him great delight and joy, and he was rubbing his fat little hands over them, when there arose upon the air the cry of Bo Shuie, the candy man. Yen gave a hop and a jump. In a moment he was at the corner of the street where stood the candy man, a whole hive of little folks grouped around him. Never was there such a fascinating fellow as this candy man. What a splendid big pole was that he had slung over his broad shoulders, and, oh, the baskets of sweetmeats which depended from it on either side!
Yen gazed wistfully at the sugared almonds and limes, the ginger and spice cakes, and the barley sugar and cocoanut.
“I will take that, honorable candy man,” said he, pointing to a twisted sugar stick of many colors.
“Cash!” said the candy man holding out his hand.
“Oh!” exclaimed Yen. He had thought only of sugar and forgotten he had no cash.
“Give it to me, honorable peddler man,” said Han Yu. “I have a cash.”
The peddler man transferred from his basket to the eager little hands of Han Yu the sugar stick of many colors.
Quick as his chubby legs could carry him, Yen ran back to the cottage. His grandfather was still dozing.
“Grandfather, honorable grandfather,” cried Yen. But his grandfather did not hear.
Upon a hook on the wall hung a long string of cash. Mother Chan had hung it there for her use when passing peddlers called.
Yen had thought to ask his grandfather to give him one of the copper coins which were strung on the string, but as his grandfather did not awaken at his call, he changed his mind. You see, he had suddenly remembered that the day before he had felt a pain, and when he had cried, his mother had said: “No more candy for Yen.”
For some moments Yen stood hesitating and looking at the many copper coins on the bright red string. It hung just low enough to be reached, and Yen knew how to work the cash over the knot at the end. His mother had shown him how so that he could hand them over to her for the peddlers.
Ah, how pleasant, how good that smelt! The candy man, who carried with his baskets a tin saucepan and a little charcoal stove, had set about making candy, and the smell of the barley sugar was wafted from the corner to Yen’s little nose.
Yen hesitated no longer. Grabbing the end of the string of cash, he pulled therefrom three coins, and with a hop and a jump was out in the street again.
“I will take three sticks of twisted candy of many colors,” said he to the candy man.
With his three sticks of candy Yen returned to the green. He had just bitten a piece off the brightest stick of all when his eyes fell on a spinning top which his mother had given him that morning. He crunched the candy, but somehow or other it did not taste sweet.
“Yen! Yen!” called his grandfather, awaking from his sleep.
Yen ran across to him.
“Honorable grandfather,” said he, “I have some beautiful candy for you!”
He put the three sticks of candy upon his grandfather’s knees.
“Dear child!” exclaimed the old man, adjusting his spectacles. “How did you come to get the candy?”
Yen’s little face became very red. He knew that he had done wrong, so instead of answering his grandfather, he hopped three times.
“How did you get the candy?” again inquired Grandfather Chan.
“From the candy man,” said Yen, “from the candy man. Eat it, eat it.”
Now Grandfather Chan was a little deaf, and taking for granted that Yen had explained the candy all right, he nibbled a little at one of the sticks, then put it down.
“Eat some more, eat all, honorable grandfather,” urged Yen.
The old man laughed and shook his head.
“I cannot eat any more,” said he. “The old man is not the little boy.”
“But—but,” puffed Yen, becoming red in the face again, “I want you to eat it, honorable grandfather.”
But Grandfather Chan would not eat any more candy, and Yen began to puff and blow and talk very loud because he would not. Indeed, by the time Mother Chan returned, he was as red as a turkeycock and chattering like a little magpie.
“I do not know what is the matter with the little boy,” said Grandfather Chan. “He is so vexed because I cannot eat his candy.”
Mother Chan glanced at the string of cash and then at her little son’s flushed face.
“I know,” said she. “The candy is not sweet to him, so he would have his honorable grandfather eat it.”
Yen stared at his mother. How did she know! How could she know! But he was glad that she knew, and at sundown he crept softly to her side and said, “Honorable mother, the string of cash is less than at morn, but the candy, it was not sweet.”
THE INFERIOR MAN
Ku Yum, the little daughter of Wen Hing, the schoolmaster, trotted into the school behind her father and crawled under his desk. From that safe retreat, her bright eyes looked out in friendly fashion upon the boys. Ku Yum was three years old and was the only little girl who had ever been in the schoolroom. Naturally, the boys were very much interested in her, and many were the covert glances bestowed upon the chubby little figure in red under the schoolmaster’s desk. Now and then a little lad, after an unusually penetrating glance, would throw his sleeve over or lift his slate up to his face, and his form would quiver strangely. Well for the little lad that the schoolmaster wore glasses which somewhat clouded his vision.
The wife of Wen Hing was not very well, which was the reason why the teacher had been bringing the little Ku Yum to school with him for the last three weeks. Wen Hing, being a kind husband, thought to help his wife, who had two babies besides Ku Yum to look after.
But for all his troubled mind, the schoolmaster’s sense of duty to his scholars was as keen as ever; also his sense of smell.
Suddenly he turned from the blackboard upon which he had been chalking.
“He who thinks only of good things to eat is an inferior man,” and pushing back his spectacles, declared in a voice which caused his pupils to shake in their shoes:
“Some degenerate son of an honorable parent is eating unfragrant sugar.”
“Unfragrant sugar! honorable sir!” exclaimed Han Wenti.
“Unfragrant sugar!” echoed little Yen Wing.
“Unfragrant sugar!”
“Unfragrant sugar!”
The murmur passed around the room.
“Silence!” commanded the teacher.
There was silence.
“Go Ek Ju,” said the teacher, “why is thy miserable head bowed?”
“Because, O wise and just one, I am composing,” answered Go Ek Ju.
“Read thy composition.”
“A wild boar and a sucking pig were eating acorns from the bed of a sunken stream,” shrilly declaimed Go Ek Ju.
“Enough! It can easily be perceived what thy mind is on. Canst thou look at me behind my back and declare that thou art not eating unfragrant sugar?”
“To thy illuminating back, honorable sir, I declare that I am not eating unfragrant sugar.”
The teacher’s brow became yet sterner.
“You, Mark Sing! Art thou the unfragrant sugar eater?”
“I know not the taste of that confection, most learned sir.”
The teacher sniffed.
“Some one,” he reasserted, “is eating unfragrant sugar. Whoever the miserable culprit is, let him speak now, and four strokes from the rattan is all that he shall receive.”
He paused. The clock ticked sixty times; but there was no response to his appeal. He lifted his rattan.
“As no guilty one,” said he, “is honorable enough to acknowledge that he is dishonorably eating unfragrant sugar, I shall punish all for the offense, knowing that thereby the offender will receive justice. Go Ek Ju, come forward, and receive eight strokes from the rattan.”
Go Ek Ju went forward and received the eight strokes. As he stood trembling with pain before the schoolmaster’s desk, he felt a small hand grasp his foot. His lip tightened. Then he returned to his seat, sore, but undaunted, and unconfessed. In like manner also his schoolmates received the rattan.
When the fifteen aching but unrepentant scholars were copying industriously, “He who thinks only of good things to eat is an inferior man,” and the schoolmaster, exhausted, had flung himself back on his seat, a little figure in red emerged from under the schoolmaster’s desk and attempted to clamber on to his lap. The schoolmaster held her back.
“What! What!” he exclaimed. “What! what!” He rubbed his head in puzzled fashion. Then he lifted up the little red figure, turning its face around to the schoolboys. Such a chubby, happy little face as it was. Dimpled cheeks and pearly teeth showing in a gleeful smile. And the hands of the little red figure grasped two sticky balls of red and white peppermint candy—unfragrant sugar.
“Behold!” said the teacher, with a twinkle in his spectacles, “the inferior man!”
Whereupon the boys forgot that they were aching. You see, they loved the little Ku Yum and believed that they had saved her from eight strokes of the rattan.
The little finger on Ah Yen’s little left hand was very sore. Ah Yen had poked it into a hot honey tart. His honorable mother had said: “Yen, you must not touch that tart,” but just as soon as his honorable mother had left the room, Yen forgot what she had said, and thrust the littlest finger of his little left hand right into the softest, sweetest, and hottest part of the tart.
Now he sat beside the window, feeling very sad and sore, for all the piece of oiled white linen which his mother had carefully wrapped around his little finger. It was a very happy-looking day. The sky was a lovely blue, trimmed with pretty, soft white clouds, and on the purple lilac tree which stood in front of his father’s cottage, two little yellow eyebrows were chirping to each other.
But Yen, with his sore finger, did not feel at all happy. You see, if his finger had not been sore, he could have been spinning the bright-colored top which his honorable uncle had given him the day before.
“Isn’t it a lovely day, little son?” called his mother.
“I think it is a homely day,” answered Yen.
“See those good little birds on the tree,” said his mother.
“I don’t believe they are good,” replied the little boy.
“Fie, for shame!” cried his mother; and she went on with her work.
Just then an old blind-man carrying a guitar came down the street. He stopped just under the window by which Yen was seated, and leaning against the wall began thrumming away on his instrument. The tunes he played were very lively and merry. Yen looked down upon him and wondered why. The blind-man was such a very old man, and not only blind but lame, and so thin that Yen felt quite sure that he never got more than half a bowl of rice for his dinner. How was it then that he played such merry tunes? So merry indeed that, listening to them, Yen quite forgot to be sour and sad. The old man went on playing and Yen went on listening. After a while, the little boy smiled, then he laughed. The old man lifted his head. He could not see with his sightless eyes, but he knew that there was a little boy near to him whom he was making happy.
“Honorable great-grandfather of all the world,” said Yen. “Will you please tell me why you, who are old, lame, and blind, make such merry music that everybody who hears becomes merry also?”
The old man stopped thrumming and rubbed his chin. Then he smiled around him and answered: “Why, I think, little Jewel Eyes, that the joyful music comes just because I am old, lame, and blind.”
Yen looked down at his little finger.
“Do you hear what says the honorable great-grandfather of the world?” he asked.
The little finger straightened itself up. It no longer felt sore, and Yen was no longer sour and sad.
MISUNDERSTOOD
The baby was asleep. Ku Yum looked curiously at her little brother as he lay in placid slumber. His head was to be shaved for the first time that afternoon, and he was dressed for the occasion in three padded silk vests, sky-blue trousers and an embroidered cap, which was surmounted by a little gold god and a sprig of evergreen for good luck. This kept its place on his head, even in sleep. On his arms and ankles were hung many amulets and charms, and on the whole he appeared a very resplendent baby. To Ku Yum, he was simply gorgeous, and she longed to get her little arms around him and carry him to some place where she could delight in him all by herself.
Ku Yum’s mind had been in a state of wonder concerning the boy, Ko Ku, ever since he had been born. Why was he so very small and so very noisy? What made his fingers and toes so pink? Why did her mother always smile and sing wheneverwhenever she had the baby in her arms? Why did her father, when he came in from his vegetable garden, gaze so long at Ko Ku? Why did grandmother make so much fuss over him? And yet, why, oh why, did they give him nothing nice to eat?
The baby was sleeping very soundly. His little mouth was half open and a faint, droning sound was issuing therefrom. He had just completed his first moon and was a month old. Poor baby! that never got any rice to eat, nor nice sweet cakes. Ku Yum’s heart swelled with compassion. In her hand was a delicious half-moon cake. It was the time of the harvest-moon festival and Ku Yum had already eaten three. Surely, the baby would like a taste. She hesitated. Would she dare, when it lay upon that silken coverlet? Ku Yum had a wholesome regard for her mother’s bamboo slipper.
The window blind was torn on one side. A vagrant wind lifted it, revealing an open window. There was a way out of that window to the vegetable garden. Beyond the vegetable garden was a cool, green spot under a clump of trees; also a beautiful puddle of muddy water.
An inspiration came to Ku Yum, born of benevolence. She lifted the sleeping babe in her arms, and with hushed, panting breaths, bore him slowly and laboriously to where her soul longed to be. He opened his eyes once and gave a faint, disturbed cry, but lapsed again into dreamland.
Ku Yum laid him down on the grass, adjusted his cap, smoothed down his garments, ran her small fingers over his brows, or where his brows ought to have been, tenderly prodded his plump cheeks, and ruffled his straight hair. Little sighs of delight escaped her lips. The past and the future were as naught to her. She revelled only in the present.
For a few minutes thus: then a baby’s cries filled the air. Ku Yum sat up. She remembered the cake. It had been left behind. She found a large green leaf, and placing that over the baby’s mouth in the hope of mellowing its tones, cautiously wended her way back between the squash and cabbages.
All was quiet and still. It was just before sundown and it was very warm. Her mother still slept her afternoon sleep. Hastily seizing the confection, she returned to the babe, her face beaming with benevolence and the desire to do good. She pushed some morsels into the child’s mouth. It closed its eyes, wrinkled its nose and gurgled; but its mouth did not seem to Ku Yum to work just as a proper mouth should under such pleasant conditions.
“Behold me! Behold me!” she cried, and herself swallowed the remainder of the cake in two mouthfuls. Ko Ku, however, did not seem to be greatly edified by the example set him. The crumbs remained, half on his tongue and half on the creases of his cheek. He still emitted explosive noises.
Ku Yum sadly surveyed him.
“He doesn’t know how to eat. That’s why they don’t give him anything,” she said to herself, and having come to this logical conclusion, she set herself to benefit him in other ways than the one in which she had failed.
She found some worms and ants, which she arranged on leaves and stones, meanwhile keeping up a running commentary on their charms.
“See! This very small brown one—how many legs it has, and how fast it runs. This one is so green that I think its father and mother must have been blades of grass, don’t you? And look at the wings on this worm. That one has no wings, but its belly is pretty pink. Feel how nice and slimy it is. Don’t you just love slimy things that creep on their bellies, and things that fly in the air, and things with four legs? Oh, all kinds of things except grown-up things with two legs.”
She inclined the baby’s head so that his eyes would be on a level with her collection, but he screamed the louder for the change.
“Oh, hush thee, baby, hush thee,
And never, never fear
The bogies of the dark land,
When the green bamboo is near,”
she chanted in imitation of her mother. But the baby would not be soothed.
She wrinkled her childish brow. Her little mind was perplexed. She had tried her best to amuse her brother, but her efforts seemed in vain.
Her eyes fell on the pool of muddy water. They brightened. Of all things in the world Ku Yum loved mud, real, good, clean mud. What bliss to dip her feet into that tempting pool, to feel the slow brown water oozing into her little shoes! Ku Yum had done that before and the memory thrilled her. But with that memory came another—a memory of poignant pain; the cause, a bamboo cane, which bamboo cane had been sent from China by her father’s uncle, for the express purpose of helping Ku Yum to walk in the straight and narrow path laid out for a proper little Chinese girl living in Santa Barbara.
Still the baby cried. Ku Yum looked down on him and the cloud on her brow lifted. Ko Ku should have the exquisite pleasure of dipping his feet into that soft velvety water. There would be no bamboo cane for him. He was loved too well. Ku Yum forgot herself. Her thoughts were entirely for Ko Ku. She half dragged, half carried him to the pool. In a second his feet were immersed therein and small wiggling things were wandering up his tiny legs. He gave a little gasp and ceased crying. Ku Yum smiled. Ah! Ko Ku was happy at last! Then:
Before Ku Yum’s vision flashed a large, cruel hand. Twice, thrice it appeared, after which, for a space of time, Ku Yum could see nothing but twinkling stars.
“My son! My son! the evil spirit in your sister had almost lost you to me!” cried her mother.
“That this should happen on the day of the completion of the moon, when the guests from San Francisco are arriving with the gold coins. Verily, my son, your sister is possessed of a devil,” declared her father.
And her grandmother, speaking low, said: “’Tis fortunate the child is alive. But be not too hard on Ku Yum. The demon of jealousy can best be exorcised by kindness.”
And the sister of Ko Ku wailed low in the grass, for there were none to understand.
Note.—The ceremony of the “Completion of the Moon” takes place when a Chinese boy child attains to a month old. His head is then shaved for the first time amidst much rejoicing. The foundation of the babe’s future fortune is laid on that day, for every guest invited to the shaving is supposed to present the baby with a gold piece, no matter how small.
THE LITTLE FAT ONE
Lee Chu and Lee Yen sat on a stone beneath the shade of a fig tree. The way to school seemed a very long way and the morning was warm, the road dusty.
“The master’s new pair of goggles can see right through our heads,” observed Lee Chu.
“And his new cane made Hom Wo’s fingers blister yesterday,” said Lee Yen.
They looked sideways at one another and sighed.
“The beach must be very cool today,” said Lee Chu after a few moments.
“Ah, yes! It is not far from here.” Thus Lee Yen.
“And there are many pebbles.”
“Of all colors.”
“Of all colors.”
The two little boys turned and looked at each other.
“Our honorable parents need never know,” mused one.
“No!” murmured the other. “School is so far from home. And there are five new scholars to keep the schoolmaster busy.”
Yes, the beach was cool and pleasant, and the pebbles were many, and the finest in color and shape that Lee Chu and Lee Yen had ever seen. The tide washed up fresh ones every second—green, red, yellow, black, and brown; also white and transparent beauties. The boys exclaimed with delight as they gathered them. The last one spied was always the brightest sparkler.
“Here’s one like fire and all the colors in the sun,” cried Lee Chu.
“And this one—it is such a bright green. There never was another one like it!” declared Lee Yen.
“Ah! most beautiful!”
“Oh! most wonderful!”
And so on until they had each made an iridescent little pile. Then they sat down to rest and eat their lunch—some rice cakes which their mother had placed within their sleeves.
As they sat munching these, they became reflective. The charm of the sea and sky was on them though they knew it not.
“I think,” said Lee Chu, “that these are the most beautiful pebbles that the sea has ever given to us.”
“I think so too,” assented Lee Yen.
“I think,” again said Lee Chu, “that I will give mine to the Little Fat One.”
“The Little Fat One shall also have mine,” said Lee Yen. He ran his fingers through his pebbles and sighed with rapture over their glittering. Lee Chu also sighed as his eyes dwelt on the shining heap that was his.
The Little Fat One ran to greet them on his little fat legs when they returned home at sundown, and they poured their treasures into his little tunic.
“Why, where do these come from?” cried Lee Amoy, the mother, when she tried to lift the Little Fat One on to her lap and found him too heavy to raise.
Lee Chu and Lee Yen looked away.
“You bad boys!” exclaimed the mother angrily. “You have been on the beach instead of at school. When your father comes in I shall tell him to cane you.”
“No, no, not bad!” contradicted the Little Fat One, scrambling after the stones which were slipping from his tunic. His mother picked up some of them, observing silently that they were particularly fine.
“They are the most beautiful pebbles that ever were seen,” said Lee Chu sorrowfully. He felt sure that his mother would cast them away.
“The sea will never give up as fine again,” declared Lee Yen despairingly.
“Then why did you not each keep what you found?” asked the mother.
“Because—” said Lee Chu, then looked at the Little Fat One.
“Because—” echoed Lee Yen, and also looked at the Little Fat One.
The mother’s eyes softened.
“Well,” said she, “for this one time we will forget the cane.”
“Good! Good!” cried the Little Fat One.
A CHINESE BOY-GIRL
I
The warmth was deep and all-pervading. The dust lay on the leaves of the palms and the other tropical plants that tried to flourish in the Plaza. The persons of mixed nationalities lounging on the benches within and without the square appeared to be even more listless and unambitious than usual. The Italians who ran the peanut and fruit stands at the corners were doing no business to speak of. The Chinese merchants’ stores in front of the Plaza looked as quiet and respectable and drowsy as such stores always do. Even the bowling alleys, billiard halls, and saloons seemed under the influence of the heat, and only a subdued clinking of glasses and roll of balls could be heard from behind the half-open doors. It was almost as hot as an August day in New York City, and that is unusually sultry for Southern California.
A little Chinese girl, with bright eyes and round cheeks, attired in blue cotton garments, and wearing her long, shining hair in a braid interwoven with silks of many colors, paused beside a woman tourist who was making a sketch of the old Spanish church. The tourist and the little Chinese girl were the only persons visible who did not seem to be affected by the heat. They might have been friends; but the lady, fearing for her sketch, bade the child run off. Whereupon the little thing shuffled across the Plaza, and in less than five minutes was at the door of the Los Angeles Chinatown school for children.
“Come in, little girl, and tell me what they call you,” said the young American teacher, who was new to the place.
“Ku Yum be my name,” was the unhesitating reply; and said Ku Yum walked into the room, seated herself complacently on an empty bench in the first row, and informed the teacher that she lived on Apablaza street, that her parents were well, but her mother was dead, and her father, whose name was Ten Suie, had a wicked and tormenting spirit in his foot.
The teacher gave her a slate and pencil, and resumed the interrupted lesson by indicating with her rule ten lichis (called “Chinese nuts” by people in America) and counting them aloud.
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten,” the baby class repeated.
After having satisfied herself by dividing the lichis unequally among the babies, that they might understand the difference between a singular and a plural number, Miss Mason began a catechism on the features of the face. Nose, eyes, lips, and cheeks were properly named, but the class was mute when it came to the forehead.
“What is this?” Miss Mason repeated, posing her finger on the fore part of her head.
“Me say, me say,” piped a shrill voice, and the new pupil stepped to the front, and touching the forehead of the nearest child with the tips of her fingers, christened it “one,” named the next in like fashion “two,” a third “three,” then solemnly pronounced the fourth a “four head.”
Thus Ku Yum made her dÉbut in school, and thus began the trials and tribulations of her teacher.
Ku Yum was bright and learned easily, but she seemed to be possessed with the very spirit of mischief; to obey orders was to her an impossibility, and though she entered the school a voluntary pupil, one day at least out of every week found her a truant.
“Where is Ku Yum?” Miss Mason would ask on some particularly alluring morning, and a little girl with the air of one testifying to having seen a murder committed, would reply: “She is running around with the boys.” Then the rest of the class would settle themselves back in their seats like a jury that has found a prisoner guilty of some heinous offense, and, judging by the expression on their faces, were repeating a silent prayer somewhat in the strain of “O Lord, I thank thee that I am not as Ku Yum is!” For the other pupils were demure little maidens who, after once being gathered into the fold, were very willing to remain.
But if ever the teacher broke her heart over any one it was over Ku Yum. When she first came, she took an almost unchildlike interest in the rules and regulations, even at times asking to have them repeated to her; but her study of such rules seemed only for the purpose of finding a means to break them, and that means she never failed to discover and put into effect.
After a disappearance of a day or so she would reappear, bearing a gorgeous bunch of flowers. These she would deposit on Miss Mason’s desk with a little bow; and though one would have thought that the sweetness of the gift and the apparent sweetness of the giver needed but a gracious acknowledgment, something like the following conversation would ensue:
“Teacher, I plucked these flowers for you from the Garden of Heaven.” (They were stolen from some park.)
“Oh, Ku Yum, whatever shall I do with you?”
“Maybe you better see my father.”
“You are a naughty girl. You shall be punished. Take those flowers away.”
“Teacher, the eyebrow over your little eye is very pretty.”
But the child was most exasperating when visitors were present. As she was one of the brightest scholars, Miss Mason naturally expected her to reflect credit on the school at the examinations. On one occasion she requested her to say some verses which the little Chinese girl could repeat as well as any young American, and with more expression than most. Great was the teacher’s chagrin when Ku Yum hung her head and said only: “Me ’shamed, me ’shamed!”
“Poor little thing,” murmured the bishop’s wife. “She is too shy to recite in public.”
But Miss Mason, knowing that of all children Ku Yum was the least troubled with shyness, was exceedingly annoyed.
Ku Yum had been with Miss Mason about a year when she became convinced that some steps would have to be taken to discipline the child, for after school hours she simply ran wild on the streets of Chinatown, with boys for companions. She felt that she had a duty to perform towards the motherless little girl; and as the father, when apprised of the fact that his daughter was growing up in ignorance of all home duties, and, worse than that, shared the sports of boy children on the street, only shrugged his shoulders and drawled: “Too bad! Too bad!” she determined to act.
She wasShe was interested in Ku Yum’s case the president of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, the matron of the Rescue Home, and the most influential ministers, and the result, after a month’s work, that an order went forth from the Superior Court of the State decreeing that Ku Yum, the child of Ten Suie, should be removed from the custody of her father, and, under the auspices of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, be put into a home for Chinese girls in San Francisco.
Her object being accomplished, strange to say, Miss Mason did not experience that peaceful content which usually follows a benevolent action. Instead, the question as to whether, after all, it was right, under the circumstances, to deprive a father of the society of his child, and a child of the love and care of a parent, disturbed her mind, morning, noon, and night. What had previously seemed her distinct duty no longer appeared so, and she began to wish with all her heart that she had not interfered in the matter.
II
Ku Yum had not been seen for weeks and those who were deputed to bring her into the sheltering home were unable to find her. It was suspected that the little thing purposely kept out of the way—no difficult matter, all Chinatown being in sympathy with her and arrayed against Miss Mason. Where formerly the teacher had met with smiles and pleased greetings, she now beheld averted faces and downcast eyes, and her school had within a week dwindled from twenty-four scholars to four. Verily, though acting with the best of intentions, she had shown a lack of diplomacy.
It was about nine o’clock in the evening. She had been visiting little Lae Choo, who was lying low with typhoid fever. As she wended her way home through Chinatown, she did not feel at all easy in mind; indeed, as she passed one of the most unsavory corners and observed some men frown and mutter among themselves as they recognized her, she lost her dignity in a little run. As she stopped to take breath, she felt her skirt pulled from behind and heard a familiar little voice say:
“Teacher, be you afraid?”
“Oh, Ku Yum,” she exclaimed, “is that you?” Then she added reprovingly: “Do you think it is right for a little Chinese girl to be out alone at this time of the night?”
“I be not alone,” replied the little creature, and in the gloom Miss Mason, could distinguish behind her two boyish figures.
She shook her head.
“Ku Yum, will you promise me that you will try to be a good little girl?” she asked.
Ku Yum answered solemnly:
“Ku Yum never be a good girl.”
Her heart hardened. After all, it was best that the child should be placed where she would be compelled to behave herself.
“Come, see my father,” said Ku Yum pleadingly.
Her voice was soft, and her expression was so subdued that the teacher could hardly believe that the moment before she had defiantly stated that she would never be a good girl. She paused irresolutely. Should she make one more appeal to the parent to make her a promise which would be a good excuse for restraining the order of the Court? Ah, if he only would, and she only could prevent the carrying out of that order!
They found Ten Suie among his curiosities, smoking a very long pipe with a very small, ivory bowl. He calmly surveyed the teacher through a pair of gold-rimmed goggles, and under such scrutiny it was hard indeed for her to broach the subject that was on her mind. However, after admiring the little carved animals, jars, vases, bronzes, dishes, pendants, charms, and snuff-boxes displayed in his handsome showcase, she took courage.
“Mr. Ten Suie,” she began, “I have come to speak to you about Ku Yum.”
Ten Suie laid down his pipe and leaned over the counter. Under his calm exterior some strong excitement was working, for his eyes glittered exceedingly.
“Perhaps you speak too much about Ku Yum alleady,” he said. “Ku Yum be my child. I bling him up, as I please. Now, teacher, I tell you something. One, two, three, four, five, seven, eight, nine years go by, I have five boy. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven years go, I have four boy. One, two, three, four, five, six years go by, I have one boy. Every year for three year evil spirit come, look at my boy, and take him. Well, one, two, three, four, five, six years go by, I see but one boy, he four year old. I say to me: Ten Suie, evil spirit be jealous. I be ’flaid he want my one boy. I dless him like one girl. Evil spirit think him one girl, and go away; no want girl.”
Ten Suie ceased speaking, and settled back into his seat.
For some moments Miss Mason stood uncomprehending. Then the full meaning of Ten Suie’s words dawned upon her, and she turned to Ku Yum, and taking the child’s little hand in hers, said:
“Goodbye, Ku Yum. Your father, by passing you off as a girl, thought to keep an evil spirit away from you; but just by that means he brought another, and one which nearly took you from him too.”
“Goodbye, teacher,” said Ku Yum, smiling wistfully. “I never be good girl, but perhaps I be good boy.”
PAT AND PAN
I
They lay there, in the entrance to the joss house, sound asleep in each other’s arms. Her tiny face was hidden upon his bosom and his white, upturned chin rested upon her black, rosetted head.
It was that white chin which caused the passing Mission woman to pause and look again at the little pair. Yes, it was a white boy and a little Chinese girl; he, about five, she, not more than three years old.
“Whose is that boy?” asked the Mission woman of the peripatetic vender of Chinese fruits and sweetmeats.
“That boy! Oh, him is boy of Lum Yook that make the China gold ring and bracelet.”
“But he is white.”
“Yes, him white; but all same, China boy. His mother, she not have any white flend, and the wife of Lum Yook give her lice and tea, so when she go to the land of spilit, she give her boy to the wife of Lum Yook. Lady, you want buy lichi?”
While Anna Harrison was extracting a dime from her purse the black, rosetted head slowly turned and a tiny fist began rubbing itself into a tiny face.
“Well, chickabiddy, have you had a nice nap?”
“Tjo ho! tjo ho!”
The black eyes gazed solemnly and disdainfully at the stranger.
“She tell you to be good,” chuckled the old man.
“Oh, you quaint little thing!”
The quaint little thing hearing herself thus apostrophized, turned herself around upon the bosom of the still sleeping boy and, reaching her arms up to his neck, buried her face again, under his chin. This, of course, awakened him. He sat up and stared bewilderedly at the Mission woman.
“What is the boy’s name?” she asked, noting his gray eyes and rosy skin.
His reply, though audible, was wholly unintelligible to the American woman.
“He talk only Chinese talk,” said the old man.
Anna Harrison was amazed. A white boy in America talking only Chinese talk! She placed her bag of lichis beside him and was amused to see the little girl instantly lean over her companion and possess herself of it. The boy made no attempt to take it from her, and the little thing opened the bag and cautiously peeped in. What she saw evoked a chirrup of delight. Quickly she brought forth one of the browny-red fruit nuts, crushed and pulled off its soft shell. But to the surprise of the Mission woman, instead of putting it into her own mouth, she thrust the sweetish, dried pulp into that of her companion. She repeated this operation several times, then cocking her little head on one side, asked:
“Ho ’m ho? Is it good or bad?”
“Ho! ho!” answered the boy, removing several pits from his mouth and shaking his head to signify that he had had enough. Whereupon the little girl tasted herself of the fruit.
“Pat! Pan! Pat! Pan!” called a woman’s voice, and a sleek-headed, kindly-faced matron in dark blue pantalettes and tunic, wearing double hooped gold earrings, appeared around the corner. Hearing her voice, the boy jumped up with a merry laugh and ran out into the street. The little girl more seriously and slowly followed him.
“Him mother!” informed the lichi man.
II
When Anna Harrison, some months later, opened her school for white and Chinese children in Chinatown, she determined that Pat, the adopted son of Lum Yook, the Chinese jeweller, should learn to speak his mother tongue. For a white boy to grow up as a Chinese was unthinkable. The second time she saw him, it was some kind of a Chinese holiday, and he was in great glee over a row of red Chinese candles and punk which he was burning on the curb of the street, in company with a number of Chinese urchins. Pat’s candle was giving a brighter and bigger flame than any of the others, and he was jumping up and down with his legs doubled under him from the knees like an india-rubber ball, while Pan, from the doorstep of her father’s store, applauded him in vociferous, infantile Chinese.
Miss Harrison laid her hand upon the boy’s shoulder and spoke to him. It had not been very difficult for her to pick up a few Chinese phrases. Would he not like to come to her school and see some pretty pictures? Pat shook his ruddy curls and looked at Pan. Would Pan come too? Yes, Pan would. Pan’s memory was good, and so were lichis and shredded cocoanut candy.
Of course Pan was too young to go to school—a mere baby; but if Pat could not be got without Pan, why then Pan must come too. Lum Yook and his wife, upon being interviewed, were quite willing to have Pat learn English. The foster-father could speak a little of the language himself; but as he used it only when in business or when speaking to Americans, Pat had not benefited thereby. However, he was more eager than otherwise to have Pat learn “the speech of his ancestors,” and promised that he would encourage the little ones to practise “American” together when at home.
So Pat and Pan went to the Mission school, and for the first time in their lives suffered themselves to be divided, for Pat had to sit with the boys and tiny Pan had a little red chair near Miss Harrison, beside which were placed a number of baby toys. Pan was not supposed to learn, only to play.
But Pan did learn. In a year’s time, although her talk was more broken and babyish, she had a better English vocabulary than had Pat. Moreover, she could sing hymns and recite verses in a high, shrill voice; whereas Pat, though he tried hard enough, poor little fellow, was unable to memorize even a sentence. Naturally, Pat did not like school as well as did Pan, and it was only Miss Harrison’s persistent ambition for him that kept him there.
One day, when Pan was five and Pat was seven, the little girl, for the first time, came to school alone.
“Where is Pat?” asked the teacher.
“Pat, he is sick today,” replied Pan.
“Sick!” echoed Miss Harrison. “Well, that is too bad. Poor Pat! What is the matter with him?”
“A big dog bite him.”
That afternoon, the teacher, on her way to see the bitten Pat, beheld him up an alley busily engaged in keeping five tops spinning at one time, while several American boys stood around, loudly admiring the Chinese feat.
The next morning Pat received five strokes from a cane which Miss Harrison kept within her desk and used only on special occasions. These strokes made Pat’s right hand tingle smartly; but he received them with smiling grace.
Miss Harrison then turned to five year old Pan, who had watched the caning with tearful interest.
“Pan!” said the teacher, “you have been just as naughty as Pat, and you must be punished too.”
“I not stay away flom school!” protested Pan.
“No,”—severely—“you did not stay away from school; but you told me a dog had bitten Pat, and that was not true. Little girls must not say what is not true. Teacher does not like to slap Pan’s hands, but she must do it, so that Pan will remember that she must not say what is not true. Come here!”
Pan, hiding her face in her sleeve, sobbingly arose.
The teacher leaned forward and pulling down the uplifted arm, took the small hand in her own and slapped it. She was about to do this a second time when Pat bounded from his seat, pushed Pan aside, and shaking his little fist in the teacher’s face, dared her in a voice hoarse with passion:
“You hurt my Pan again! You hurt my Pan again!”
They were not always lovers—those two. It was aggravating to Pat, when the teacher finding he did not know his verse, would turn to Pan and say:
“Well, Pan, let us hear you.”
And Pan, who was the youngest child in school and unusually small for her years, would pharisaically clasp her tiny fingers and repeat word for word the verse desired to be heard.
“I hate you, Pan!” muttered Pat on one such occasion.
Happily Pan did not hear him. She was serenely singing:
“Yesu love me, t’is I know,
For the Bible tell me so.”
But though a little seraph in the matter of singing hymns and repeating verses, Pan, for a small Chinese girl, was very mischievous. Indeed, she was the originator of most of the mischief which Pat carried out with such spirit. Nevertheless, when Pat got into trouble, Pan, though sympathetic, always had a lecture for him. “Too bad, too bad! Why not you be good like me?” admonished she one day when he was suffering “consequences.”
Pat looked down upon her with wrathful eyes.
“Why,” he asked, “is bad people always so good?”
III
The child of the white woman, who had been given a babe into the arms of the wife of Lum Yook, was regarded as their own by the Chinese jeweller and his wife, and they bestowed upon him equal love and care with the little daughter who came two years after him. If Mrs. Lum Yook showed any favoritism whatever, it was to Pat. He was the first she had cradled to her bosom; the first to gladden her heart with baby smiles and wiles; the first to call her Ah Ma; the first to love her. On his eighth birthday, she said to her husband: “The son of the white woman is the son of the white woman, and there are many tongues wagging because he lives under our roof. My heart is as heavy as the blackest heavens.”
“Peace, my woman,” answered the easy-going man. “Why should we trouble before trouble comes?”
When trouble did come it was met calmly and bravely. To the comfortably off American and wife who were to have the boy and “raise him as an American boy should be raised,” they yielded him without protest. But deep in their hearts was the sense of injustice and outraged love. If it had not been for their pity for the unfortunate white girl, their care and affection for her helpless offspring, there would have been no white boy for others to “raise.”
And Pat and Pan? “I will not leave my Pan! I will not leave my Pan!” shouted Pat.
“But you must!” sadly urged Lum Yook. “You are a white boy and Pan is Chinese.”
“I am Chinese too! I am Chinese too!” cried Pat.
“He Chinese! He Chinese!” pleaded Pan. Her little nose was swollen with crying; her little eyes red-rimmed.
But Pat was driven away.
Pat, his schoolbooks under his arm, was walking down the hill, whistling cheerily. His roving glance down a side street was suddenly arrested.
“Gee!” he exclaimed. “If that isn’t Pan! Pan, oh, Pan!” he shouted.
Pan turned. There was a shrill cry of delight, and Pan was clinging to Pat, crying: “Nice Pat! Good Pat!”
Then she pushed him away from her and scanned him from head to foot.
“Nice coat! Nice boot! How many dollars?” she queried.
Pat laughed good-humoredly. “I don’t know,” he answered. “Mother bought them.”
“Mother!” echoed Pan. She puckered her brows for a moment.
“You are grown big, Pat,” was her next remark.
“And you have grown little, Pan,” retorted Pat. It was a year since they had seen one another and Pan was much smaller than any of his girl schoolfellows.
“Do you like to go to the big school?” asked Pan, noticing the books.
“I don’t like it very much. But, say, Pan, I learn lots of things that you don’t know anything about.”
Pan eyed him wistfully. finally she said: “O Pat! A-Toy, she die.”
“A-Toy! Who is A-Toy?”
“The meow, Pat; the big gray meow! Pat, you have forgot to remember.”
Pat looked across A-Toy’s head and far away.
“Chinatown is very nice now,” assured Pan. “Hum Lock has two trays of brass beetles in his store and Ah Ma has many flowers!”
“I would like to see the brass beetles,” said Pat.
“And father’s new glass case?”
“Yes.”
“And Ah Ma’s flowers?”
“Yes.”
“Then come, Pat.”
“I can’t, Pan!”
“Oh!”
Again Pat was walking home from school, this time in company with some boys. Suddenly a glad little voice sounded in his ear. It was Pan’s.
“Ah, Pat!” cried she joyfully. “I find you! I find you!”
“Hear the China kid!” laughed one of the boys.
Then Pat turned upon Pan. “Get away from me,” he shouted. “Get away from me!”
And Pan did get away from him—just as fast as her little legs could carry her. But when she reached the foot of the hill, she looked up and shook her little head sorrowfully. “Poor Pat!” said she. “He Chinese no more; he Chinese no more!”
THE CROCODILE PAGODA
When the father of Chung and Choy returned from the big city where lived their uncle, he brought each of his little girls a present of a pretty, painted porcelain cup and saucer. Chung’s was of the blue of the sky after rain, and on the blue was painted a silver crane and a bird with a golden breast. Choy’s cup was of a milky pink transparency, upon which light bouquets of flowers appeared to have been thrown; it was so beautiful in sight, form, and color that there seemed nothing in it to be improved upon. Yet was Choy discontented and envied her sister, Chung, the cup of the blue of the sky after rain. Not that she vented her feelings in any unseemly noise or word. That was not Choy’s way. But for one long night and one long day after the pretty cups had been brought home, did Choy remain mute and still, refusing to eat her meals, or to move from the couch upon which she had thrown herself at sight of her sister’s cup. Choy was sulking.
On the evening of the long day, little Chung, seated on her stool by her mother’s side, asked her parent to tell her the story of the picture on the vase which her father had brought from the city for her mother. It was a charming little piece of china of a deep violet velvet color, fluted on top with gold like the pipes of an organ, and in the centre was a pagoda enamelled thereon in gold and silver. Chung knew that there must be a story about that pagoda, for she had overheard her father tell her mother that it was the famous Crocodile Pagoda.
“There are no crocodiles in the picture. Why is it called a crocodile pagoda?” asked Chung.
“Listen, my Jes’mine flower,” replied the mother. She raised her voice, for she wished Choy, her Orchid Flower, also to hear the story.
“Once upon a time, there was a big family of crocodiles that lived in a Rippling River by a beach whose sands were of gold. The young crocodiles had a merry life of it, and their father and mother were very good and kind to them. But one day, the young crocodiles wanted to climb a hill back of the beach of golden sand, and the parents, knowing that their children would perish if allowed to have their way, told them: ‘Nay, nay.’
“The young crocodiles thereupon scooped a large hole in the sand and lay down therein. For half a moon they lived there, without food or drink, and when their parents cried to them to come out and sport as before in the Rippling River, they paid no attention whatever, so sadly sulky their mood.
“One day there came along a number of powerful beings, who, when they saw the golden sands of the Rippling River, exclaimed: ‘How gloriously illuminating is this beach! Let us build a pagoda thereon.’ They saw the hole which the young crocodiles had made, but they could not see the hole-makers at the bottom thereof. So they set to work and filled the hole, and on top thereof they built a great pagoda. That is the pagoda of the picture on the vase.”
“And did the children crocodiles never get out?” asked Chung in a sad little voice.
“No, daughter,” replied the mother. “After the pagoda was on top of them they began to feel very hungry and frightened. It was so dark. They cried to their father and mother to bring them food and find them a way to the light; but the parent crocodiles, upon seeing the pagoda arise, swam far away. They knew that they never more should see their children. And from that day till now, the young crocodiles have remained in darkness under the pagoda, shut off forever from the light of the sun and the Rippling River.”
“Please, honorable mother,” spake a weak little voice, “may I have some tea in my pretty, pink porcelain cup?”
Several words appear with and without hyphenation, and are retained as printed: passersby/passers-by, everyday/every-day, singsong/sing-song, doorstep/door-step.
Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original.
| 3.11 | comforted Mrs. Spring Fragrance[,] | Added. |
| 4.22 | said Mr[.] Spring Fragrance | Added. |
| 36.6 | but schoolgirls in comparison.[”] | Added. |
| 50.21 | in a long yellow book[.] | Added. |
| 114.26 | “Oh![”] I cried, | Added. |
| 119.28 | ‘Let me pass, sir,[’] | Added. |
| 119.29 | in that tone of voice.[’]” | Removed. |
| 146.29 | think of no reply to Lin [W/F]o’s speech. | Replaced. |
| 152.21 | At these word[s] the girl bent | Added. |
| 171.22 | [“]She seems less every day,” | Added. |
| 172.12 | “Then,[”] said the young fellow, | Added. |
| 174.21 | The lawyer moved le[si/is]urely | Transposed. |
| 228.8 | a little mouse sq[u]eaked it | Inserted. |
| 281.17 | making worse my broken wing[?/.] | Replaced. |
| 284.15 | answered the other birds.[”] | Removed. |
| 315.10 | smile and sing whe[n]ever she had the baby | Inserted. |
| 328.28 | She [was] interested | Inserted. |
