Part 16

“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.