Chapter V: T. S (2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BUY A FATHER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOUR GENERALS

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

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

“Farewell, my royal father.”

“Farewell, my noble son.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE RAIN KING’S DAUGHTER

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

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

“A rat? Where is the rat?”

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

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

“Yes, we must kill the rat,” said King Ta Lang. “Ho, you carpenters, construct a giant _mu mao_ (wooden cat) in the path of this terrible rat.”

A huge wooden rat-trap was built at the end of the mountain. Yet, the famine continued. Food became more and more scarce. The wise men announced that the trap was not properly built. The rat would not enter. They advised that a spear be thrust through his heart. Forthwith, King Ta Lang ordered that a great spear be driven through the heart of the mountain. A spear would surely kill the rat. But not so. Beneath the earth of the mountainside was flint-iron hard flint. A thousand soldiers thrusting could not drive the spear deeper than its point.

While the soldiers struggled vainly to pierce the flinty core, a little blaze leaped from dry pine needles. Their iron had brought sparks from the stone. The little blaze leaped from the needles to a bush, and from the bush to a tree. Then it was a large blaze. Soon a whole acre of mountainside blazed fiercely. The soldiers ran away. At first, they were badly frightened, thinking the King would be angry. But the King said: “That is splendid. Why didn’t my wise men think of it? The rat will be grandly singed. Ho. Ho. Ho. He will be burned to his death.”

There was good reason for thinking as King Ta Lang thought. The fire spread up and down till the whole mountain blazed. The mountain was a solid wall of flame, and above it spread a vast sea of smoke. Only an extremely hardy rat could live through such intense heat and suffocating fumes.

Now there is no telling why the heavens opened. Perhaps the heat of blazing Mount Che Chou burned a hole in the sky. Perhaps the Rain Shen, Yu Shih, imagined the people had burned incense to his honor. However that may be, it is certain that the heavens _did_ open. Upon burning Mount Che Chou, the rain leaped down in cataracts and the lightning played continuously. Over the plains of Shen Su also the waters fell, but there the rain was gentle, though persistent.

For seven days the skies dripped. Then, the grass was green as jade. The cattle filled their so-loose coats. Quick-growing vegetables sprang up in every garden. There was life. All the people of Shen Su said: “The rat has been singed by the fire. The rat has been drowned by the waters. His head has been cleft by the lightnings. Now he is dead and cannot steal our food.” And that was their belief. “The rat is no more—therefore, we have food and life.”

While the rain still plashed on the roof tiles, new life came to the palace. A son was born to King Ta Lang. At that same hour a basket was found in the garden. In the basket was a tiny girl. No one had been seen to place the basket. Here was mystery. Again King Ta Lang summoned his soothsayers. He wished to learn what the coming years held in store for his son. Further, he wished to learn the past as well as the future of that chubby little girl so mysteriously cradled in his garden.

The wise men consulted book and glass and table. All in good time Ta Lang learned that his son must be named Tou Meng (Give Thanks) and that he would remain great so long as he remained thankful. The girl must be named Chai Mi (Enables Us to Live). Chai Mi was a daughter of the Rain King, Yu Shih, who had given her to become the wife of Tou Meng.

King Ta Lang was well pleased. Evidently the rain monarch meant to be friendly. Prince Tou Meng and the wee Princess Chai Mi were betrothed by royal decree. They played with the same golden calabash. They drank from the same porcelain bowl. Each cried because of the other’s terrible misfortunes—toes will get bumped and favorite toys go astray, even in the royal nursery. Each laughed when the other was gay. In short, they played and laughed, and bickered and made up, much like brothers and sisters the wide world over.

Quickly sped the years. The prince added inch after inch to his stature. The height of the princess increased in proportion. If she was not so tall, she seemed equally strong and daring. She played ball with the prince. She climbed trees and rode donkeys. She could place her arrow in the target’s eye, and she could swim where few would venture. More, the princess could ’broider, and sew, and dance most gracefully—not in the depraved and shameless manner of today; she danced the olden dances. And Chai Mi was a discreet maiden. She took good care not to excel Prince Tou Meng. If the prince’s arrow struck the second ring, then her arrow came no inch closer to the mark. When swimming, the prince always won his races by the slightest margin. They were often in the water, those two. The river Lan cut its swift way through the palace grounds. Each summer day it felt the strokes of Chai Mi and Tou Meng.

In the river, Princess Chai Mi found a roll of parchment, written upon with characters she did not know. She took it to the King. Then there was excitement intense, with soldiers gathering from all directions. For the letter that the river had given to Chai Mi was a secret letter written by an enemy. It disclosed that the enemy was marching on Shen Su. “Here,” said the wise men, “is fresh proof that the king of rains is our friend. He has disclosed our terrible enemy’s perfidy.”

The drums sounded a continuous call as King Ta Lang mustered his army. Prince Meng buckled on a sword that dragged the earth. But Chai Mi—sewed. “You cannot go, Thousand Pieces of Gold,” they told her. “You have done more than well in discovering the danger, but you cannot fight.” So Chai Mi sat beside the river and sewed and wept, while the sound of drums grew fainter and fainter.

Then there was silence. Shen Su City was peopled only by women. Not only the women wept, but the skies. For three days it rained without ceasing and the river Lan became fat with much water; too large for its bed. It rose above its banks and there was no crossing. Its voice was loud, threatening—the voice of Yu Shih, master of waters, shouting defiance.

Down to the river by cover of night hurried a silent army. At the water’s edge it halted. No mortal man could dare that snarling current and live. No soldier with spear and shield could hope to swim such a maddened torrent. And boats, there were none—Yu Shih had torn them from their ropes, had carried them down to the sea. The army must wait. Let it rest in the mud and await Yu Shih’s permission to cross.

When day came, the women of Shen Su City beheld an immense army on the river’s far side. It was the hostile army that King Ta Lang had marched to intercept. Beyond a doubt, the King had taken a wrong road. The enemy had eluded him, slipped past him unseen. Only Lan River in flood prevented the hostiles from entering Shen Su. And the river could sink as suddenly as it rose.

Now when King Ta Lang marched away, he went in haste and lightly burdened. All heavy armor was left behind, all heavy spears and shields. This was known to the Princess Chai Mi. She thought of the empty armor, thought of the long-shafted spears. With men to hold them, those spears could save the city. But—there were no men—only a few who were unable to march.

However, there were women, many of them badly frightened, some who were calm and unafraid. Chai Mi quickly made known her plan. Then Shen Su City awoke from its silence. Hammers clashed on armor, making the rivets secure.

In the enemy camp appeared a man who knew no fear of the river. He swam the raging Ho Lan and drew himself up on the other shore. Girdling his waist was a rope. The rope was soon tied to a willow stump. After that the passage was much easier. One at a time, bearing only their bows, the enemy crossed. Their chieftain, to set an example, was among the first. Thus, by aid of the rope, a number of the enemy swarmed over. They felt perfectly safe from attack. Their information was that Ta Lang had taken all his soldiers with him. Shen Su would be an easy prey. Five hundred men should be sufficient. And that many had crossed the river.

From Shen Su City marched a thousand braves, clad in glistening armor, bearing those tremendously long spears called _chang chiang_. Of course, they wore hideous false faces. That was the custom of all eastern soldiers. Behind the spear bearers marched a thousand archers. The wall of Shen Su suddenly bristled with spears, a thousand more. The enemy could not retreat. There was the river to hinder. To advance seemed utter folly. What effect could little arrows have on weighty armor? And how could five hundred prevail against six times and more their number? To surrender seemed the only course, and that is what they did. But it was grievous hard. Their leader was of royal blood. No worse disgrace could have been his lot.

Those on the shore beyond were made to cast their weapons in the river. With their royal leader a prisoner, they dared not disobey, for fear he would be slain. Their captors looked quite capable of such action. The crestfallen enemy had no faintest dream that those captors were . . . girls . . . led by Chai Mi. How could they know? The deceit was well concealed. An ancient little tailor did the talking, and he, proud of his chance to swagger, talked with a terrible voice—violently threatening. But Chai Mi, resplendent in the King’s golden armor, told him what to say. And the other maids clashed their spears upon the river stones, as if angry at being deprived of living targets.

King Ta Lang in his swan-shaped sampan was crossing Lan River when he heard of Chai Mi’s stirring deed. He could scarce believe his ears. The couriers vowed that they spoke no exaggeration. Convinced at last, the King said: “Then Chai Mi has done us a great service. She shall receive honors without stint.” But the King’s chief general was more than jealous because Chai Mi had succeeded where he had failed. This general said, “Has Your Majesty forgotten the law?”

“What law?” asked King Ta Lang.

“The law made by your illustrious ancestor, Liu Ti. The law of Liu Ti says that no woman may put on the habiliments of a King. Death is the penalty for so doing. The maiden put on Your Majesty’s armor.”

The King heard with grief. He said: “That is truth. There is such a law, and laws, good or bad, must be enforced. By the law of my noble ancestor, the maiden Chai Mi must lose her head by the sword.”

And the jealous general said, “Here is a death warrant for your signature.”

Now whether the King would really have beheaded Chai Mi, no man can say. His boat suddenly disappeared beneath the waters and was seen no more. The wise men said that he had excited the wrath of Yu Shih, Master of Waters, and father of the maiden. That may, or may not, be true. Again, no man can say.

But this can be said, without fear of dispute. King Meng and his Queen ruled over Shen Su for many a year, and there was neither flood nor famine—only a great tranquillity.

MANY WIVES