Chapter V: T. S (3)

This is the story that Kung Lin tells, hour after hour, in the peaceful shade of Bell that Rings Often Temple. The people have relish for Kung Lin’s favorite story and give him much money. The tattered old fellow sometimes receives as much as five cents—in a single day. So outrageously fortunate is Kung Lin, the teller of tales. He does no work of any kind whatsoever, merely sits in the shade and talks, and hears the tinkle of coins in his bowl, and hears the people saying: “It is well told, Kung Lin. Here is some money—and I hope you find it as good as your story.” Not all makers of yarns find such sympathetic hearers.

As the story is given by Kung Lin, there once lived a maiden named Radiant Blossom, and she was still more lovely than the loveliest maiden. The face of Radiant Blossom was shaped like a seed of the melon. It was regularly oval, wide at the brow, small as to chin. The maiden’s eyebrows were like a leaf of the willow. Her eyes resembled the heart of an apricot. Her lips in color made cherries seem pale. Her feet were three-inch golden lilies. And when she walked she swayed as a poplar sways in summer zephyrs.

Furthermore, she was skilled in embroidery. Her fingers coaxed sweetest music from flute and lute. Her voice had its only rival in a fountain of the palace, where water plashes on tuneful silver keys. A brief description, this, but even so—where within the Province of Many Rivers, journeying by boat of two sails, or three, could one look for a maiden to surpass Radiant Blossom, daughter of Ming Chi, red-button mandarin and proud?

Hear now of the reigning Emperor, Wong Sing. That illustrious monarch was having a fine time in the ruling of his realm. He dined in heavy armor and slept with a saddle for pillow. It was war here, and battle there, and fighting in between. A dozen of his generals were in revolt. No sooner was a rebellion put down than two new ones, and worse, took its place. And there was trouble elsewhere—outside the empire. Fierce Barbarians, led and inspired by their haughty chieftain, Wolf Heart, grew every day more impudent and threatening. Wolf Heart openly boasted that with the coming of pleasant weather he intended to leap his horse over the Great Wall. Is it any wonder that Wong Sing’s noble beard soon took on a hue like that of the lime which boys splash on fences?

But Wong Sing was no weakling monarch, to lose his crown and his head, saying: “It was willed by the Fates. What else could I do?” He called in a fearless old councillor known as Ching Who Speaks Only Enough. Said the Emperor: “Good Ching, although you are ever up to your ears in a book, perhaps you have heard of my numerous troubles—a new one, I think, every day. What, wise Ching, is the cure?”

Ching Who Speaks Only Enough replied, “Marriage.”

The Emperor raised his eyebrows. “Marriage?” He could hardly believe it. “Marriage to put down rebellion?” A pause. “Huh.”

Ching repeated, and a trifle louder, “Marriage.”

Still the Emperor doubted. “What? Marriage? Will marriage cause Wolf Heart to sheathe his sword? Marriage to tame the Barbarian? It is foolishness. But surely I misunderstand your words.”

But indeed he did not. And there was only one word. “Marriage.” That was all the advice most mighty Wong Sing could get from word-stingy old Ching Who Speaks Only Enough.

However, is not enough always enough? Is not a word to the wise like melon seeds planted in fertile ground? A little study soon convinced the puissant Wong Sing that old Ching had given good advice. Immediately he acted upon it. He wrote to every mandarin of any consequence within the bounds of his empire. The letters are too long to quote, but the sum of them was this: “I, Wong Sing, Ruler of the Earth, and the Moon, and three-fourths of the Sun, will consider it a favor to receive your beauteous Thousand-pieces-of-gold in marriage.”

Every mandarin replied by sending to the palace a daughter. No magic could have stopped the rebellions quicker. Revolt was at an end. Could a rebel leader, no matter how determined, continue to rebel, when all of his colonels and majors and half of his captains were fathers-in-law to the Emperor? It was impossible. The fighting was over in a twinkling. Marriage had done it.

For months came damsels to the royal palace. And what damsels they were. Short and tall, lean and stout, young and old, perfect beauties and perfectly horribles, they came and came and came. It is hard to number them with exact figures. Some histories say that five thousand maids came to Wong Sing, his wives to be. Others vow to ten thousand. But why quarrel over a difference of a few thousand wives. The point is that they were numerous. Wong Sing was out of pocket several tons of gold for the construction of a wing to the palace for housing them all. Probably fifteen thousand was the correct figure.

Surely, the worst guesser in the world would in time conclude that the beautiful Radiant Blossom was among the Emperor Wong’s twenty thousand wives. Of a certainty she was. Radiant Blossom came to the palace in the month of Ripening Apricots. It was midwinter before she so much as glimpsed her lord and master, the Emperor. And then she saw him only for a moment, at a distance.

For Wong Sing was very like the old man—or was it a woman—who lived in a sandal—or whatever it was. He had so many wives he scarce knew what to do. And is it any wonder? Imagine a staid and settled old bachelor’s sudden gain of five or thirty thousand—or more—wives. Poor Wong admitted a few dozen of them to a reception, and in less time than it takes to tell, all of the palace physicians were busily binding ice to his fevered brow. They thought his mind was shattered.

After that experience the Emperor was more careful. He summoned the court artist, one Loh Yang, and said: “Loh Yang, I desire you to paint truthful portraits of all my wives. When the paintings are finished, bring them to me, that I may decide which maid is most beautiful. Her I shall take as my really truly bride.”

Now Loh Yang was an artist of ability, and no denying. But he was a scamp and a half. The first portrait he painted was that of Ying Ning, a monstrous ugly maiden. But Ying Ning was quite rich—and liberal. She gladdened Loh Yang’s dishonest palm with gold. And he portrayed her as marvelously beautiful. Of all Loh Yang’s paintings, the portrait of Ying Ning is most sightly. Yet she was the very ugliest of Wong Sing’s many wives.

By and by it came Radiant Blossom’s turn to sit for a portrait. Loh Yang suggested that for a moderate weight of gold—say ten pounds—he could make his brush fairly outdo itself. Radiant Blossom refused, with indignation. “Bribe you? To paint me as I am not? Never.” Loh Yang begged for pardon. He seemed extremely penitent. He vowed that he would do his best work. But when the portrait was finished, it was enough to frighten the blind. The shameless rascal had made of lovely Radiant Blossom a gruesome crone, a witch, a slattern. Upon beholding it, the Emperor covered his eyes with a sleeve. “Horrors. Horror of horrors. Remove it instantly. Go. Go. Take it away. Such repulsive ugliness.”

It is a mere waste of words to add that Radiant Blossom was Not chosen to be Wong Sing’s own, really truly, and well-beloved bride.

The braggart Barbarian chief failed of his promise to leap over the Great Wall. Knowing that Wong Sing’s armies were united and staunch, Wolf Heart boasted no more, and his impudence was hushed. He thought it just as well to keep the peace. And when Wong Sing doubled-doubled his armies, the Barbarian sent thick letters in which every line told of his long-felt love and respect for the Emperor. He had the audacity to ask Wong for a wife—from the Imperial Palace. Of course, that was purest impudence, in a way, though Wolf Heart probably thought that he was being extremely nice.

The Emperor read in amaze. For a moment it seemed that his face would burst into flame, so red it got. Then he smiled. “A wife? To be sure I will send him a wife. Chancellor, what is the name of that maiden whose picture is so terrible? Radiant Blossom? Bid Radiant Blossom prepare for a long journey. I am sending her to the Barbarian to be his wife. Ho. Ho. Ho. What a jest. I should like to hear Wolf Heart’s rage when he views her. Ugh. I shudder when I think of that horrible crone.”

The maiden Radiant Blossom heard her sentence without the faintest stir of emotion. There came no pallor to her cheeks. No tremble moved her lips. Seemingly, it mattered not at all to her. And while the other maidens wept for her fate, she smiled and brushed the string of her lute, humming, “Butterfly that pleasured yesteryear.”

A few hours more and Radiant Blossom was seated in a gilt and lacquered sedan chair, borne by poles on the shoulders of royal slaves traveling in haste toward the setting sun. Poor Radiant Blossom, hastening into exile, pressing toward her doom, to become the bride of a vandal. Not dew, but tears from the darkness descended. The nightingale’s song was a sobbing of pity. The very trees that lined the road soughed deep despair. To the river. To the river, where on the farther shore waited Wolf Heart, the slaves hurried through the night.

His Majesty, Wong Sing, dressed him in rough clothing, and by another highway made even greater speed to the river. He wished to be near when the Barbarian greeted his bride. He wished to gloat over Wolf Heart’s surprise and furious resentment. Expecting a youthful and lotus-like maiden, how the Barbarian would rave to behold a withered hag. His Majesty, The Emperor, expected to receive more than a little pleasure to pay him for the adventure.

The light sedan that bore Radiant Blossom sped down to the river. A flower-hung sampan was waiting. The slaves put down their burden. Oars splashed. The shore sprang back. The swifting current was deep beneath. . . .

Did the curtains of the gilt sedan flutter aside?

Was it a spirit that glided so quickly from the royal sedan?

A slave shouted warning. His cry was taken up by the others. The oars stopped short in stroke. Torches flared. The boat listed heavily on its side as men swarmed to the railing. They talked in frightened squeaks. “Where?” squeaked one. “There,” from another. And “I see nothing.” “She is gone.” “Drowned.” “The river took her to be his bride.” “Drowned—and our necks will pay.”

Wolf Heart uncovered his wrath in all its blackness. He spoke with such fury that Wong Sing became frightened, and offered to send another bride—a dozen brides. The Barbarian refused to accept brides. He demanded gold—much of it. Gold, he said, could not leap into the river. And even if it did leap from a boat it would not necessarily be lost.

For that matter, a maiden may leap from a boat and not necessarily be lost. Radiant Blossom had passed her early days in the Province of Many Divers. Her home had been a river. She knew the waters as a friend.

Having leaped from the boat, Radiant Blossom permitted the river to hide her for long. Deeply she swam and the clouded current was a veil. At last, when she knew that the torches were far behind, she arose. The night was another veil.

To the hut of a fisherman went Radiant Blossom. She received coarse clothing that made of her, in look, a different maiden. Thus clad, she journeyed to the home of her father.

Some time later a portrait was brought to His Majesty, The Emperor Wong Sing. The portrait was that of a beautiful maid. It bore no words. Wong Sing offered much gold to any person who could tell him the name of one so beautiful. The maiden would make him a superlative wife. He wished to find her. But he never did.

THAT LAZY AH FUN

Doctor Chu Ping was a good man. He was clever and industrious, and wore his pigtail long. No one knows why he was cursed with such an indolent offspring as that lazy Ah Fun. Perhaps the vice was inherited, with a skip, from Grandfather Chu Ping Fu. They do say in Lao Ya Shen that Grandfather Chu Ping Fu was too lazy even to burn yellow paper on New Year’s Eve, or to beat a copper pan in order to scare away the demons. But no matter about Chu Ping Fu. Let nothing more be said of him. Not Chu Ping Fu, but his graceless grandson is herein to be held up for scorn.

That lazy Ah Fun—for such everyone called him—was nothing if not a sluggard, and so he had been from the cradle. What a shameless creature he was—a snail—a lame snail at that. Dr. Chu Ping sent him with a bamboo tube of brick dust to the house of Chang Chi, where Mrs. Chang lay sick with a fever, and greatly in need of the medicine. And did Ah Fun hasten on his errand? No. A thousand times, no. He dawdled. He took his own, his very own time, that lazy Ah Fun. Poor Mrs. Chang, may she go to a good reward, was three days dead and in her paper coffin before Ah Fun finally arrived with the medicine that was meant to save her.

Now that is but a single instance, and a sad one, of the way in which Ah Fun was wont to dilly and to dally. Here is another illustration. Dr. Chu Ping despatched his son to the pasture land, there to find the cow and fetch her home for milking. Dr. Chu Ping knew the boy’s habit, so he sent him when the sun was highest, at noon, in order that he might get the cow home before darkness came. But Ah Fun went nowhere near the pasture. He sat in the shade, playing the noisy game of “guess fingers” with a comrade in idleness. And when night came, he went to the yard of Low Moo, his next-door neighbor, and drove the Low cow into his own yard. It was so much easier than walking way down to the pasture land for his own cow.

Dr. Chu Ping had milked the cow and the cow had kicked the bucket over before Low Moo came in tears, declaring that he had been greatly wronged and that Ah Fun should be whipped with a bamboo. The other neighbors gathered round, and without exception they said: “That lazy Ah Fun; he is no good. He should be beaten.” But the doctor said that Ah Fun meant no harm—he was merely too tired to go to the pasture, and that some day—(here he thumped vigorously on the bucket, rum tum tum—one always makes a noise to scare the demons, when saying complimentary things)—some day Ah Fun would be a very famous man, and have a monument half a li in height, covered with much carving to tell his praise.

Then the neighbors said “Humph,” and the way they said it was with the corners of their mouths turned down, sneeringly. Clearly, they disbelieved. And one said, “There was never a hyena that didn’t think his own son fairer than the King’s child.” The good doctor laughed heartily at that. He turned to Ah Fun and said (pounding on the bucket): “Ah Fun, treasure of my miserable heart, take you the bucket, and going to the well, fetch us home some water, for there is no milk, the terrible cow having kicked it over. Hence we can have only water with our Evening Rice. And be sure, my chiefest comfort, (rum dum, went the bucket), to rinse the bucket thoroughly, twice at least.”

So Ah Fun took the _shui tung_ (the bucket), and pretended he was going to the well. But the well was a li, a third of a mile distant. The ditch was only a few steps distant. That lazy Ah Fun stopped at the ditch and filled his _shui tung_. He came home with a bucket half full of green ditch water. And in the water was an old shoe, a discarded shoe, a shoe that someone had thrown away as wornout and utterly useless. Nor had the bucket been rinsed.

But Dr. Chu Ping, instead of scolding Ah Fun, scolded the excellent people of Lao Ya Shen, saying: “This town is getting very very bad. One cannot walk decently and in peace from the well to one’s house, but that some scamp must toss an old shoe in the water bucket.” What a deluded man was that Dr. Chu Ping.

When the spring rains were at their heaviest, Dr. Chu Ping was called from this house to that house to visit the ailing. The rains caused much sickness, and the doctor was out at all hours, no matter how foul the weather. In consequence, he was more often wet than dry, and the wetness worked against his health. One night he came home dripping water from every thread of his garments, and his teeth were chattering, upper against lower. He crawled upon the _kang_, which is both stove and bed, saying, as well as he could: “Ah Fun, my blessing most cherished, build a fire under the _kang_. Your so miserable old father has a chill that no doubt will end his wholly useless existence. Build a tremendous fire, Ah Fun, my precious jewel. _Ai ya_, I am cold and ill.”

Ah Fun tore a few leaves of paper from a medicine book, and inserting them under the _kang_, struck fire to them. Then he resumed his play. After a while Dr. Chu Ping raised the quilt from his head and hoarsely whispered, “I—I—I am still shivering, Ah—Ah Fun. M—m—more w—w—wood.” Ah Fun looked about, but he saw no firewood. And he was too lazy to go in search. However, the doctor’s gold-crested cane stood in a corner. Well, why not? It was bamboo. It would burn. Into the _kang_ went the cane, and right pleasantly did it crackle. But after a time Dr. Chu Ping again uncovered his head and begged weakly, “M—m—more w—w—wood, Ah—Ah Fun!” Once more Ah Fun looked round the room. There was positively no firewood in sight. However . . . upon a shelf lay half a hundred bamboo cylinders, tubes that contained medicines. In one bamboo was cuttlefish-bone. In another was _ko fen_ (powdered oyster shell). The doctor had used that on old Mrs. Fuh Lung’s rheumatism, with good effect, too. In a third were salt and _chieh tzu_. A fourth held _chen pi_ and _shih hui_ (orange-peel and lime). The fifth contained _chang nao_ (camphor, and ashes) . . . all good medicines and valuable indeed.

But . . . what did Ah Fun do? He chucked the first bamboo tube into the _kang_, and the tube crackled as the flames bit through. Presently, he cast in the second tube. Followed the third and fourth. Tube after tube, medicines and all, went into the _kang_, atop which lay Dr. Chu Ping.

Now it so happened that the fiftieth tube contained _huo yao_—(_the_ medicine)—and _huo yao_ is made of sulphur, saltpetre, and charcoal—those three, the very three that combine to make Gun Powder—as we call it—nothing less.

Dr. Chu Ping lay upon the _kang_, all a-twitch with the chill that had worsted him. His son, Ah Fun, threw into the _kang_ a large tube of _huo yao_. The fire crackled smartly, eating the tube. . . . Then. . . . “BROOOOMP.”

Oh, that terrible Ah Fun. He has blown up the bed-stove. To say nothing of his honorable father.

It was raining heavily, but just the same Mrs. Low Moo came out and upbraided the doctor unmercifully for coming down in, and utterly havocking, her patch of _huang ya tsai_ (her tender, pretty cabbages). She told him her every thought upon that subject, with such words as “_Hun chang tung hsi_ (Stupid, blundering old thing you).” But Dr. Chu Ping merely gazed sheepishly at the destroyed cabbages, and at the hole in the room through which he had been blasted, and murmured, “Kai tan (Ah me, what a pity).”

And again came the other neighbors, the very kind people who loved Dr. Chu Ping and wished to help him in his troubles. These well-wishing neighbors came and said: “Beyond a doubt, that boy is to blame. Honorable doctor, why do you not break many stout bamboos upon the back of that boy—that lazy, good-for-nothing Ah Fun? He will be the disgrace of, and the death of you yet.” But Dr. Chu Ping rubbed his shoulder and said: “What? Beat Ah Fun? Why he is a good boy and a comfort. He just built me an excellent fire in the _kang_.”

Then the doctor limped into his house and awoke Ah Fun, asked him what had happened. Ah Fun, though he was bad—goodness knows, terribly bad—yet was truthful. Reluctantly, we must give him credit for that. He told of all that had happened: how he placed tube after tube in the _kang_—being unable to discover any firewood—and how the last tube had exploded, hurling his father through the roof.

Dr. Chu Ping wrinkled his brow till it was all hills and hollows. He pulled his long and neatly braided hair in a highly meditative manner. He felt first his right shoulder, then his left shoulder. He rolled his eyes upward to the limit of their travel. He gazed at the hole in the roof, where still fluttered a fragment of clothing on a jagged edge. He rolled his eyes downward and scrutinized the ruined _kang_. He felt of his two ears that still reverberated with the enormous explosion. Then he spoke. “My son,” said he, “it strikes me that we are on the verge of a great discovery. One of those medicines—though gracious knows which one—seems to be more than a medicine. It is good for something else—though dear knows what. Perhaps to grow wings, so that men may fly. It certainly enabled me to fly. We must make more medicines, and experiment.”

The next day Dr. Chu Ping opened his book of instructions for the compounding of medicines—a book which he himself had written. Beginning at the very beginning—which, of course, was on the last page, good Dr. Chu studied the first formula. “Red pepper, and alum, and toad claws,” so he read. The three ingredients were found and mixed in the specified proportions. The mixture was poured into a bamboo tube and the tube was placed in a fire. For an hour Dr. Chu Ping stirred the fire and fanned it into furious blazing. Nothing but much heat and much smoke resulted. There was no noise and no flying. Clearly, the combination of pepper, alum, and toad claws was quite worthless—except in the treatment of scarlet fever, for which it is intended. The doctor made a careful writing of the experiment and turned another page.

Next came oyster shell and ginseng. Worthless that, also. Shark fins and turmeric. Dr. Chu Ping marked that likewise worthless. So the experimenting continued, day after day. It took a great deal of time. The doctor was a most thorough man, as well as brilliant. One couldn’t find a more thorough or brilliant in all Kiang Su, or Kiang Si, or even in Kuang Si. Methodically he tried his medicines in the fire—by one and one he tried them—and thus he came to the mixture _huo yao_, which, to repeat, is sulphur, and saltpetre, and charcoal, and which the Fan Kwei, or Foreign Devils, with their white faces call Gun Powder. Dr. Chu Ping placed a long tube of _huo yao_ in the fire. He leaned over it, fanning vigorously. For a moment the tube lay on the coals, sizzling and swelling, seeming to gather its breath for a supreme effort. . . . Zzzzzzz. . . . Zeeeee. . . . BROOOOMP.

And up went Dr. Chu Ping.

Now it so chanced that a moment before the explosion, old man Low Moo was milking his cow. A moment after the explosion, he was _not_ milking his cow. He was running for dear life in a northerly direction. His cow was running for dear life in a southerly direction. And Dr. Chu Ping sprawled upon the flattened bucket and the smashed stool, where he had fallen.

The doctor came to in five minutes. Old Mr. Low Moo came back in half an hour. The cow has never since been seen. It is doubtful if she will ever return.

No sooner did Dr. Chu Ping revive than he hobbled into the house, where Ah Fun sat calmly playing with a _pan pu tao_, a little toy man who has round feet, and always regains an upright position, no matter how often he is knocked over. “What happened, my father?” asked Ah Fun. Dr. Chu Ping beamed upon him. “Ah Fun, my pearl, my jade, my orange tree, it is discovered. _Huo yao_ is the great medicine. And it is good for scaring demons. Old man Low Moo, as everyone knows, is possessed of a demon—and he was frightened horribly. And his unkind cow, which is guided by at least four and twenty demons, has been frightened completely out of the country. There can be no doubt—_huo yao_ is a frightener of demons. And, you and I are the discoverers. Oh, my precious one, we shall be famous. A thousand thousand years from now men will still use _huo yao_ to scare the demons.”

And that was a very good prediction. _Huo yao_ is still placed in tubes, little paper tubes, and the fuses are lighted, and “Sput,” “Sput.” The firecrackers explode and a thousand demons tremble and flee, reviling the names of Ah Fun and Dr. Chu Ping, who invented Gun Powder.

THE MOON MAIDEN

King Chan Ko was more than a monarch. He was one of the best soothsayers in all the discovered world, having studied under no less a master than the famous Chai Lang. Even the most sceptical, then, will admit that Chan Ko as a geomancer must have stood far above the average. Chai Lang was particular in the selection of his pupils.

Once each week, at its beginning, His Majesty was accustomed to cast the signs, so that he might know what to expect. Thus, if rain was due on a Wednesday he was forewarned, and fore-umbrellaed. And if war was predicted for Friday, he was forearmed and ready to give two blows for one. He knew of the third flood a whole week before it happened, and, you may be sure, had a palatial boat provisioned and ready—laden with rice and musical instruments—a good three days before the waters came.

Rather unexpectedly, it became imperative for King Chan Ko to take horse on an urgent journey. Despite the call for great haste, he refused to make one step before casting the signs—though to do so made necessary an hour’s labor. On his plane Chan Ko scribed the three circles with their bisecting lines. He drew the sun, moon, and stars in their relative places, gazed for a moment . . . and groaned. “_Ai yu,_” and “_Hai ya_.”

Well might he groan. There was no error in the work. No other reading was possible. Upon the following night a dragon would swoop down from the moon and carry off the Princess Yun Chi. That was the reading, and there could be no doubting its truth. It may be imagined that gray hairs made quick appearance in the monarch’s beard. His journey was highly necessary. No postponement could be arranged. Yet, the Princess Yun Chi, his daughter, was well beloved and not to be given up so long as sword had temper and javelin was sound of shaft. But—who was to wield sword, who to thrust javelin? Who indeed? Who if not the four score and ten valiant young princes of the realm, who even then deplored a dearth of daring deeds to be performed. No sooner the thought, than King Chan Ko summoned the princes into audience. Briefly he described the peril that threatened—told of the dragon’s cunning, of his strength that increased with every blow, given or received. Not a pleasant picture King Chan Ko drew—at first. But when in conclusion he stated the reward, every prince in the chamber drew sword, and wished that the dragon might come forthwith. For, said Chan Ko, “If all of you together slay the _loong_, then if she so pleases, the princess may make her choice of you. But if any prince, unaided, slays the _loong_, then I say to you that such victorious prince and none other shall wed the Princess Yun Chi.”

There was such a clanking of armor that the magpies clustering the palace roof made off on wing. There was such a testing of newly strung bows that the sky rained arrows for a whole day.

Prince Ting Tsun, as comely warrior youth as ever twirled sharp steel, took to himself a notion that his sword alone must blood the dragon. He can hardly be censured. Anyone is likely to be greedy when a royal princess is in danger, and her hand awaits an heroic defender. But Ting Tsun, with his bravery mixed sagacity. To himself he reasoned thus: “Suppose I do succeed in killing the moon dragon? Will his infuriated brothers not come seeking vengeance? Without doubt they will. My only hope is to slay them all—now—and their ruler with them. Then the danger will be removed forever, and I can eat rice in comfort, without the need of a sword on the table. I must kill all of the moon _loongs_.”

With such an ambitious plan in mind, Prince Ting Tsun visited a sewing woman and had her make him a cloak precisely like that worn by the Princess Yun Chi. He shaved his promising beard and put whiting upon his cheeks, painted his eyebrows, and practiced a willowy walk. All in all he made a fairish pretty maiden, and quite deceiving to the eye.

When the sun had snuggled down behind the mountains, Prince Ting Tsun walked in the palace gardens, taking those paths most favored by the princess. He fondled the delicate wistaria. He touched his face to the wide expanded roses. Beneath the purple flowered paulownia he paused in rapture. By look and action he was a maiden, taking her pleasure in the flowers.

Out of the calm evening air came a mighty and horrendous whistling roar. No need to tell the prince its cause. In his early days he had heard silly nurses attempt such a whistling, trying to frighten him into being “a good boy. If you don’t, the _loong_ will get you.” He had laughed at the affronted nurses. But now . . . his face was crinkled with grim lines, serious lines that spelled determination. Not a trace of laughter there. The whistling changed to a hissing. The air became noxious with hot breath. Four tremendous, padded talons enfolded Prince Ting Tsun. A scream of terror. A whanging of wings that lifted. . . . Gone. . . . Vanished.

A scream of terror? No, that is not true. It was a scream of mock terror. Can you think the prince was frightened? Prince Ting Tsun? He screamed merely to make his deception doubly sure. The prince to casual gaze was a maiden, and maidens are supposed to scream when snapped up by a dragon. Small blame to them for that.

Up. . . . Higher. . . . Swifter. . . . Up through the uncharted, the star-littered spaces, swept Prince Ting Tsun, borne by the dragon. The wind shrieked past him. Higher, still higher. The little stars twinkled above. Higher. . . . The little stars twinkled below. The air grew thin and cold. Prince Ting grew faint, for his breathing was of no consequence. There was no air to breathe. There was nothing but space and star-dust.

The _loong’s_ mouth went wide in a whinnying whistle. From close by came an answer. The prince opened his eyes. He saw a tapering streak of flame. On earth he would have named it “comet.” But stretching his eyes wider, he perceived that it was merely another dragon, its fiery breath trailing, far spread.

Other _loongs_ appeared; Ting Tsun imagined that he must be approaching their lair. He prayed that his arm might be strong.

With another scream the dragon folded his wings and dropped lightly upon a silvery plain. The journey was done—the moon under foot.

The dragon King ruled in a subterranean palace. The entrance was merely a shining smooth hole, but the interior was luxury itself, with brocaded tapestries and jade floorings and translucent moonstone ceilings. In the throne room knelt Ting Tsun before the King—for he still played the part of a maiden. He knelt as if seeking mercy.

“Her beauty is not what I expected,” growled the King. “Take her away. Perhaps another day she will seem fairer. Let her food be sesame and coriander seeds. Ugh. What a clumsy walk.”

Prince Ting Tsun sat on a couch, turning in his mind a plan by which to vanquish his captors. The stillness was dissolved by a music of moving silks. A smiling damsel bowed before His Highness.

“Oh, I am glad to see that you do not weep like the others. Are you a princess from the earth, or from _chin hsing_ (venus)?”

“From the earth,” replied Ting Tsun, but he forgot to gentle his voice. The Moon Maiden shrank back.

“You are _not_ a princess,” she accused.

“No, I am not a princess. These garments are a deceit. I _was_ Prince Ting Tsun, when upon the earth. Now, I am Chang Pan—your slave.”

The Moon Maiden was quickly reassured and entered into talk with Ting Tsun, or humble Chang Pan, as he then called himself. She told the prince that she had lived with her parents on the far side of the moon—until the dragons came. Now she had no parents. And when the feast season of Brightest Light arrived the dragon King (Chao Ya, his name) would make her his bride. She knew the number of dragons—twenty-eight, one for each night in the month, and there was never more than one home at a given time. They could be slain only with the dragon King’s sword—a weapon that could slay the King himself. But—and the hopes of Prince Ting fell as she spoke—the King always kept the sword fastened at his waist. Yes, the _loong_ King sometimes slept, but never more than once a day, and never for more than a few minutes. When? Just as the moon went down.

So Ting Tsun in his spotless maiden garb came upon the King asleep, and snatching up the monarch’s sword, awoke him and slew him. The blade had not yet done its sweep when it cleft the skull of a dragon who should have been guarding his King from harm.

The prince rejoiced at his success, howbeit rather modestly. His task had but started. There was many a chance for disaster. Death might lurk in a faltering blow, a lagging step, a momentary closing of the eyes.

By day the prince slept. By night he kept his post at the palace entrance. As each _loong_ came crawling into his lair Prince Ting Tsun reached its heart with the dragon King’s sword. One thrust for each _loong_. One thrust each night, until a month had passed. In such manner His Valiant Highness destroyed the whole vile brood. His plans had carried through to triumph. Now he was free to return home and claim for his own the Princess Yun Chi. And a happy day it would be. He was happy now . . . oh, extremely happy. . . . Why shouldn’t he be happy? . . . the prince argued stoutly with himself. Yet his argument was not convincing. He would be compelled to leave the Moon Maiden. So his reasoning was hollow. He was not happy. He was sorrowful. He had grown fond of the Other World Princess.

But he must return to his own country. King Chan Ko had promised his daughter to whosoever should slay the dragon. In taking up battle, Prince Ting had given agreement to the terms. He was betrothed to the Princess Yun Chi.

The Moon Maiden was asleep when Prince Ting went to say good-bye. He would not wake her. He would go at once—after a last sad look. The sleeping princess stirred in her sleep and murmured. For another instant the royal youth paused. He heard his name murmured. He heard more—enough to amaze him, to weaken his will almost to the changing point. A moment more of listening, and Prince Ting Tsun must inevitably have remained upon the moon. But he would hear no more. He rushed from the palace, ashamed of his weakness, yet thrilled with pride.

The moon hung low above the eastern ocean when Ting Tsun made his fearsome leap. He descended in the cushioning waters, and so took no hurt. Fortune was with him in that leap. A vessel, manned by venturesome explorers, chanced upon him. Otherwise, the spot where he fell must have been his grave, for ships are years apart in that faraway region. The sailors drew him aboard their junk and treated him with every respect. It was quite clear in their minds that he must be a god—certainly, he could be nothing less than a great magician.

When the ship touched at Ma Kao, Prince Ting Tsun was the first to step ashore. He found the city celebrating, burning much colored paper to the ruler of Married Happiness, feasting and making music. Accosting a stranger, he asked the cause of such jubilation, explaining that he had only that moment arrived from a far country.

The stranger answered: “We celebrate a marriage, your grace; Prince Yen has taken the fairest bride in all the world. From what country do you come?”

“Whom did Prince Yen marry?” asked Ting Tsun.

“Why, the Princess Yun Chi, of course. What country did you say?”

“Indeed?” exclaimed the prince. “And I came from the moon.” Leaving the fellow with eyes popped and mouth agape, he hastened on. He was compelled to hasten. His feet would keep step with his tumultuous heart. So the Princess Yun Chi was married. King Chan Ko had broken his word. Far better if Prince Ting had remained upon the moon. Upon the moon was one who. . . .

Pausing only for momentary snatches of sleep, Prince Ting journeyed the straightest road to Kwen Lun Mountain. On this mountain lived, and lives, the friendly mother demon, Si Wang, a magician of great power. To her Prince Ting gave his necessary oath, and in exchange received his desire—wings feathered from the pinions of a Phoenix.

The way is long. The way is steep. But hearts must be served. With wings unfaltering, Prince Ting Tsun cleaves the sky. Between the earth and the lighted moon his shadow may be seen—nearing the silvered plain, and the palace, and the princess. . . . Prince Ting Tsun returning to his Maiden of the Moon.

AH TCHA THE SLEEPER

Years ago, in southern China, lived a boy, Ah Tcha by name. Ah Tcha was an orphan, but not according to rule. A most peculiar orphan was he. It is usual for orphans to be very, very poor. That is the world-wide custom. Ah Tcha, on the contrary, was quite wealthy. He owned seven farms, with seven times seven horses to draw the plow. He owned seven mills, with plenty of breezes to spin them. Furthermore, he owned seven thousand pieces of gold, and a fine white cat.

The farms of Ah Tcha were fertile, were wide. His horses were brisk in the furrow. His mills never lacked for grain, nor wanted for wind. And his gold was good sharp gold, with not so much as a trace of copper. Surely, few orphans have been better provided for than the youth named Ah Tcha. And what a busy person was this Ah Tcha. His bed was always cold when the sun arose. Early in the morning he went from field to field, from mill to mill, urging on the people who worked for him. The setting sun always found him on his feet, hastening from here to there, persuading his laborers to more gainful efforts. And the moon of midnight often discovered him pushing up and down the little teak-wood balls of a counting board, or else threading cash, placing coins upon a string. Eight farms, nine farms he owned, and more stout horses. Ten mills, eleven, another white cat. It was Ah Tcha’s ambition to become the richest person in the world.

They who worked for the wealthy orphan were inclined now and then to grumble. Their pay was not beggarly, but how they did toil to earn that pay which was not beggarly. It was go, and go, and go. Said the ancient woman Nu Wu, who worked with a rake in the field: “Our master drives us as if he were a fox and we were hares in the open. Round the field and round and round, hurry, always hurry.” Said Hu Shu, her husband, who bound the grain into sheaves: “Not hares, but horses. We are driven like the horses of Lung Kuan, who . . .” It’s a long story.

But Ah Tcha, approaching the murmurers, said, “Pray be so good as to hurry, most excellent Nu Wu, for the clouds gather blackly, with thunder.” And to the scowling husband he said, “Speed your work, I beg you, honorable Hu Shu, for the grain must be under shelter before the smoke of Evening Rice ascends.”

When Ah Tcha had eaten his Evening Rice, he took lantern and entered the largest of his mills. A scampering rat drew his attention to the floor. There he beheld no less than a score of rats, some gazing at him as if undecided whether to flee or continue the feast, others gnawing—and who are you, nibbling and caring not? And only a few short whisker-lengths away sat an enormous cat, sleeping the sleep of a mossy stone. The cat was black in color, black as a crow’s wing dipped in pitch, upon a night of inky darkness. That describes her coat. Her face was somewhat more black. Ah Tcha had never before seen her. She was not his cat. But his or not, he thought it a trifle unreasonable of her to sleep, while the rats held high carnival. The rats romped between her paws. Still she slept. It angered Ah Tcha. The lantern rays fell on her eyes. Still she slept. Ah Tcha grew more and more provoked. He decided then and there to teach the cat that his mill was no place for sleepy heads.

Accordingly, he seized an empty grain sack and hurled it with such exact aim that the cat was sent heels over head. “There, old Crouch-by-the-hole,” said Ah Tcha in a tone of wrath. “Remember your paining ear, and be more vigilant.” But the cat had no sooner regained her feet than she changed into . . . Nu Wu . . . changed into Nu Wu, the old woman who worked in the fields . . . a witch. What business she had in the mill is a puzzle. However, it is undoubtedly true that mills hold grain, and grain is worth money. And that may be an explanation. Her sleepiness is no puzzle at all. No wonder she was sleepy, after working so hard in the field, the day’s length through.

The anger of Nu Wu was fierce and instant. She wagged a crooked finger at Ah Tcha, screeching: “Oh, you cruel money-grubber. Because you fear the rats will eat a pennyworth of grain you must beat me with bludgeons. You make me work like a slave all day—and wish me to work all night. You beat me and disturb my slumber. Very well, since you will not let me sleep, I shall cause you to slumber eleven hours out of every dozen. . . . Close your eyes.” She swept her wrinkled hand across Ah Tcha’s face. Again taking the form of a cat, she bounded downstairs.

She had scarce reached the third step descending when Ah Tcha felt a compelling desire for sleep. It was as if he had taken gum of the white poppy flower, as if he had tasted honey of the gray moon blossom. Eyes half closed, he stumbled into a grain bin. His knees doubled beneath him. Down he went, curled like a dormouse. Like a dormouse he slumbered.

From that hour began a change in Ah Tcha’s fortune. The spell gripped him fast. Nine-tenths of his time was spent in sleep. Unable to watch over his laborers, they worked when they pleased, which was seldom. They idled when so inclined—and that was often, and long. Furthermore, they stole in a manner most shameful. Ah Tcha’s mills became empty of grain. His fields lost their fertility. His horses disappeared—strayed, so it was said. Worse yet, the unfortunate fellow was summoned to a magistrate’s _yamen_, there to defend himself in a lawsuit. A neighbor declared that Ah Tcha’s huge black cat had devoured many chickens. There were witnesses who swore to the deed. They were sure, one and all, that Ah Tcha’s black cat was the cat at fault. Ah Tcha was sleeping too soundly to deny that the cat was his. . . . So the magistrate could do nothing less than make the cat’s owner pay damages, with all costs of the lawsuit.

Thereafter, trials at court were a daily occurrence. A second neighbor said that Ah Tcha’s black cat had stolen a flock of sheep. Another complained that the cat had thieved from him a herd of fattened bullocks. Worse and worse grew the charges. And no matter how absurd, Ah Tcha, sleeping in the prisoner’s cage, always lost and had to pay damages. His money soon passed into other hands. His mills were taken from him. His farms went to pay for the lawsuits. Of all his wide lands, there remained only one little acre—and it was grown up in worthless bushes. Of all his goodly buildings, there was left one little hut, where the boy spent most of his time, in witch-imposed slumber.

Now, near by in the mountain of Huge Rocks Piled, lived a greatly ferocious _loong_, or, as foreigners would say, a dragon. This immense beast, from tip of forked tongue to the end of his shadow, was far longer than a barn. With the exception of length, he was much the same as any other _loong_. His head was shaped like that of a camel. His horns were deer horns. He had bulging rabbit eyes, a snake neck. Upon his many ponderous feet were tiger claws, and the feet were shaped very like sofa cushions. He had walrus whiskers, and a breath of red-and-blue flame. His voice was like the sound of a hundred brass kettles pounded. Black fish scales covered his body, black feathers grew upon his limbs. Because of his color he was sometimes called _Oo Loong_. From that it would seem that _Oo_ means neither white nor pink.

The black _loong_ was not regarded with any great esteem. His habit of eating a man—two men if they were little—every day made him rather unpopular. Fortunately, he prowled only at night. Those folk who went to bed decently at nine o’clock had nothing to fear. Those who rambled well along toward midnight, often disappeared with a sudden and complete thoroughness.

As every one knows, cats are much given to night skulking. The witch cat, Nu Wu, was no exception. Midnight often found her miles afield. On such a midnight, when she was roving in the form of a hag, what should approach but the black dragon. Instantly the _loong_ scented prey, and instantly he made for the old witch.

There followed such a chase as never was before on land or sea. Up hill and down dale, by stream and wood and fallow, the cat woman flew and the dragon coursed after. The witch soon failed of breath. She panted. She wheezed. She stumbled on a bramble and a claw slashed through her garments. Too close for comfort. The harried witch changed shape to a cat, and bounded off afresh, half a li at every leap. The _loong_ increased his pace and soon was close behind, gaining. For a most peculiar fact about the _loong_ is that the more he runs the easier his breath comes, and the swifter grows his speed. Hence, it is not surprising that his fiery breath was presently singeing the witch cat’s back.

In a twinkling the cat altered form once more, and as an old hag scuttled across a turnip field. She was merely an ordinarily powerful witch. She possessed only the two forms—cat and hag. Nor did she have a gift of magic to baffle or cripple the hungry black _loong_. Nevertheless, the witch was not despairing. At the edge of the turnip field lay Ah Tcha’s miserable patch of thick bushes. So thick were the bushes as to be almost a wall against the hag’s passage. As a hag, she could have no hope of entering such a thicket. But as a cat, she could race through without hindrance. And the dragon would be sadly bothered in following. Scheming thus, the witch dashed under the bushes—a cat once more.

Ah Tcha was roused from slumber by the most outrageous noise that had ever assailed his ears. There was such a snapping of bushes, such an awful bellowed screeching that even the dead of a century must have heard. The usually sound-sleeping Ah Tcha was awakened at the outset. He soon realized how matters stood—or ran. Luckily, he had learned of the only reliable method for frightening off the dragon. He opened his door and hurled a red, a green, and a yellow firecracker in the monster’s path.

In through his barely opened door the witch cat dragged her exhausted self. “I don’t see why you couldn’t open the door sooner,” she scolded, changing into a hag. “I circled the hut three times before you had the gumption to let me in.”

“I am very sorry, good mother. I was asleep.” From Ah Tcha.

“Well, don’t be so sleepy again,” scowled the witch, “or I’ll make you suffer. Get me food and drink.”

“Again, honored lady, I am sorry. So poor am I that I have only water for drink. My food is the leaves and roots of bushes.”

“No matter. Get what you have—and quickly.”

Ah Tcha reached outside the door and stripped a handful of leaves from a bush. He plunged the leaves into a kettle of hot water and signified that the meal was prepared. Then he lay down to doze, for he had been awake fully half a dozen minutes and the desire to sleep was returning stronger every moment.

The witch soon supped and departed, without leaving so much as half a “Thank you.” When Ah Tcha awoke again, his visitor was gone. The poor boy flung another handful of leaves into his kettle and drank quickly. He had good reason for haste. Several times he had fallen asleep with the cup at his lips—a most unpleasant situation, and scalding. Having taken several sips, Ah Tcha stretched him out for a resumption of his slumber. Five minutes passed . . . ten minutes . . . fifteen. . . . Still his eyes failed to close. He took a few more sips from the cup and felt more awake than ever.

“I do believe,” said Ah Tcha, “that she has thanked me by bewitching my bushes. She has charmed the leaves to drive away my sleepiness.”

And so she had. Whenever Ah Tcha felt tired and sleepy—and at first that was often—he had only to drink of the bewitched leaves. At once his drowsiness departed. His neighbors soon learned of the bushes that banished sleep. They came to drink of the magic brew. There grew such a demand that Ah Tcha decided to set a price on the leaves. Still the demand continued. More bushes were planted. Money came.

Throughout the province people called for “the drink of Ah Tcha.” In time they shortened it by asking for “Ah Tcha’s drink,” then for “Tcha’s drink,” and finally for “Tcha.”

And that is its name at present, “Tcha,” or “Tay,” or “Tea,” as some call it. And one kind of Tea is still called “Oo Loong”—“Black Dragon.”