Chapter XV: A Page From the Story of Protestant (3)

While the patience of the Dunlaps was sorely taxed during this period of waiting, they could not help being deeply impressed with the unfailing good nature and courtesy of the firm, always regretful, ever ready for another trial, though the money loss was their own.

Some of their work, too, was really a pronounced success, as in the case of the sectional bookcases which they patterned after one loaned them by Mr. Dunlap. When the two were set up side by side in the library it was next to impossible to tell them apart.

The absolute confidence of the Chinese in the honour of foreigners was often remarked on in the family. Not for five months after work began and until several hundred dollars’ worth of goods had been delivered was any money asked for or expected. A dishonest person might easily have slipped out of town and left furniture and debt behind him.

One noon, during the period of house-settling, when Mr. Dunlap returned from his office, he was surprised to see a bevy of men at work sodding the lawn, a matter he had not yet had time to consider. He was still more astonished when he learned that this was being done for him by the company of whom he rented his house. There was nothing personal about it. All the company’s property was being treated in the same way. But sod, it seems, could not easily be carried off, while lighting fixtures might!

The Dunlaps did not find it necessary to go to the florist’s in search of plants to beautify the grounds, for street vendors brought them to their door. From the very morning they moved in these men fairly haunted the place. They carried the plants in round, slightly convex baskets, suspended by ropes from a bamboo pole slung across one shoulder. Every time Mrs. Dunlap appeared in sight there they were, an eager, smiling group of them, holding out their flowers and begging her to buy in their best _pidgin_ English. Mrs. Dunlap always shook her head saying, “By and by. Not now. I am too busy.” But one bright day, when the house-wife was unusually occupied with work indoors, an enterprising fellow actually took it upon himself to border the entire garden, and it was a good large one, with handsome plants of many varieties, and ended by placing on the veranda four mammoth potted palms. The effect was charming. Of course Mrs. Dunlap might have ordered the plants taken out of the ground, but what woman would? Instead she gladly paid a little less than the price asked, which was about six dollars. Afterward a neighbour told her that had she happened to have any second-hand clothing to offer the man, he would willingly have taken it in place of money. “Each year I replenish my garden with flowers in that way,” concluded the friend.

The day the Dunlaps ate their first meal in their new home was a very happy one, but before that time two important matters had been attended to by Mr. Dunlap. These were putting in a first-class filter, and covering the floors of the store-room and pantry with zinc which was allowed to turn up around the walls for a foot and a half in order to guard against the encroachments of ubiquitous Shanghai rats. The Berkefeld filter is generally used in Shanghai and is supposed to preclude the necessity of boiling the drinking water. But as every one knows, the “candle” must be carefully washed in boiling water once a week, and as Mrs. Dunlap soon found she could not trust a servant to do this, who might or might not have the water really boiling, or handle the candle without breaking, she attended to it herself.

Among her first callers were the “runners” from several Chinese grocery stores. The nearest secured her patronage. Each morning his man came to receive the day’s orders, and before noon the groceries were delivered in a neat box-tricycle. In addition a daily visit to the market was made by the cook, for the grocery stores in Shanghai carry neither meat nor fresh vegetables. “Just think, we no longer have to depend on tinned butter and milk!” exclaimed Mrs. Dunlap delightedly to her husband soon after their removal to the coast city, as her eyes turned with satisfaction to the neat pat of fresh Australian butter on her pretty Welsh butter dish. The dairies, the best being the European, are carefully inspected by the Municipal Health Department and deliver milk in sealed bottles to insure not being tampered with on the way from the dairy to their destination. Notwithstanding this, never a drop of milk or cream was used on the Dunlaps’ table that had not been scalded. Neither was lettuce indulged in, not even that grown in private gardens, nor any other uncooked vegetable. In view of the ravages of Oriental dysentery and kindred diseases, the family agreed that it was wise to obey the injunctions of foreign doctors and take no risks. Fresh fruit from which the skin could be removed was eaten freely in season, but was dipped in boiling water, or underwent a thorough washing in filtered water before it was set on the table. Strawberries were subjected to a special cleansing process under Mrs. Dunlap’s personal supervision. Placed in a colander, boiling water was poured over them three times, and lastly a solution of permanganate. Later on in her experience Mrs. Dunlap learned of a better and easier way of disinfecting the fruit, and that was to plunge it for an instant into boiling syrup, by which the flavor of the berry was retained and its appearance but little altered. Even after every reasonable precaution had been taken in the matter of food, the Dunlaps were made aware that through the carelessness of servants, and in other ways, they were constantly running serious risks. However, they concluded to do the best they could and then not worry.

Another early caller to put in an appearance was the public laundryman. Shanghai houses are not built with the idea of doing washing at home, except perhaps a few of the small pieces. So it is sent out, and as to just what kind of places, one may possibly be happier not to inquire into too diligently. The public laundries in the International Settlement, it is true, are subject to inspection by the Health Department, but questionable habits are liable to continue notwithstanding. Take, for instance, a Chinese washerman’s manner of sprinkling clothes, which is to fill his mouth with water, then squirt it out through his closed teeth. It is bad enough when the spray falls on hosiery and underwear, but handkerchiefs, napkins--well, Mrs. Dunlap soon found that it was not well under such circumstances to give reins to her imagination. She certainly had no fault to find with the pricelist, paying barely one cent and a half apiece for everything, from a face cloth to the most elaborate white dress. As a rule the clothes were exquisitely laundered, even though the method employed did cause rapid deterioration.

Although the process of setting their house in order was a most tedious one, at last Mr. and Mrs. Dunlap had progressed far enough to be comfortable and feel that they could turn their attention to other and more important matters. At first they were a little disturbed by having to look at the back courts of their neighbours’ houses across the street instead of onto their well-trimmed lawns, for it is usual in Shanghai to build so that all houses may face the south, from which the breeze comes. Then too, Mrs. Dunlap’s soul was somewhat tried by the lines of washing, innumerable as the sands on the sea-shore, hung out to dry on the vacant lots stretching away to the south. But it was at least a more agreeable sight than the coffins lying scattered about on the ground just beyond her east windows, left there, perhaps by perfect strangers to the Chinese landowner, to await a convenient time of burial. A little farther away, Mr. Dunlap passed every morning, in going to his office, a lot which evidently was a favorite spot for depositing the dead. Fresh coffins appeared each morning, most of them tiny ones. Often the baby was not given a coffin at all, but tied in a grass mat which was thrown carelessly on the ground. The bodies are supposed to be gathered up and carted away daily. One seems gradually to get hardened in China to things grown too familiar. The Dunlaps used often to marvel that their surroundings, depressing though they were, did not affect them more.

Mrs. Dunlap’s daily routine began each morning after breakfast by “taking accounts” with the cook. The cook in China does the marketing, and he also gets his commission or “squeeze” as it is popularly called. That is, he buys a pound and half of meat and brings in a bill for two, or he charges his mistress a few coppers more a pound than he has paid. This squeezing business is perfectly understood by both parties, and providing it does not exceed certain bounds, nothing is said about it. Market prices are quoted each morning in one of the Shanghai dailies, and by consulting this and making an occasional visit herself to market, Mrs. Dunlap kept informed as to about what she ought to pay. Whenever the cook began to take undue advantage of her, she did not accuse him of it directly, but a conversation something like the following would ensue: “Ta Shih-fu (Great Assistant), you are paying too much for meat.” “Yes, so I told the butcher, but he won’t take less.” “Then go somewhere else.” Or, “One hundred and four eggs are too many to use in two days for our small family.” “It certainly is a great many but I had to put eighteen into a cake.” “You must use fewer.” “I will try.” Now Mrs. Dunlap knew, and the cook knew that she knew, that he had paid a moderate price for the meat and was charging her for eggs which he never bought or had disposed of himself. But through this indirect method of dealing with him, by no means original with her, she gained her end and saved the face of the Great Assistant. Had he suffered “loss of face” probably nothing would have been said by him at the time, but later he might have appeared before his mistress to announce sorrowfully that his uncle or great-aunt had just died and he must leave at once. Perhaps next day he would be found comfortably installed in a neighbouring kitchen. Occasionally a young housekeeper, new to China, undertakes to do her own marketing and even to dispense with a cook altogether. But after a few days, or at the most a few weeks, she usually gives up the trial she made so hopefully, realizing that as conditions are in China it is next to impossible for a foreign woman to do her own housework.

Following the taking of accounts came giving out “stores” for the day. Housekeepers differ. Some keep nothing under lock and key. Others deal out what is needed in minutest measure, a cupful of rice, a half cup of sugar. Mrs. Dunlap found it expedient to follow a middle course, not putting temptation in the cook’s way by giving him free access to the stores, but at the same time showing that he was trusted by letting him have a fairly liberal quantity at a time. If the supplies disappeared too rapidly she dealt with him after the ordinary indirect fashion. Frequently she and her neighbors helped one another by “comparing notes.” “How long does a fifty pound bag of flour last you?” “How many pounds of sugar do you average in a week?”

Mrs. Dunlap’s cook was an artist in his way. When the spirit moved him he sent his cakes, pies, and puddings to the table ornamented in a style that would do justice to a Fifth Avenue caterer. One day, however, he gave the family a surprise. A cake was served for dinner that had a most peculiar flavor. “I told the cook to use lemon filling, but there is no taste of lemon about this,” declared Mrs. Dunlap, critically sampling a bit of the cake. “No, and there _is_ a strong taste of onion,” said her husband. “Oh, impossible! But yes, there really is!” The cook was called in. “What did you make the filling of?” questioned Mrs. Dunlap. “Onions,” was the prompt reply. “Onions! Why, I told you to use lemon.” “No, the lady said onions, and I am an obedient cook. I always do just as the lady bids.” Then suddenly it dawned on the crest-fallen mistress that she _had_ ordered onion, the Chinese word for that pungent vegetable and for lemon being somewhat alike. But this was not quite as bad as the experiment of a friend’s cook, who, with no malice whatever, but the best of intentions, flavored the soup with kerosene oil, and on another occasion poured a liberal quantity of hair oil into the pudding. As to cleanliness or rather the lack of that admirable virtue in the moral make-up of many otherwise desirable chefs, without question the least said the better. But when a cook is discovered washing his waistcoat in the dishpan, or polishing the stove with a fine tea-towel, if a summary dismissal ensues, can any one blame the sorely-tried house-wife? Many a merry half hour the ladies of the neighbourhood spend over their teacups sharing experiences both amusing and tragic. The longer Mrs. Dunlap lived in China the more she realized that while the “servant problem” in the Orient is not solved, as many in Western lands seem to think it is, yet the excellencies of Chinese servants are many and pronounced. These are more noticeably away from the coast cities, and were more general before the recent revolution, and even before 1900, but the sterling good qualities of the better servants are still worthy of the highest praise. Where will more devoted, faithful service be found? Were the children sick at night, or was Mr. Dunlap leaving the city by a midnight boat or an early train, the servants were on duty, eager and willing without a word of complaint.

One time the Dunlaps arrived home from a journey at midnight to find a hot supper awaiting them. It had been ready since seven o’clock when the family was expected, but by some occult process known only to the cook, the food had been kept from burning or drying up during the intervening hours. The men were blinking and heavy-eyed, but absolutely good-natured.

It was a never failing comfort to Mrs. Dunlap to be able to announce the arrival of unexpected guests to the servants without the shadow of a fear of any unpleasantness. Indeed, the larger the number, the happier was the cook, for the more he had to buy the bigger his “squeeze.” Still a great amount of extra work was often involved, which was always taken as a matter of course. The “boy” delighted to decorate the dining table, and if left to his own devices a favorite diversion was to write on the tablecloth, with colored rice and flower petals, characters meaning love, happiness, long life, and peace.

But it was when the Dunlaps gave their house-warming that the servants’ virtues shone the brightest. To save time, the small cakes, toothsome and delicate, were bought at a foreign bakery. To save money, though there are caterers in Shanghai, the ice-cream was made at home. Freezers were borrowed from neighbors, and late in the afternoon a busy scene was enacted in the little courtyard. The cook had called in coolies from the street, and “boys” from the houses around, and all were soon grinding away as if for dear life. Ice can always be had in Shanghai. The Dunlaps often observed with interest that whenever the neighboring ponds were encrusted with ice, even half an inch thick, the Chinese cut it carefully away and stored it in nearby sheds. This broken ice sells for much less than the foreign artificial ice, which however comes in cakes and is much better. Mrs. Dunlap ventured to ask the cook if the cream would keep till a late hour. With a lordly wave of the hand the Great Assistant replied, “Leave that to me, Lady. Leave that to me.” And she knew she could.

Meanwhile the boy had been given the responsibility in the dining-room. Mrs. Dunlap laid on the table extra silver. “Here are so many forks, so many spoons,” she explained. “Strange men will be in the kitchen this evening. The silver is in your care.” That was all, and she never gave it another thought. Had a piece been missing, it would shortly have been returned. How, and from where, who knows? The secret service system of Chinese servants is a mystery to foreigners.

That night before going upstairs Mrs. Dunlap was respectfully requested to look at the silver, washed and neatly piled on the sideboard. The tired boy would not sleep until she had inspected it and declared it all right.

VI

SOMETHING ABOUT VEHICLES

Let them be named decently and in order. First and foremost is the wheelbarrow. It does not take this rank because of its superior size, elegance, or even usefulness, but on account of its antiquity. To be sure, it can not lay claim to antedating the sedan-chair, but the dignified and exclusive sedan-chair has practically dropped out of Shanghai street life and hence will not be considered. The wheelbarrow on the contrary, instead of being relegated to the interior or less modern towns, creakily holds its own, and is not to be downed. Nor does any one want it to be, useful vehicle that it is, unless perchance some nervous invalids, or weary sleepers, whose morning rest is disturbed by the rising crescendo of the rasping, tormenting, unconquerable nuisance. The creak could be stopped with a few drops of oil--the easiest matter in the world, but the coolie loves that creak--he would not part with it for anything. It means business. It is the evidence of work being accomplished. Without it he would feel lost. Every wheelbarrow, the Chinese say, has its individual creak. People too far off to be recognized are identified in this way. “Friend Wong is coming,” says a man to his neighbor, “I hear his creak.” A Chinese wheelbarrow has this advantage over its foreign compeers, that instead of a small wheel at the end, it has a large one in the center. To be sure, the wheel rising up divides the wheelbarrow into halves, but makes it much easier to carry the weight. A stout woven rope band fastened to the handle-bars and passing back across the coolie’s shoulders helps greatly to steady the load.

The Shanghai wheelbarrow is mostly used for freight, but because of its cheapness it is a favourite passenger vehicle with a certain class of Chinese, especially the women and children going to and from the mills. Often eight or ten crowd on, sitting sideways with their feet hanging down. Once eleven women and girls were seen on one, pushed along by a single coolie. A coolie ordinarily is able to manage anywhere from six hundred to a thousand pounds. He carries everything, from building-stone to goose feathers. When the cargo is heavy the poor fellow staggers like a drunken man, moving from side to side to balance his load. His veins stand out like whipcords and the perspiration pours off from him in streams. To keep from being blinded by it in summer he frequently has to wear a band forming artificial eyebrows across his forehead to catch and hold the water. All the time, breathless as he is, he usually keeps up his singing cry, partly from force of habit and partly to warn people that he is coming and to clear the road. But street-cars can’t turn out of the way, and some other vehicles won’t, so occasionally the coolie gets caught in a trap, the wheelbarrow loses its balance, and over it goes. With certain kinds of cargo no damage is done and the only inconvenience is the delay and extra lifting, but if the load is rice bags which burst open, or breakable merchandise, the coolie faces a bad situation. He earns, as a rule, a fair living wage for a poor man, but there is no surplus to cover the cost of accidents.

Wheelbarrow coolies, though, are said to live longer and fare better than most ricsha coolies. This latter class is very shortlived as a rule. Their working years do not ordinarily extend beyond three, five, or at the most ten. One Shanghai ricsha coolie declared he had pulled a ricsha for twenty-four years, but this, if true, was most exceptional. At the present time there are between nine and ten thousand public ricshas in Shanghai, but probably a shifting population during the year of many times that number of coolies. Some one who has studied the subject estimates that the entire coolie population of Shanghai, including all classes, reaches as high as four hundred thousand. The average earnings of a ricsha coolie are seven coppers, about three or four cents, a day, and from this pittance he must support a family, and that too in a city noted over China for high cost of living. No wonder a doctor in charge of a mission hospital where many sick coolies are sent recently reported, “A large number of the cases brought in are in a state of collapse due to malnutrition and the bad hygienic conditions of their life superadded to the strenuous spasmodic strain they undergo.” Heart trouble and China’s inveterate foe, tuberculosis, carry off the majority. Perspiring freely, even in winter, after a hard run, then waiting, it may be an hour, for another “fare,” in the penetrating wind or chilling rain, with no extra covering for their thinly clad bodies, the coolies are in a condition to succumb readily to disease. Married men live in colonies in the outskirts of the city, in little straw or bamboo huts, for which they pay a rental of from fifteen to twenty cents a month. In cold weather the whole family crawls inside to keep warm, where the air is heavy with tobacco smoke and the fumes from the little charcoal fire over which the rice is cooking. Many a baby contracts eye disease that later leads to blindness. Unmarried ricsha coolies sleep wherever they can find shelter, ordinarily in the cheap tea-houses, often as many as fifty herding together in one small room. The conditions in these places beggar description.

The coolies do not own their ricshas. They are the property of companies, some foreign, others Chinese, each owning anywhere from fifty to seven or eight hundred, while two large companies have in stock a thousand and twelve hundred, respectively. One of these companies manufactures its own ricshas, turning out a hundred a month. Women are employed to make the cushions for the back and seat. Several of the companies provide the men with uniforms. Generally it is only a coat, while the wearer’s ragged trousers show more ragged in contrast. In a single instance the clothes are washed every twenty-four hours in the company’s laundry and returned clean to the coolies. The Municipal Council has decreed that in the International Settlement ricsha coolies must be decently clad, but the rule is not strictly enforced. On the back of ricshas belonging to Chinese companies is written in Chinese the company’s name, which is generally rather poetic not to say moral in tone, such as “Able to Fly Co.,” “Everlasting Remembrance,” “Steadfast Righteousness.” One company’s ricshas exhibit above the license plate a small metal locomotive, highly suggestive of incomparable speed. A rubber-tired ricsha costs, when new, fifty or sixty dollars, and its rental per day is from thirty-five to forty cents. A coolie hiring a ricsha, after using it a few hours, or half a day, sublets it, and that man in turn often rents it to another, so that in the course of twenty-four hours, it is likely to pass through two, three, or perhaps four hands, consequently the number of ricsha coolies is naturally far in excess of the ricshas. Passengers pay either according to the time the ricsha is used, the regular tariff being twenty cents an hour (but if the poor fellow gets eight or ten cents he does well), or by the trip, say five cents for a run of a mile or a mile and a half. At night the coolie expects a trifle more, as he has to spend a cent to buy the candle that lights his paper lantern or tiny lamp. These are the prices for foreigners. Chinese as a rule give less. Ricshas are of two kinds, the high black ones and the low brown style. All the latter are furnished with rubber tires. Most of the high ones formerly were without them, and as they could be rented more cheaply in consequence, were much used by the poorer Chinese, but of late the Municipal Council has succeeded in banishing all such ricshas from the Settlement. Most of the worn-out ricshas are apparently bought up for use in the Chinese district, as it abounds in a multitude of rickety, ramshackle vehicles, probably purchased for a mere song. Many of them are pulled by young boys, scarcely more than children.

Ricsha coolies running in the International Settlement must have a license from the Municipal Council. If they are to travel beyond the limits of the Settlement they require in addition a French and a Chinese license. The license, in the form of a tin plate, is slipped into a groove at the back of the ricsha. It is furnished to the coolies by the companies owning the ricshas who pay into the city treasury a dollar a month for each one. The coolie loses his license if he commits a misdemeanor. Often for a very slight one, like blocking the road, generally in his eagerness to secure a passenger, he has his license taken from him by a Sikh policeman. Then the poor fellow is sorely troubled, for he can do no business without his license, and it is sometimes several days, or weeks, before it is restored, on the payment of a fine of forty cents. Once a month the ricshas in the Settlement must have their licenses renewed and be officially inspected.

At the examining station opposite the Honkew Market, between three and four hundred gather every day. An English policeman is in charge. One by one the ricshas are brought before him, while he and a Chinese assistant shake, pull, and pound them to see if they are in good condition. If any part shows signs of weakness it is wrenched off, the license withheld, and the ricsha sent back to the company that owns it for repairs. The companies are represented on these occasions by Chinese foremen. Occasionally the foreman is a forewoman. A regular habitué is an old wizened creature, with bound feet and half blind, but as the foreign officer aptly describes her, “Keen as a razor when it comes to looking after the fifty ricshas placed in her care.” Accidents to ricshas are not infrequent on the crowded streets of Shanghai. The marvel is that they do not occur oftener. Nearly all coolies run with their heads down and their minds,--well, who can tell where a coolie’s mind may be wandering? It is doubtless dormant most of the time. Nearly all coolies come from the lowest stratum of society, and having nothing else to give in exchange for bread, or rather rice, sell their strength. The literal interpretation of the word “coolie” is “The man who sells his strength.”

The ricsha coolie’s movements are erratic and impulsive. He seldom reasons. There are foreigners who will not risk their life in a ricsha and hair-breadth escapes occur nearly every day. An American lady was riding on one of the narrow, congested streets, when suddenly her coolie attempted to dash across the road between two electric cars approaching from opposite directions. He succeeded in clearing the track himself but the cars closed on the ricsha, crushing it to splinters. The woman with great presence of mind saved herself by grasping the front railing of one of the cars and holding to it until she could be drawn up. Another remarkable escape was that of a mother who, with her young baby, was riding on one of the quiet streets supposed to be perfectly safe. The coolie saw a man approaching on a bicycle, zigzaged several times in front of him, then utterly losing his nerve and wits, he dropped the shafts and ran away. The sudden stop and downward movement of the ricsha threw the baby out of its mother’s arms. The little thing fell, face down, on the hard macadamized road, and lay so still the mother feared the child was dead, but it proved to be only stunned, and except for some bad bruises, the next day seemed none the worse for its fall.

The ordinary wear and tear of ricshas is made good by the owners, but damages due to accidents are often charged to the coolie, at least in part. The amount for which he is responsible depends on the company. One large firm exacts two and three dollars for a tire. These prices are ruinous for the coolie, who is obliged to borrow the money to pay the fine, and money lenders demand exorbitant rates of interest. The coolie who is unable to pay his debt has no recourse but to run away, commit suicide, or go to the Debtor’s Prison. In the latter case, unless he has more fortunate friends or relatives who come to his rescue he is likely to remain a prisoner indefinitely.

It is interesting to see how quickly a fresh arrival from the West accustoms himself to ricsha riding. At first he is apt to inveigh against man-drawn vehicles, or if he gets into a ricsha, to sit lightly on the seat, with perhaps one foot hanging out at the side, with the idea of helping the coolie along, but presently he abandons himself to the enjoyment of the little, easy-running carriage, or as one enthusiastic woman described it “a grown-up’s perambulator,” and almost ceases to think of the puller as a human being. But let him stand on the Bund some day in the late afternoon and watch the stream of ricshas hurrying by. There is scarcely a coolie whose face is not drawn as if with pain, and many are actually contorted. Although a ricsha coolie’s life is far from a bed of roses, in his own happy-go-lucky way he does manage to get some pleasure out of it. One of the ricsha companies, with benevolent intentions, undertook to furnish free hot tea to its men at the company’s headquarters, but the plan didn’t work, for the reason that the coolies preferred to buy their own tea at a tea-house. Wretched as is the low-class tea-house, it is the coolies’ favorite gathering place, where, surrounded by their cronies, they can gossip, smoke, and gamble till necessity drives them forth to work again.

The coolies who come to the city in winter from farms and return to them in the spring, may be called gentlemen of means compared with the others. A very few, the number is almost negligible, are able to make ricsha pulling a paying business, as in the case of the man who gave up the position of “boy” at six dollars a month in a private family to become a ricsha coolie, because he said he could make more money.

Many articles are lost in the ricshas. A passenger gets out and hurries away, forgetting his bundle or umbrella, and unless he has thought to look at the number on the ricsha, that is the last he ever sees of it. Not always though. The narrow margin on which the poor coolie exists from day to day makes the exceptionally honest one stand out in all the brighter light. An elderly gentleman, carrying a very valuable package, left his ricsha with the package in it and went into a store. His business detained him some time and he finally returned home in a street car, entirely forgetting he had a ricsha waiting for him. After a considerable time the coolie, who had not observed the gentleman go away, went into the shop to look for him. A clerk said he had gone. Then was the coolie’s opportunity to run off with his prize. But no, in a moment he had brought in the package and laid it on the counter, asking anxiously how he could get it to the owner. As the gentleman was a regular customer at the shop, the clerk agreed to send it to his residence. That coolie not only received no reward for his honesty, since he slipped back into the crowd and it was impossible to identify him, but he lost time and fare as well. Another case was that of a lady who, in stepping from her ricsha, dropped a five dollar bill, which was discovered by the coolie after she had gone. Not being sure which house the lady had entered the coolie went from one to another until he found the owner of the money, to whom he restored it. It sometimes happens that dishonesty crops up where it is not looked for, and an unprincipled passenger, sad to relate, sometimes a foreigner, after using a ricsha for several hours, eludes his coolie and escapes the payment of fare by going into a shop or house and disappearing out another door.

The ricsha is not indigenous to China. It was introduced from Japan as many as fifty years ago and promises to be seen on the streets of Shanghai for some time to come in spite of the increasing popularity of more modern conveyances.

There is a Christian mission for the ricsha coolies. It was started four years ago by a Scotch business man on whose heart had been laid the spiritual needs of this neglected class. At two centres in thickly-populated coolie districts week-day and Sunday meetings are held in rented Chinese houses, besides Sunday-schools and day-schools for the children of the ricsha coolies and a weekly religious meeting for women. A native evangelist visits the men in their homes and in the tea-shops they are wont to frequent, a Bible woman goes among the women, hot rice and beds are given to the really destitute in cold weather, and the sick are sent to the hospital. At the special Christmas services held one year each coolie was presented with a cheap towel, to his great delight. But let it not be imagined that the coolie’s satisfaction was due to the fact that he could now remove a few layers of dirt from his hands and face. That consideration, if it entered his mind at all, was wholly secondary. The chief use of the towel was to wipe the sweat from his brow when running, so that he could see more clearly. The coolies’ incredulous amazement that any one should care for them was most touching. At first when they flocked to the Hall they would say to the evangelist, “Is this for _us_?” and at the close of the meeting, “We never heard anything like it!” There have been a number of very bright conversions among them. The work is supported by voluntary contributions, the coolies themselves, out of their extreme poverty, giving generously. The ambition of some is to raise enough money to build a church! It is a noble purpose but leagues beyond the possibilities of their meagre resources.

Tramcars began running in the International Settlement in Shanghai in 1907. Six years later they were introduced on Chinese territory. No street in the Chinese city being wide enough for a car to pass through it, the intention is to surround the city with a track in place of the old moat, and it will not be long before the circle is complete. The cars are divided into two unequal sections, the larger one for third-class passengers and the smaller for first-class. Some foreigners travel third-class and many Chinese first-class. On one line in the Settlement, owing to the rude treatment accorded them in the third-class compartment by Chinese men, Chinese women are allowed to travel first-class for a third-class fare. Two notices stand out conspicuously in third-class cars. One prohibits spitting and is put up by the Municipal Health Department to guard against tuberculosis. The other warns passengers not to enter or leave while the cars are in motion. The warning is emphasized by a coloured picture of a man who has fallen in jumping off a car and is lying on the ground with the blood flowing from his wounds. Still, every year some Chinese are killed and many more injured in attempting, in their ignorance of physical laws, to imitate what they see foreigners do. Yet accidents do not deter them from using the cars, and during the busy hours of the day they fairly swarm into them. Nearly all the cars carry a trailer, and except for a few seats in front reserved for first-class passengers, that too is crowded with Chinese. Fares are rated according to the distance traveled. Both motorman and conductor are Chinese, and the latter understands just enough English to collect fares. But if a stranger in the city asks in English for general information he will rarely succeed in making himself understood. Railless cars, brought over from England, were introduced on one road in the autumn of 1914, but proved too heavy for the paving and were prohibited after a week or two. The following spring, the road foundation having been strengthened, a second trial of the cars was made, and this time with pronounced success. They soon became very popular. Underground and elevated cars have not yet made their appearance in Shanghai, but the son of one of its most prominent Chinese citizens has been spending some time in Paris learning to fly, so on his return in the near future almost anything may be expected to develop in this progressive corner of the Orient.

Shanghai being one of the greatest shipping ports in the Far East, quantities of merchandise are handled daily. Besides wheelbarrows, and coolies who carry loads suspended by ropes from poles resting on their shoulders, men-drawn carts are constantly in requisition. Coolies take the place of horses and mules as beasts of burden. It is true that the foreign hotels and many foreign firms have their wagons and vans, nowadays they are oftener motor cars, but these vehicles of Western manufacture are far outnumbered by native hand-pulled carts. The carts are of the simplest design, several oblong planks nailed together and set on two wheels. Most of the loads have to be tied on with ropes, and no account is taken of weight. The coolies’ muscle is not spared. Three, four, or more coolies are stationed in front of the cart to pull, with often several at the back to push. Stout ropes fifteen or twenty feet long are fastened by one end to the cart and knotted at the other. Each coolie takes a rope, passes it over his shoulder, changing occasionally for relief from one to the other, and grasps the knot with both hands. If the load is extremely heavy, such as iron rods or building stone, the pullers even on level ground are obliged to stop frequently to rest and recover breath. But it is when crossing the arched bridges over Soochow Creek that the tug of war comes. The forward coolies bend almost double, while those at the rear push with might and main till their faces are congested and it seems as if they must burst every blood-vessel in their bodies. But perhaps the cart does not yield an inch. After a moment’s rest another effort is made. This time the coolies at the back grasp the wheels and at last succeed in turning them ever so little, while slowly, very, very slowly the cart is drawn up the incline. When the highest point of the bridge is reached, unless the road in front is clear, there is another pause. Then the coolies who have been pushing, pull back, assisted by some of the others, while the forward coolies rush ahead in the liveliest manner to keep from being hit by the cart. It impresses foreigners as a cruel way of getting work done and draws painfully on their sympathies, but if a sudden change were made to horse power, the carters would doubtless be the first ones to raise a hue and cry against it.

VII

A PEEP INTO THE SCHOOLROOM

“How many schools for the Chinese, not counting missionary schools, are there in Shanghai?” The question was asked of a Y.M.C.A. secretary, who with others had just completed a canvass of the city with reference to its educational facilities. “It is not possible to tell exactly,” he replied, puckering his brow. “As nearly as we could find out, there are at least five hundred, probably more. Of course that list does not include the schools for girls. Miss Blank can tell you about them.” The Chairman of the Committee on the Investigation of Girls’ Schools was interviewed. She brought out her maps, charts, and reports, and spread them on the table. “It was such a difficult search,” she explained. “We discovered between thirty and forty boarding schools alone, but it is almost certain that does not include all. Some of them were hidden away in the queerest places.” “What a difference in the number of schools for girls compared with those for boys!” exclaimed her visitor. “Oh, well, you must remember we made no effort to tabulate the little day-schools. They seemed to be legion and met us at every turn.” The large majority of the schools enumerated were established after 1900, and very many sprang up at the time of the revolution in 1911, or quickly following it.

From these statistics it might appear that the education of the children of Shanghai was fairly well provided for, but with no compulsory system, thousands that are employed in mills and factories, bound out as apprentices, thrust forth to beg or allowed to loaf, never cross the threshold of a schoolroom.

The Municipality of the International Settlement supports four large public schools for Chinese boys (there are none for girls), the ground in each instance having been donated by philanthropic Chinese, and the native residents in the Settlement, who form the bulk of the population, paying their share of the taxes on the buildings.

One of the handsomest buildings in the French Concession is a public school for Chinese boys.

Private schools, or as they are termed “Gentry Schools,” are very popular with the Chinese. In Shanghai this class far outnumbers all others, and it is moreover an interesting fact that of the schools under government control very many were started by an individual or group of individuals as private enterprises. China is a nation that reverences learning above all else. Not a scrap of paper that has written or printed on it even a single “character” is willingly allowed to be blown about carelessly or trampled under foot. These precious bits, soiled and torn though they may be, are laboriously picked up by men or boys armed with tongs or pin-pointed sticks, who travel to and fro through the streets in search of them. The well-to-do hire proxies to perform this meritorious work. The paper is carried to the public ovens, where it is burned, and the ashes afterward thrown out in the river. The belief is millenniums old that heaven vouchsafes special blessings to those who show due regard for the sacred symbols of knowledge. It follows then quite naturally that to open and maintain a school ranks with the Chinese among the highest forms of service one can render to mankind.

Since Western education has been introduced, many of China’s best young men have dedicated their lives and fortunes to popularizing it. Among the numerous examples that could be cited in Shanghai alone, the Akademio Utopia is one. Four years ago a group of ten zealous young men started a school in a small rented building. They had little capital, but each one agreed to devote twenty per cent of his income to meeting the running expenses. Several who had studied abroad gave also of their time and taught one or more classes. The principal was a graduate of Cornell University and the first Chinese student from that institution to be elected to Phi Beta Kappa. The current expenses were soon met, or nearly so, by the fees of the students, whose number quickly ran up to over a hundred, but when it became necessary to build, the young promoters again put their hands in their pockets, and out of their modest earnings gave most liberally. The principal’s father offered him financial help but in a spirit of manly independence he refused it, preferring to depend on his own and the school’s resources. The fine new building is finished and in use, though plain benches take the place of desks which will be added later, together with other needed furnishings, as the debt is gradually paid off.

In the plebeian district of the Settlement, on a street little frequented by foreigners, is a boarding and day-school attended by five hundred and fifty boys. Unlike the former school, this one started full-fledged the year of the Boxer Rebellion, which witnessed the birth of so many new enterprises. The plant consists of three brick buildings, the middle one surmounted by a stately clock tower, and all connected by covered passageways. The main building is divided from front to back into parallel sections, with open courts between, though joined on the upper story by bridges. In this way good light and air are secured for each of the forty-six rooms. There is a laboratory, a science class-room with seats in amphitheatre style, a library containing both Chinese and English books, a hall dedicated to Confucius whose walls are hung with scrolls inscribed with quotations from the writings of the Sage and where the students gather semi-annually for worship, and finally a reception-room, having as its chief ornament a portrait of the founder of the school. The founder began life as a poor boatman. By careful saving of his earnings he was by and by able to open a small metal-ware shop. Possessed of great business sagacity, he rose step by step, gradually amassing wealth, until he became a millionaire. Though he never learned to read and write, this self-made man had ideals and gave liberally for the free education of the poor. When he was past sixty he conceived the idea of founding a school as the best and most lasting memorial of himself he could leave to the city. The plans were made and the building begun, though the philanthropist did not live to see it completed. A statue is soon to be erected in his honour by a company of Shanghai merchants. The founder’s sons built a beautiful little memorial temple to their father on the school area between the playground and the out-of-doors gymnasium, and thither they resort at stated intervals to prostrate themselves before the ancestral tablets, as the students do in front of the philanthropist’s portrait in the reception hall. But they have no love for learning and take no interest whatever in the school, which goes to prove that not all the conservatives lived in the past century nor that all of the progressives are confined to the new. The fees are kept low, board and tuition for the entire school year of ten months and a half costing less than twenty-four dollars. Fifty of the boys are charity pupils. English and French are taught, the latter by a graduate of the school, and there is a small industrial department. The course of study extends through eleven years and carries the student up to about the third year in a home High School.

Close to the South Gate of the Chinese City, or where the South Gate formerly stood, is a plain red brick building called in English “The Shanghai High School.” The interior arrangement could not be simpler, a hall running through the middle, which is also a dining-room for the boarders, and class-rooms opening off from it on either side. Above are dormitories. In this building and three smaller ones on the grounds, five hundred boys, half of them boarders, whose ages average sixteen, are receiving a thorough education. A foreign educator remarked when visiting the school, “This shows what excellent work the Chinese can do with a very modest equipment, which, after all, answers in every way to their actual needs.” The story of this school is worth repeating. Thirteen years ago four progressive brothers banded together to help educate the youth of Shanghai. Not having sufficient money to purchase a suitable site and erect a building, they fitted up the family residence for a school, supporting it largely with their own funds. Three of the brothers are successful business men, and the fourth became the principal. He is a graduate of St. John’s University of the Protestant Episcopal Mission in Shanghai, a man in his early prime, of scholarly tastes and habits. Hardly had the doors of the school been opened when ninety boys flocked to it, and the number increased so rapidly that within a year or two it became necessary to look for more commodious quarters. The school in the meantime had received recognition from the local government and was given an annual grant-in-aid. The Chinese Municipality donated some of the public land for a site for the new plant, and in 1909 the present edifice was completed. Thirty teachers are employed, three of them being foreigners, and women. Speaking one day of the qualifications of his foreign teachers, reference was made by a friend to the fact that one of them had graduated with honour from the University of Edinburgh. “Yes,” said the principal smilingly, “I consider myself fortunate in securing her, but I always seek the very best for my school, for it is my purpose to maintain the highest standard.” And that he does maintain it was proved when several of his students on examination entered St. John’s University unconditioned, the first time a school under Chinese management had attained such distinction.

Four years after the brothers started their venture, their three sisters launched a school for girls. This school, like the other, had a small beginning, but from the first was a pronounced success. Later, its promotors were also given public land on which to build, and what is more, bricks from the city wall, at that time in process of being torn down, were donated for building material. Can the imagination conjure up anything more strange and romantic than a part of the old storied walls metamorphosed into a school for Chinese girls? How the city fathers who planned those walls, to say nothing of Confucius himself, whose prophetic eye caught no vision of a liberally educated womanhood, would have shrunk in horror from such unseemly desecration! The sisters are all married, one being a widow, and with their families live in neat apartments in the rear of the school. They are well-to-do, and teach for love’s sake rather than for the money there is in it. Indeed, the school has not yet become self-supporting. One teacher is principal, another supervises the classes in embroidery, and the third manages the business. The one hundred and thirty bright-faced pupils, besides the common branches, are taught music, drawing, painting, and plain sewing. They receive regular instruction in physical training from a young Chinese woman who had her own education in Boston. The school has been honoured with medals from several expositions to which specimens of beautiful embroidery and drawings have been sent.