Prince Chin stopped his steed with a jerk. “Ai chi—such grief. Are you trying to drown yourself with tears?” “I—I—I am hungry,” stammered Han Hsin. “Hungry? Then why don’t you eat a melon?” “I would, sire, but I’ve lost my knife. So I must s-s-starve.” The prince was well assured that he had met with the most foolish person in the world. “What? Starve because you have no knife? . . . Strike the melon with a stone. . . . Such a dunce. It would never do for me to behead this fellow. The Shen who watches over imbeciles would be made angry.” A trooper slashed a dozen melons with his sword. Surely, a dozen would save the idiot from starvation. Oh, what an idiot.

Han Hsin sat on the ground, obscuring his features in the red heart of a melon as the prince and his men departed. His lips moved—but not in eating. His lips moved in silent laughter.

Han Hsin bothered no more Kings with notes setting forth the argument that he had been born under a lucky star, and so deserved well. Quite casually, he fell in with King Kao Lin’s army. He received no pay. His name was not on the muster. He hobnobbed with all the soldiers and soon became a favorite. The boy had a remarkable memory. He learned the name of every soldier in the army. Further, he learned the good and bad traits of each soldier, knew who could be depended upon and who was unreliable. He knew from what village each man came, and he could describe the village with exactness. All from hearing the soldiers talk.

A fire destroyed the army muster-roll. Han Hsin quickly wrote a new list, giving the name of each man, his age, his qualities, his parents, and his village. King Kao Lin marveled. Shortly afterward, he added Han’s name to the list—a general.

Prince Chin made war upon King Kao Lin. He marched three armies through the kingdom, and where the armies had passed there was desolation, and no two stalks of grain remained in any field. Han Hsin moved against the smallest of the three armies. The enemy waited, well hidden above a mountain pass through which Han must march. It was an excellent ambush—there was no other passage. The mountain was so steep no man could climb it.

Han caused his soldiers to remove their jackets and fill them with sand, afterward tying bottom and top securely. The sand bags were placed against a cliff, to form a stair way. Up went Han and his men, to come upon the enemy from behind and capture the whole army—cook and general.

The second hostile army retreated to the river Lan Shui. It crossed the river, then burned all boats and bridges. So safe from pursuit felt the hostile general, he neglected to post sentries. Instead, he ordered all the men to feast and make pleasure. Han Hsin ordered his men to remove the iron points from their spears. The hollow bamboo shafts of the spears were lashed together, forming rafts. Armed only with light bows the men quickly crossed Lan Shui River and pounced upon their unready enemy. The feast was eaten by soldiers other than those for whom it had been intended.

Prince Chin led the third and largest army. He had far more braves than Han commanded. There could be no whipping him in open battle. In strategy lay the only hope. Han Hsin clothed many thousand scarecrows and placed them in the battle-line—a scarecrow, a soldier—another scarecrow, another soldier. In that manner, to all appearance, he doubled his army. Forthwith, he wrote a letter demanding surrender—pointing out that since his army was so much larger than Chin Pa’s, to fight would be a useless sacrifice.

Prince Chin took long to decide upon his course. So long it took him that Han grew impatient and sat down to write again. While he wrote, a strong wind broke upon the camp. The papers on Han’s table were lifted high in air. Higher and higher they swirled, higher than an eagle—for the Shen of Storms to read. Han’s golden knife, resting on a paper, was lifted by the wind, transported far over the foeman’s camp.

Immediately an idea seethed in the leader’s mind. If a small piece of paper could carry a knife, might not a large piece carry the knife’s owner? Especially, when that owner happened to be not much more weighty than a three-day bean cake? It seemed reasonable. Again the little general took spears from his soldiers. The iron points were removed and the long bamboo shafts were bound together in a frame. Over the frame was fastened tough bamboo paper in many sheets. Away from prying enemy eyes, the queer contrivance was sent into air. It proved sky-worthy, lifting its maker to a fearsome height. Thus was the feng cheng invented. Thus was the kite, little brother of the aeroplane, invented by Han Hsin.

The night showed no moon. Not a star had been lighted. The wind blew strong, with an eerie whistling. It was such a night as demons walk about their mischief, and honest men keep under their quilts. Out of the sky above the enemy camp came a great flapping sound. Could it be a dragon? All eyes peered upward through the darkness. . . . Two red eyes appeared. . . . Nothing more could be seen. . . . Only the two evil eyes. A voice came from the sky. “Return to your homes,” boomed the voice. “The battle is lost. Return to your homes, ere they too are lost.” The men of Chin shook with their fear. The Shen of the sky had spoken. They had heard his voice. They had heard the flapping of his wings. They had seen his red and terrible eyes. How could the men of Chin know that the words they heard were uttered by Han Hsin? How could they know that the flapping was caused by a man-made thing, later to be named “feng cheng” (kite)? And how could they know that the eyes were mere bottles filled with insects called “Bright at night (Fireflies)”? The men of Chin could not know. They loosened the ropes of their tents—and the tents came down.

Prince Chin tried in vain to hold his followers. No longer followers were they. They were fugitives, fleeing to their homes. Only a few hundred remained true to their prince. Doubly armed with the weapons that had been thrown away, they ascended a steep and rocky hill, there to make their last great fight.

But Han Hsin had anticipated just such action, and had prepared for it. Unseen, he had slipped through the enemy lines and climbed the hill. With a brush dipped in honey he wrote words upon a stone. As he wrote, came hungry ants. The ants came—to aid—and to feast. Soon the stone was black with a crawling multitude.

Prince Chin scaled the hill to its summit. Ten thousand swords could not dislodge him from those rocks. He would make the enemy pay a red price for success. . . . His gaze fell upon the rock. . . . He saw a host of ants forming characters that read “The Battle is Lost.” His men also beheld, and they said, “The ant is wisest of all animals. Let us crawl in the dust, for we are conquered.”

So, Han Hsin victored over the three hostile armies. His country was invaded no more. In time it became really his country, for he ruled it—as a King—ruled it well. But now his wise rule is forgotten. He is remembered as the man who first made kites.

The most contrary man that ever drew a full dozen breaths was Chueh Chun, living in Tien Ting Village, thirty minutes by donkey, by up and down very bad road, north of the Great Wall, the far-famed Chinese Wall.

Queer Chueh Chun had been named Ma Tzu by his honorable parents. He had been named Ma Tzu, which means Face Rather Ugly. He, himself, changed his name to Chueh Chun, which means Absolutely Beautiful.

The good people of Tien Ting Village lived tidily in made houses, above ground. Chueh Chun lived in a cave, a deep and winding fox den, below ground. Such of the neighbors as were permitted by law to wear hats, wore little round hats, on their heads. Chueh Chun wore hats on his feet. Moreover, he wore straw hats in winter, fur in summer. On his head perched an ancient sandal. He pretended that the arrangement was excellent. The sandal shaded his eyes, yet permitted his head to remain cool.

The neighbors when going upon long journeys commonly rode their shaggy mountain ponies. Chueh Chun when setting forth on an arduous trip—say fifty miles—was most likely to walk. But to go from his fox lair home to the nest of his speckled hen, he invariably rode a little donkey.

Yu Yuch Ying, aunt to Chueh Chun, willed her obstinate nephew thirty thousand cash, just when his purse was at its flattest. The neighbors gathered round Chueh Chun to congratulate and envy him. Said they: “What a fortunate person are you, dear Chueh Chun. The thirty thousand cash that your late lamented Aunt Yu Yuch Ying left will set you up in noble style. A most opportune windfall was that. Plenty of luck you have.”

But Chueh Chun nodded his head. He always nodded his head to show that he differed. “Quite the contrary,” said Chueh Chun, “I fear me, honorable neighbors, that my aunt’s bequest is an ill thing altogether. It is luck the worst. Thirty thousand cash are so heavy that I shall be compelled to make at least two trips to fetch them. Besides, the beggars will be annoying me without let-up from break of day till I break their heads. And think of thieves. The money will bring me ill, I am sure.” And Chueh Chun laughed heartily, for that was his way of expressing sorrow.

However, Chueh Chun’s excellent wife knew how to manage him. She said: “Quite right. If I were you, I wouldn’t dream of going for the fortune. And I wouldn’t once think of riding the donkey, not once.” And she spoke as if she meant her words.

Therefore—upon his donkey—the contrary husband started for Tsun Pu, where his beloved aunt had lived and left riches. Immediately outside Tien Ting Village the traveler was forced to cross a river. The current was swift and it washed the hat-shoes from Chueh Chun’s feet. Down the stream swirled the hats, with their owner in splashy pursuit. The neighbors, who had gathered to bid old Contrary a fine journey, were loud in lamentation over his loss. They exclaimed, beating their breasts: “Oh, Chueh Chun, we are so sorry that you have lost your hat-shoes, so utterly sorry. With our eyes we weep for you and cry ‘alas.’ What terrible luck. It is demon-sent luck in truth.”

But Chueh Chun paused in his splashing and answered them: “Why, no. I dare say it is not bad luck at all. Quite the opposite, my esteemed neighbors, it may be very fortunate indeed.” He wept to show that he was well pleased.

Meanwhile, the onward swept hat-shoes disappeared from view. Chueh Chun raced along the bank, calling, and anxiously scanning the water for a trace of his lost property. The neighbors, too, hurried after, one leading the donkey. Rounding a willow-draped elbow of the river, Chueh Chun stumbled over a boat that had drifted ashore. He fell headlong and heavily, his chin plowing a prodigious furrow in the sand. Up panted the neighbors, shouting: “Alas, likewise alack. What woe. Such woe. Poor Chueh Chun, how we ache for you. Our own bones pain out of sympathy. What a horrible calamity.”

Chueh Chun stretched out a hand to pick up his two hat-shoes, drifted against a willow bough. Said he, rather indistinctly because of the sand in his mouth: “Nothing of the kind, greatly respected neighbors. My fall was most beneficial, for it placed me nearly atop my lost shoes. Otherwise I might never have found them.” He sobbed to prove his joy.

It is doubtful if the others heard. They, inquisitive fellows that they were, had hands and eyes and tongues busy as they investigated the boat that had caused Chueh Chun’s downfall. Lifting a drab and unpromising rain-cloth, they discovered underneath a cargo of precious tribute silks—only the best—stuffs such as are sent in tribute to His Majesty, The Emperor. There were bales of silk and sewn garments of silk. There were reds and greens and purples, brown and black and gold. Orange, blue, and pink, they surpassed the rainbow in vivid hue. “How marvelous,” gasped the neighbors. “Your fortune is made, Chueh Chun. What stupendous good luck. We who have always been your truest friends, aiding you with turnips and money in time of need, now rejoice with you.”

Chueh Chun nodded. “I must beg leave to disagree on that,” was his contradiction. “It is no very good luck. I would sooner have stepped on a fretful tiger. Really, it is terrible—finding this boat.”

The neighbors squinted eyes at each other and spoke. “A pity that you won’t take of the find. Howbeit—good for us. We can make profitable use of these things.” They were silly to say that.

Chueh Chun promptly loaded his donkey with silks, a burden worth, even in a beggars’ market, double or more the thirty thousand cash left by his aunt. He donned a most sightly lilac-colored coat and departed.

Thus with his donkey laden and his own back resplendent, Chueh Chun fared onward toward Tsun Pu. Scarce had he gone two li when a band of brigands espied him. “There goes old Chueh Chun,” said a brigand. “He is too poor to rob. That donkey of his is older than my own dear great-grandfather, and possesses a most deplorable temper.” But the robber chief spoke. “Nonsense, you shallow pate. Look at his lilac robe. Look at the silks upon his beast. We could scarcely have better fortune though we opened sacks within our noble Emperor’s treasury.” So the robbers fell upon Chueh Chun and stripped him of his stuffs. His donkey, his robe, his purse, all they took.

It was a well-plucked traveler who returned to Tien Ting Village and related his misadventure. The villagers, to a man, sympathized greatly. “Our hearts go out to you, most excellent Chueh Chun,” they condoled. “Undoubtedly, you have suffered. How you must grieve. And we also grieve. It is all pleasure swept away.”

Stubborn Chueh Chun could not agree. Said he: “Who knows but that it was good luck? Had I continued through the mountains I might have been killed by falling rocks. Think of that. Beyond doubt the robbers saved my life. Yet you, my supposed friends, say it was bad luck.”

Early next morning, Chueh Chun’s ancient donkey returned to the village. She had broken loose from the brigands and ambled home with all her load of silks intact. How the neighbors rejoiced. A person might easily have thought that the little donkey belonged to them, so jubilant were they. “Oh, Chueh Chun, awake,” they screamed. “Here is your donkey, all hearty and hale—with not so much as a yard of silk missing. What wonderful, wonderful luck.”

Chueh Chun said: “I’m afraid, good gracious yes, it’s very bad luck. No good can come of this. It’s unfortunate as can be. Alas. Alas.” Nor was he far wrong. That very morning, while ministering to a wound upon the donkey, that sinful little beast kicked with such violence as to break her master’s leg. The somewhat inquisitive neighbors gathered, as bees gather to the blossoming beans. “Oh. Oh. Oh,” they screamed. “What is the matter? Did the shameless donkey kick our handsome neighbor?”

“Truly, she did,” laughed Chueh Chun. “So hard that I think my leg has come apart.” And as he thought, so it was. He could not walk.

The neighbors redoubled their wails, asking each other, “Is not that the extreme height of ill fortune?”

“Not at all,” denied old Chueh Chun, perhaps a trifle grumpily. “In my opinion it may be a blessing. It, no doubt, will save me from something worse. Besides, it convinces me that my donkey is very strong, despite her age.”

By darkest midnight the Khan of the warlike Tartars, with fifty thousand men, swooped down to raid such villages as had, rather foolishly, been built outside the Great Wall. Tien Ting suffered. Every able-bodied man was taken prisoner. Only the very young, the extremely ancient, the lame, the blind, and the bedridden were left in their homes. Chueh Chun was one of those thus spared. Lameness and age were in his favor. By torchlight a toothless, grinning old neighbor dropped into Chueh Chun’s cave to say that the danger was no more. “The Tartars are gone, my admirable friend, Chueh Chun—and so are all of our young men, and our goods, even to house chimneys. I think you and I are about the only ones spared. How fortunate we are.”

“It may be all very fortunate for you,” put in Chueh Chun, “but as for me, I have a feeling that things could be much better, and still be not so good. I wish the Tartars had carried me into captivity astride my own poor lost donkey.” For, of course, his donkey was gone again.

With the dawning, His Majesty, The Emperor Ching Tang, entered the village to learn of its losses. He was told that all of the men, save half a dozen, Chueh Chun among them, had been carried off. “Why wasn’t such a one taken?” asked the Emperor. He was told: “A cripple for ninety years and a day.” “Why wasn’t Chueh Chun taken?” asked the Emperor. “Because, Noble Majesty,” answered a villager, kneeling three times and knocking his head on the ground thrice with each kneeling, “because, most gracious light of the sun and beauty of the moon, lord of the earth and sea and sky, Chueh Chun was kicked by his own donkey, and I well remember his saying at the time that it was extremely fortunate his leg was broken—a blessing—those were his words. And they were true.”

“What say you?” thundered the Emperor “A blessing—to be crippled? Why then this Chueh Chun must have known beforehand that the Tartars were coming to carry away my people. He must have known it, and knowing, gave us no warning. Bid this traitorous fellow appear. Soldiers—go. Headsman—draw your sword.”

Fortunately, Chueh Chun’s wife heard the Emperor’s command. Swiftly she ran home. As she entered the cave Chueh Chun sneezed. “Kou Chu.” The sneeze led to an excellent idea. Said the wife: “Aha. Aha,” with much emphasis. “You were out in your boat on the river last week, and now you have a cold.” Adding with proper severity, “Don’t you dare go near the river again. Do you hear?” She knew very well what would happen. “My husband—come back.”

Lame as he was, Chueh Chun promptly left the cave and got into his boat. The good wife smiled and screamed, “Don’t row with such vigor.”

Soldiers ran to the bank of the stream and called, “Come back.” And louder they shouted, “Come back.” That was extremely foolish of them. They should have said, “Go on.”

Contrary to the last, Chueh Chun sat the wrong way in his boat and rowed for dear life.

Three plump mandarins hid behind a single tiny rose bush. The chancellor crawled under a chair. All courtiers fell upon their chins, and shivering, prayed that soft words might prevail.

For no slight reason did they shiver and hide and pray. King Yang Lang was angry. And he was an old-fashioned monarch, living in the long ago. Nowadays, any greasy kitchen lout may tweak a King’s beard, and go forth to boast of his bravery. But then-a-days, Kings were Kings, and their swords were ever sharp.

King Yang Lang was such a ruler—and more angry than is good to see. His face was purple, and his voice boomed like a battle drum. “Keeper of the Treasury, has all my gold been used to make weights for fishing lines?”

Time after time the treasurer knocked his head against the paving. “Most Glorious and Peaceful Monarch, your gold is so plentiful that seven years must pass before I can finish counting the larger bars—ten years more for the smaller.”

That was rather pleasant news. The King’s voice lost some of its harshness. “What of ivory? Has all my ivory been burned for firewood, a pot to boil?”

The treasurer continued to knock his Head. “Supreme Ruler of The World and The Stars, your ivory completely fills a hundred large and closely guarded vaults.”

The King hadn’t dreamed that his wealth was so vast. His voice was not more moderately furious as he asked: “For what reason have you disposed of my jade? Do you mean to say that my jade has been used to build a stable for donkeys?”

Tap, tap, tap, went the treasurer’s head on marble paving: “Oh, Powerful Potentate, the store of green jade grows larger each day. Your precious white jade is worth more than green, and gold, and ivory combined. It is all quite safe, under lock and key and watchful spears.”

The King was astonished and put in somewhat better humor. His voice was no louder than thunder as he again questioned the treasurer. “Then why, tell me why is my daughter, the Princess Chin Uor, not given suitable toys. If the treasury holds gold and ivory and jade, why is my daughter compelled to use toys of common clay?”

The treasurer could not explain: “Monarch whose word compels the sun to rise, we have pleaded with the wee Princess Chin Uor. We have given her a thousand dolls of solid gold, with silver cradles for each, cradles set with rubies—and the dolls have eyes of lustrous black pearl. For the princess we have made ivory cats, and ivory mice for the cats to catch—two thousand of each. For the princess we have fashioned from jade, lovely tossing balls, wonderful dishes, and puppy dogs that bark and come when called. Yet, the princess ignores these things . . . and makes mud pies—Mud Pies. Mightiest Majesty, I do not know why, unless it may be that the princess is a girl, as well as a princess.”

A trifle relieved, King Yang Lang passed into the garden. Beside the river bank he found his daughter, the Princess Chin Uor, or Princess Many Dimples—for that is the meaning of Chin Uor. Nurses standing near kept watch upon wheelbarrows spilling over with golden dolls. But Chin Uor had no thought for such toys. Her royal hands shaped the tastiest of mud pies. Very pretty pies they were—made of white clay.

The King said: “Littlest and most beautiful daughter, the golden dolls are longing for your touch. Why do you not please them? It is not seemly for a princess to dabble in clay. Then why do you make pies?”

The princess had a very good answer ready. “Because, Daddy, I want to make pies. This nice large one is for your dinner.”

The King was so shocked that he could say nothing more. Mud pies for a King’s dinner? Such nonsense. His Majesty was scandalized at the thought. He departed in haste.

But the Princess Chin Uor smiled and kneaded more and more pies. And when she had made enough she placed them in a wheelbarrow and trundled them to the palace.

And now the story changes. Far away to the west, in a mountain named Huge Rocks Piled, the famous dragon, Oo Loong, made his home. This fierce dragon was a creature of consuming greed. He was ever hungry and anxious to dine. A rabbit or an elephant—nothing was too large, nothing too small. A turtle or a jellyfish—nothing was too hard, nothing too soft. A man he considered fine eating. Boys he liked somewhat better. Girls? Girls were far superior to boys—in the dragon’s opinion.

Much sorrow this ferocious loong had created in His Majesty’s kingdom. A reward of one hundred silver pieces had been offered for the dragon’s horns, two hundred for his ears. Magicians had worked charms to slay him—only themselves to be slain. Hunters had loaded their jingals with yellow paper, and had fired where the dragon was thickest, fired where he was thinnest—only to be eaten—their guns with them. Made angry by the loss of so many people, King Yang Lang marched an army into the Mountain of Huge Rocks Piled. And the army was well armed with thumping drums and fifes and smoking guns.

Then the dragon became doubly furious and ferocious. To punish King Yang Lang, he resolved to visit the palace. That, he knew, would cause the army to be withdrawn. Accordingly, at the hour of deepest slumber, darksome mid of night, he prowled round Yang Lang’s palace, seeking entrance. He had no easy task. Upon the King’s door were pictures, also the word “Chi,” written in gold. And so that door was well protected. The Queen’s door likewise was dragon proof. It was covered with whole sentences taken from the black book of Hu Po, master magician. The door that led to where Princess Chin Uor slept was made strong by magic words and symbols. More of Hu Po’s sorcery. Useless to prowl there. Dangerous to prowl there. The dragon was a knowing beast and prudent. The signs were against him. Hence, he tarried not, but crawled down the hallway in leaving.

A wheelbarrow stood in his path. He could not pass to the right. To the left he could not pass. Nor could he leap over the obstruction. But the dragon was not one to be baffled by such a weak and wooden contrivance. His huge mouth opened and his white hot breath rushed forth. In a twinkling the wooden barrow vanished. Like a butter cake dropped upon the summer sun it melted, burned to a cinder of nothingness.

Now the wheelbarrow thus destroyed was property of the little Princess Chin Uor. In it had been golden dolls, dolls of the princess. The dolls were dolls no longer. Under the dragon’s fiery breath they changed to a pool of liquid gold. The hard gold became soft and flowing.

In the barrow had been pretty mud pies, pies of the princess. Under the dragon’s burning breath they were changed to discs of stony hardness. The soft clay took on a hardness as of flint. The princess had wished her pies to dry. And her wish had been granted.

Next morning, the palace, from presence room to pantry, buzzed with excitement. Oo Loong had dared intrude within the royal dwelling. It could not be doubted. He had left his footprints in the molten gold, and the gold, in hardening, had preserved his tracks.

Witches and wizards came to make more able charms. Messengers galloped away to summon the distant army. The King raged and roared. Said His Majesty: “Let that reprobate dragon return, if he dares. If he dares, let that reprobate dragon return.” The courtiers trembled and gasped: “Pray may the wicked loong never return. Never, never return.” But little Princess Many Dimples played with her pies and was happy. Her pies had been baked to a queen’s taste—or rather to the taste of a princess. Beside the river she worked faithfully in wet white clay. Such beautiful pies. “I do hope that the nice loong will return,” said Princess Chin Uor. “He is such a fine oven. I shall make a hundred more pies for his baking.”

Pie after pie. Even the nurses helped. Instead of saying, “Please, will your Royal Highness not play with this lovely doll?” they said, “Please, is this one rounded enough?” and “Please, shall I scallop the edges a trifle deeper?” and “Shall I imagine that this one contains cherries, or radishes?” or whatever it may be that makers of pies would say in a royal kitchen. So, a hundred pies were made and wheeled to the palace. In reality, they numbered a hundred and one, but the odd one was so thick that it must be called a cake. Howbeit, that is not so important as you might think.

Night followed day—a habit that most nights have. The soldiers slept—as they had been ordered not to do. The hour approached when clock hands point to the highest sky. Midnight came, and with it the mountainous mountain loong. Unseen by those whose duty was seeing, the dragon entered King Yang Lang’s courtyard. And there he was perplexed and paused. The King’s door was a hodgepodge of magic signs, plastered with yellow paper. Vain to think of entering there. The Queen’s door was upside down—best charm of all. To think of entering was vain. The door that led to Princess Chin Uor’s sleeping chamber was written thick with words to still a dragon’s heart, circles to dizzy his head. Say what you please, the witches and wizards had done good work upon that door. Their charms were written with clearness and force. The loong dared not take a second glance. He felt his limbs grow weak. Wisely hastened he from the spell-guarded threshold.

Now in the reign of the Emperor Ming, a crazed and knavish fellow, known to the world as Wing Dow, invented a contrivance called by him “Look-through-the-wall,” but which we of today call a “Window.” His invention gave the Emperor Ming a severe cold, and Wing Dow came within a sword’s width of losing his ears—but more of that later. Here it is necessary to say only that Look-through-the-walls became popular, and many such were to be found in King Yang Lang’s palace. In the Princess Chin Uor’s room were many wing-dows (or windows), and—hard to believe—those wing-dows were unguarded either by charm or by apple wood beam, which is as good as a charm. Could the dragon pass by such a fine chance? Could he pass the wing-dow and not have a try? When he had come with purpose to do harm? It is easy to imagine the thing that happened. And yet not so easy as may seem.

The dragon’s lumpish head entered the wing-dow. His deer horns, his rabbit eyes, his snake tongue, all entered, and easily enough. A ponderous sofa-cushion foot he placed upon the window ledge. . . .

Crash, and smash, and clatter. . . .

The nurses awoke and screamed, “Save us.”

The Princess Chin Uor awoke and said, “Shoo.”

Soldiers in the courtyard awoke and lighted green fires as they smote their drums, saying: “Come if you dare. Help. Help.”

The dragon was already awake—awake to the danger. Promptly he vanished. Such noise he could not abide.

King Yang Lang came with a golden torch. Greatly he was pleased that the loong had been routed.

But Princess Chin Uor was far from pleased. Indeed, she was fretful. From the floor she took a sliver of flint-hard clay. “My pies are all broken. All. All are broken,” mourned Princess Many Dimples. “I had placed them in the wing-dow. And the dragon knocked them down and broke them.” And beyond doubt so had he done. There were the pieces.

Still the King remained cheerful. His little daughter’s sadness passed unnoticed. His Majesty said: “Your pies, my daughter, are excellent food—let no one deny it—but even better are they to give warning of the dragon’s nearness. Your pies have provided me with a wonderful idea. Hereafter we need have no more fear of the loong. . . . Ho. General. Awaken your soldiers again. Let them march to the river.”

For a week the King’s army did no other labor than make mud pies. And liked it. The pies were given heat in giant ovens, were baked into stony hardness. Then they were placed throughout the palace, in windows, upon tables, chairs, upon chests and shelves, high and low and everywhere. Even on the chimney tops were rows of glistening pies. The slightest misstep by a prowling dragon would have caused a din most tremendous.

The royal dining table was a shining whiteness, covered with mud pies. So numerous were the pies of the princess that no room remained for food. But that was no cause for worry. The King merely ordered that his rice be placed upon a baked clay pie. Mandarins who visited the palace were much surprised at what they saw—a King eating from common clay. Nevertheless, their own tables were soon covered with Princess Chin Uor’s pies. For the King, of course, set all fashions.

And so, we modern peoples speak of our plates and cups and saucers as “China.” China? Is it? Yes, and no. China is merely our way of pronouncing Chin Uor. Our plates are merely thin copies of Princess Chin Uor’s pies.

After weary years of saving, a few cash each calendar, Hai Lee removed from the mountains, where nothing ever happens, and bought a tiny house that stood near Ying Ling toll road, which is the King’s road, and where strange sights are seen. In that region the people have a saying, “He who lives on the King’s road has seen the whole world.”

With him the newcomer brought his little brother, Hai Low. Hai Low was to keep house, while Hai Lee worked in field and forest. The new house was no larger than two by twice, and poorly furnished. Nevertheless, Hai Lee and Hai Low imagined it to be grand. For they had always lived in a mountain cave.

Many times Hai Lee cautioned his brother to take good care that no harm came to their magnificent house. And Hai Low promised faithfully to guard. His eyes would be unblinkingly open. Have no fear.

Upon the very first day, as Hai Low kept house, a fox dashed under the flooring. A band of hunters soon appeared. The hunters said, “We hope you enjoyed a tasty dinner.” That by way of greeting. “Our fox has hidden beneath your house. He is a very damage-doing fox, and we desire his ears. For permission to dig we will thank you a thousand times—and more if the fur be of good quality.”

Hai Low thought of his brother’s warning. Whereupon he replied to the hunters: “Your digging might injure the house, and my honorable brother has told me to keep all harm away. Therefore, excellent huntsmen, I must, in sorrow, give you no. Dig you cannot, for the house might fall.”

With soft voices the hunters wheedled. Hai Low said no. With harsh voices the hunters blustered and threatened. Hai Low said no. Money the hunters offered. Hai Low said no. His mind was fixed and nothing could move it. No once. No twice. No thrice. And again no. The hunters departed. The fox remained. And Hai Low believed he had done well for his first day of housekeeping. He imagined that his brother would praise him.

The opposite came to pass. Hai Lee frowned. “That was wrong and stupidly done, Small Brother. A little digging could have given no hurt. The fox is an evil enemy. He will catch all of our fowls, even to the last speckled hen. We must get rid of that scamp. If any more hunters come—tell them to dig.”

Upon the next day, as Hai Low kept house, he beheld two men with crossbows. In joy he rushed to greet them. With much bowing and scraping he said: “I hope that your rice was well cooked, and you had plenty of it. Will you not come to the house and dig?”

One of the men said, “This fellow reminds me of the way Wu Ta Lang got out of the cherry tree—it was quite simple.” But the other, who was more crafty, squinted an eye to say, “Be quiet.” Then, using his tongue, he spoke to Hai Low: “For nothing else we came. With all our hearts will we dig. Only open the door. Our rice was well cooked.” He entered the house and began to tear up stones from the hearth. Hai Low said, “Do you not think the fox will be alarmed and try to escape through the hole by which he entered?” The hunter replied: “A wise question, truly. What shall we do? Can you not sit with your back to the entrance? Then the fox will be unable to depart.” Hai Low readily agreed to aid. He went outside and sat with his back to the wall. The hunters struck many blows upon the hearth, laughing all the while. Presently they each said, “Oh,” and stopped digging. “Have you got it?” asked Hai Low. “We have,” the elder huntsman answered. “We have it in a sack. How fortunate that you invited us in. Our digging was most successful.” He was greatly pleased. The other hunter seemed equally as well pleased. Hai Low, too, was delighted. A very fine thing he thought it that the fox had been captured. He felt sure that his brother would speak words of praise.

But such was far from being. Hai Lee tossed a sack upon the table and said, “Oh, my Little Brother, a sad mistake you made this day. Not hunters, but thieves were those men. Not a fox, but all of our money they carried off in the sack. By chance alone, I regained it. But such good luck rarely happens a second time. Now heed my words. Never again permit strangers to enter the house. Never.”

Next day, as Hai Low kept house, the door shook with a great knocking. The boy peeped from a window. He beheld an old man, beating the door. Said Hai Low: “I hope you relished your dinner—but you must go away. My brother says that I am to admit no strangers. Go away. You cannot enter.”

The old man remarked, in a loud tone, that Hai Low spoke nonsense. “Open the door that I may enter, you who deserve a bamboo upon your back. Is this any way to treat your own flesh and blood?” Hai Low repeated his command. “You cannot enter. Go away hurriedly—else I shall pour hot water.” He tilted a kettle and began to pour. Whereupon the old man took to his heels, for the water steamed, hot from a fire. Hai Low was well pleased with himself. Beyond doubt, he would receive great praise from his brother.

But Hai Lee came home in a huff. Angry, dismayed, was the big brother. “Oh, you wrong-doing Little Brother, you have ruined our future. The man whom you chased away was Grandfather Hai Ho, wealthy and about to make us his heirs. Now he says he will leave us not so much as one cash, not one. For pity’s sake, Small Brother, be more tactful. We have another rich grandfather. When the next stranger comes, ask him if he is your grandfather, before you pour heated water.”

Next day, as Hai Low kept house, the door rattled and banged. Someone wished to come in. At least, it seemed probable. Hai Low peered from a window. He beheld a man, well dressed and round, at the door. Behind the impatient one were many slaves. At once Hai Low thought of his other rich grandfather. Said he: “I hope your rice was served on a golden dish. Are you my grandfather?”

“What?” roared the stranger. “What? What impudence were you saying?” Hai Low used a full breath to shout, “I asked, are you my grandfather. My Grandfather.” At that the large stranger tottered. His slaves made a tremendous breeze with fans, seeking to revive him. Still fanning, they carried him away. Hai Low was somewhat puzzled. And puzzled he remained until his brother came home.

The brother was frightened, likewise angry. “Oh, dear me, Small Brother, why were you so rude to the Governor? You have insulted the Governor, and will be lucky if you escape with your life. Even if you are not beheaded, you will have to pay a fine of a thousand large coins. All because of your foolish questions. I beseech you, don’t ask visitors any more questions. Don’t open your mouth to a stranger.”

Next day, as Hai Low kept house, he chanced to glance at the stable. The stable door was open. Before the boy could close it, a stranger came out, leading Hai Lee’s fine donkey. Hai Low began to imagine that mischief was being done. Thrice he opened his mouth, but each time he remembered his brother’s instruction to ask no questions. So he remained silent. The donkey was soon saddled. Away it went, with the stranger astride.

When big brother returned home for Evening Rice, he spoke harshly to Hai Low. “Goodness, gracious me, Very Small Brother, you will ruin us yet. Now you’ve let a rogue take my trotting donkey, and only by a lucky accident was I able to recover the beast. Really, your housekeeping is a bad thing altogether. Never let another stranger approach the stable. He might take our milking cow. If another stranger goes near the stable—shoot him.”

Next day, as Hai Low kept house, he sat upon the door step. In his hand he clenched a bow. Again and again he glanced toward the stable. No person should take the milking cow. Not without regret. Beware, rogues, or suffer.

A traveler came down the road. He was a rich man and wore a hat that was high and covered with feathers. It was such a hat as the wind demons love for a toy. A sudden breeze lifted the traveler’s hat and whirled it fast and far. It came to earth in front of the stable. Of course, the stranger followed it, running, to the stable door.

Hai Low remembered his brother’s command. He made a V of the bow string. His hurried arrow went seeking a mark. The traveler gave up all thought of recovering his hat. Down the road he dashed madly, shouting that he had been killed. However, he was a traveler, and travelers are noted for stories hard to believe. Hai Low sat on the steps and had practice with his bow. No man should take the milking cow, without taking an arrow also. A thief had best wear clothes of iron.

When Big Brother Hai Lee came home, his voice was doleful. “Oh, Brother, my Brother, you have put us into vast trouble. Why on earth did you shoot an arrow into the traveler’s quilted coat? He is a foreign ambassador and says that his country will instantly declare war upon us. Think of the sadness your act will cause. I beg of you be not so rash in future. The next time you see a stranger lose his hat, don’t shoot. Instead, be polite, and chase the hat.”

Next day, as Hai Low kept house, he noticed a great company of men approaching. Gong beaters led. Behind them came carriers of banners; tablet men; keepers of the large umbrellas; warriors; more gong musicians; fan carriers; incense swingers—a long procession it was. Hai Low knew that it must be the marching train of a truly great man. He hoped that he might behold the high and mighty one. And so he did. As the gilded sedan chair was borne past, a breeze threshed its curtains. A hat soared out of the sedan. Carried by the wind demons, it rolled across turnip patch and radish. Hai Low dashed away in chase. He thought himself being polite and useful—to rescue the great one’s hat.

Alas, a hundred bludgeon men and spear wavers rushed after him. They shouted that he must stop and be killed for his sin. Hai Low had no idea why they wished to slay him. Neither had he the faintest idea of stopping. He lifted his heels with such rapidity that he gained a thicket three leaps ahead of the foremost warrior men. In the heavy growth of briers and bushes he was safe, for he knew the tangle in all its winding ways. To follow was folly.

When late, the boy reached home, he found his brother waiting. Hai Lee’s despair was shown in tears and quavering words. “Oh, Brother of mine, I fear that your life is worth less than a withered carrot. Why did you lay hands upon His Majesty’s right royal hat? Do you not know that death is the penalty for so doing? Soldiers have sought you high and low. If they find you—I cannot bear to say what will happen. Now please have regard for my words, Little Brother. Go into the house, and crawl under a bed—and stay there. Stay there.”

Next day, as Hai Low kept house, he kept it beneath a bed. So still he lay that a mouse took a nap at his side. Soldiers came and emptied the pantry, eating and drinking as only King’s men can. None of them thought to glance under the bed. And that was just as well—just as well for Hai Low. It was for him that they had come to search.

Soon after the soldiers had departed, an odor of burning filled the air. The house was afire. Hai Low coughed, but he dared not crawl from his shielding bed. He had no doubt the fire had been set in an effort to rout him from hiding.

The door flew open and in rushed big brother Hai Lee. Hai Lee flung water upon the flames, then pulled little brother from beneath the bed. He was greatly exasperated. “My word and all, not very large Brother, would you let the house burn and not fling a bucket? The soldiers were gone. Why didn’t you arise and douse the flames? Now hear what I speak, Little Brother. The next time you see flames—pour on water. Pour on water.”

Next day, as Hai Low kept house, he chanced to gaze down the road. A brisk fire burned in the open. With two filled buckets the boy hastened to obey his brother’s order. In no time he wetted the fire out of burning.

Scarce had he entered the house when Big Brother Hai Lee entered. Hai Lee had his tongue on edge for scolding. “My very own Brother, why must you be always at mischief? What in all the green earth and the blue sky made you throw water upon that fire? A traveler was boiling his rice—and you with water put out his fire. It was outrageous. Now then, to atone for your impishness, take this stick of dry wood to the traveler so that he can boil his rice. And, as you give him the stick, be sure to apologize. Ask for pardon.”

Away went Hai Low at his fastest, bearing a huge bamboo. The traveler beheld him, and promptly mounted a horse. Many robbers made misery in that region. The traveler had gained saddening experience of them. He imagined that Hai Low must be a robber—else why did the fellow wave a long bamboo? So the traveler put heels to his horse and galloped. But Hai Low was not to be left far behind. He followed swiftly, shouting words that mean stop, wait, hold on, tarry. And the more he shouted, the more determined grew the traveler never to stop until he had found protection in a camp of soldiers.

Several young men let curiosity lead them to follow Hai Low. They wished to discover why he pursued the traveler. As they raced through a village, other men joined. Another village gave a dozen more. A town furnished twice as many. Soon Hai Low had an enormous crowd at his heels. Dust hung above in a blinding curtain. The trample of feet and the excited shouts could be heard for distant miles. More dust and more, more men and more. At first they asked, “What’s it all about?” Later, “Catch him,” and “Kill him,” they cried.

Hai Low had long since lost sight of the fast fleeing horseman. But he reasoned that the traveler would enter Ying Ling, the capital city. Hence, he too, leading his curious host, entered Ying Ling. He was determined to do as his brother had bidden.

Now it chanced that King How Wang was a most unpopular ruler. Threats had been made against him. A prince from the north was said to be raising an army of rebels. Hence, when King How Wang beheld Hai Low’s approach at the head of a vast army, he imagined Hai Low to be the northern prince. Hai Low’s curious rabble he thought a rebel army. So thinking, he called for his horse. . . . And what became of him no one can say. He vanished, for good and all.

The royal generals, instead of ordering a fight, promptly knelt before Hai Low and bumped their heads in the dust. Said they, “We bow unto our new King.” The palace soldiers said, “Hail to our new King.” And the breathless mob shouted, “Long live our new King.” The crown was placed upon astonished Hai Low’s head. The mace of authority was placed in his hand. And “Hail,” and “Hail,” and “Hail.”