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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A rat? Where is the rat?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What law?” asked King Ta Lang.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ching Who Speaks Only Enough replied, “Marriage.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did the curtains of the gilt sedan flutter aside?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And up went Dr. Chu Ping.

Now it so chanced that a moment before the explosion, old man Low Moo was milking his cow. A moment after the explosion, he was not milking his cow. He was running for dear life in a northerly direction. His cow was running for dear life in a southerly direction. And Dr. Chu Ping sprawled upon the flattened bucket and the smashed stool, where he had fallen.

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

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