His own beautiful mo chun
out on the balcony, and sat there for hours, looking down at the crowd.
The streets were thronged now, and there was an incessant noise of fireworks. The New Year had begun in earnest. The lady was going to take him for a walk that afternoon, but they would sit on the balcony now, and watch the crowds beneath. There were so many children, and all dressed in their richest robes. It made the heart of little Sing Ho ache to see the richly embroidered blouses, so like his own, and if he had not been naughty and run away he might even now be walking along down there, wearing the blouse, and holding the hand of his own beautiful mo chun.
His own beautiful mo chun?—Why—why—he rubbed his eyes and stared down into the street. Was he dreaming?
“Mo chun! Mo chun!” he screamed, in his shrill baby voice; for down on the street beneath the balcony hurried a pale but pretty little Chinese woman, her searching gaze going in every direction.
“It is my mo chun! Stop!” he cried; and the Chinese lady on the balcony threw down her painted fan and hit the little mother of Sing Ho right on the head. Glancing upward in surprise, the mother looked straight into the eyes of her precious pearl, her little Sing Ho! Oh, the rapture and the mother-love that shone in her face now! How the light came back into her eyes, and the red lips smiled, and the red rose bloomed in her cheeks as she reached out her arms to the balcony and sobbed: “Hai tong! hai tong (baby! baby)!”
The father, who had gone on in front of her, Chinese fashion, was called back, and together they ascended the same steps which had so frightened their baby boy. As it was the New Year week it was perfectly proper that they should both enter the rooms of the Chinese ladies, and what a happy time that was!
Every one soon became acquainted, through the medium of a little child, and very soon they were all having a New Year’s cup of tea and other dainties, and were laughing and chatting away as if they had known each other always.
When they went home Sing Ho was given so many beautiful things that his little arms were full, and ho chun said as they entered the door of their own home: “I knew we would find him, because the prayer-sticks said so.”
IT was Thanksgiving Eve; but of this fact Pao Chu was entirely ignorant, for how could she know anything of Thanksgiving, or of giving thanks, when she was only a little Chinese slave, and had never been out of her prison in Chinatown?
Quong Lee, the president of the Quong Duck Tong, a highbinder society, was her owner, and she supposed that everybody was like him, and that there was no goodness or happiness in all the world. All the world to Pao Chu meant just the limited area she could see from her iron-barred window—about one foot square. And yes—on one occasion the old hag who guarded her had fallen into a deep opium sleep, and Pao Chu had slipped out on the tiny, flower-decked balcony, and, leaning far over, had gazed with pathetic eagerness down at the swarming crowd of Chinamen below. Her name meant “precious pearl,” but she could see no reason for such a meaning, unless—yes, it must be because she would bring a big price when she was sold again. She had overheard Quong Lee talking to the old hag Suey Gong one night when they had thought she slept, and he had said then that one of his highbinder friends had offered him three thousand dollars for Pao Chu, but he was not going to sell her yet, as he thought he could get five thousand soon, for she was growing more beautiful every day. But the poor little pearl paid dearly for that one little tantalizing glimpse of the Chinese world. It happened to be the night of a Chinese celebration,—the “Moon Festival,”—and the light from the great dragon lanterns swaying above her shone full upon her pretty face. Many glanced upward, and were startled by the lovely apparition. Her face was full of Oriental witchery, and the tender young soul of her shone out in the great velvet eyes, and the pretty mouth glowed like a scarlet rose, while her hair shone in the mystical fairy light of the lanterns.
But alas for Pao Chu, the pure pearl in the mire! As she gazed down at the moving merry crowd, her whole soul in her eyes, and living a whole life in that one moment, two passed beneath the balcony—a fateful two; one the highbinder friend of her master, who saw her face, and forever after wished to gain possession of it for his own, and the other her master, Quong Lee, the great and high—Quong Lee, the demon and arch-fiend. At first he was amazed at the transformation that happiness had made in her face, and then—with one bound he was up the stairs. The poor little slave-girl stood transfixed with horror. She called hysterically on the little squatty god in the corner, but the god stolidly refused to listen,—indeed he always had refused. She could not recall a time when he had ever listened; and now her master strode furiously into the room, and grasped the poor trembling child with his great murderous hands. He shook her violently, and hurled at her all the Chinese profanity at his command. He beat her so that she almost died, and she would so much rather have really died, but he would not kill the goose that laid the golden eggs. Oh, no! this little bit of stubborn womanhood would fill his purse with gold some day, and so—he must not go too far. He must not cripple or maim her or she would be a drug on the market. He would simply beat her and starve her for a few days, and bestow upon her every vile epithet in his category.
He then dragged the old Suey Gong from her hard couch and gave her a beating. Her brain was so deadened with opium that she could not understand why she was being beaten; but then it did not matter why, she had often been beaten, and there must be a reason for it. She would have liked to know, of course, but then it was a woman’s place to be beaten, as the yen, or female principle, was the source of all evil, and must be chastised whenever the male principle should see fit to do so.
From that time on there was no more freedom for the little slave. No fresh air save that which came through the tiny lattice; no glimpse of any human being save the old hag and the highbinder. Nothing to do but just to sit and make cigarettes all day, for her master to sell, and to talk to the old Suey Gong.
It was two years since her fateful visit to the balcony, and the girl was talking in her innocent way to the old woman.
“Suey Gong! do you know when I be sold? Will the new master beat me evly day? What kind of a life will it be? Tell me!” These, and many other questions, but to none of them could the old woman reply. If she had known the answers she would not have dared.
“I no sabe (understand) anything,” she said, “I only know China girl neveh be happy. Bad spirits allee timee stay with her. She must allee timee play (pray) to the gods; she must work for man, he must beat her; she neveh be flee (free). She have heap plenty bad time here; I no know why; I no can tell.”
“But why should I play to god when he neveh hear? Listen! listen!—Suey Gong! I no play to Chinese god any more. Afteh this I play—I play to—’Melican god. Then we see!”
The old woman held up her hands in horror. The American spirit had surely gotten into this bit of Chinese girlhood. O that she had never told this girl about the American god! It was too late now, though, for Pao Chu with clasped hands was saying:
“Oh, heap good ’Melican joss! Listen to a poor slave-girl’s prayer! My master he beat me evly day; I no can tell why. I tly to be good, but he allee time beat me and starve me; I so unhappy. Oh, good ’Melican god, if you can hear me, set me flee (free)!”
This innocent petition was enough to have brought tears to the eyes of even the little clay god, but he was not moved. Old Suey Gong was so terrified for fear the girl’s prayer would bring down the whole horde of evil spirits upon them that she in feverish haste set to work to light fresh incense sticks before the joss, and to set fresh bowls of food and tea before him. All this happened on Thanksgiving Eve, though there was nothing at all in the slave-girl’s life for which she could be thankful, even if she had known it was Thanksgiving.
But wait!—there was something, for old Suey Gong was telling her that the master had received an important telegram from some member of the Quong Duck Tong, which had called him out of the city, and he would not be able to return for two whole days,—two days without being beaten! Perhaps already the ’Melican god had heard. If she could only gain the consent of the old woman she might once more venture on the forbidden balcony. The fates were kind and the opium goddess filled the old woman’s brain with dreams, and held down her eyelids. She slept, but the little girl did not. Garbed in pale lavender silk, she stole noiselessly out on the forbidden balcony. Her slim brown fingers lovingly caressed the Chinese lilies wrapped in red paper to scare away the bad spirits. Just now the bad spirits were not on duty, luckily for the little Chinese maiden. The tang of the sea air was so refreshing to her starved senses. She could look down to-night without fear, for her master would not come to-night, and in a childish, unformed way she breathed a blessing on the unknown highbinder who had sent the message, and although she did not know it was Thanksgiving Eve, a prayer of thanks to the unknown, intangible power who had given her this moment’s freedom went up from her innocent heart.
Everywhere down the streets of “Little China” the big lanterns glowed and swung in the fresh night air. A bell pealed out on the silence, and seemed to speak of peace, and of something different from the life she knew.
Suddenly her eye fell upon some one who did not wear the accustomed queue and blouse,—a big, strong American man with a kind face stood looking up at her. He wore a blue suit and brass buttons, and on his coat gleamed a great shining star. While he gazed upward at the girl a carriage rattled over the cobble-stones and stopped right under the balcony.
And now the big man was saying—could it be that he was speaking to her?—Hello, little one! Would you like to celebrate Che San Yet?” She knew that meant thanksgiving, but the Chinese Thanksgiving did not come until February, and she could not imagine what he meant.
He resumed: “Come with me, you poor little slave, and I will take you to a good, kind home, where they will never beat you, and you will be free.”
Free? She could not take in the meaning of the word. She could not even dream what it must be to be free. “Oh, no! I velly much ’flaid bad spirit catch me; I no can come; you down so low, and I up so high.”
But just then the carriage door opened, and a woman’s sweet face looked out, and a woman held out motherly arms of love toward the high balcony and its lonely occupant.
And old Suey Gong still slept.
A sweet voice called up: “Come and live with me, dear; I will always be kind.”
Pao Chu’s eyes filled with tears. It was the first time in all her life that any one had ever spoken a kind word to her. Before she could reply, the big policeman, who had some way slipped in through the rear, had taken her trembling little form in his strong arms, and hurrying down, placed her in the carriage, where she was clasped in the tender arms of Miss Cameron, Superintendent of the Chinese Rescue Mission.
She could not understand yet that she was free; but when she awoke on Thanksgiving morning and saw all the happy Chinese girl faces around her, and at the bountiful Thanksgiving table was made to understand the reason of it all, she then realized the true meaning of Thanksgiving, and said: “It would neveh have happened if I had not played to the good ’Melican God.”