Tales of Chinese Children

There was a fringe of trees along an open field. They were not very tall trees, neither were they trees that flowered or fruited; but to the eyes of Ah Leen they were very beautiful. Their slender branches were covered with leaves of a light green showing a silvery under surface, and when the wind moved or tossed them, silver gleams flashed through the green in a most enchanting way.

Ah Leen stood on the other side of the road admiring the trees with the silver leaves.

A little old woman carrying a basket full of ducks’ eggs came happily hobbling along. She paused by the side of Ah Leen.

“Happy love!” said she. “Your eyes are as bright as jade jewels!”

Ah Leen drew a long breath. “See!” said she, “the dancing leaves.”

The little old woman adjusted her blue goggles and looked up at the trees. “If only,” said she, “some of that silver was up mysleeve, I would buy you a pink parasol and a folding fan.”

“And if some of it were mine,” answered Ah Leen, “I would give it to my baby brother.” And she went on to tell the little old woman that that eve there was to be a joyful time at her father’s house, for her baby brother was to have his head shaved for the first time, and everybody was coming to see it done and would give her baby brother gifts of gold and silver. Her father and her mother, also, and her big brother and her big sister, all had gifts to give. She loved well her baby brother. He was so very small and so very lively, and his fingers and toes were so pink. And to think that he had lived a whole moon, and she had no offering to prove the big feeling that swelled and throbbed in her little heart for him.

Ah Leen sighed very wistfully.

Just then a brisk breeze blew over the trees, and as it passed by, six of the silver leaves floated to the ground.

“Oh! Oh!” cried little Ah Leen. She pattered over to where they had fallen and picked them up.

Returning to the old woman, she displayed her treasures.

“Three for you and three for me!” she cried.

The old woman accepted the offering smilingly, and happily hobbled away. In every house she entered, she showed her silver leaves, and told how she had obtained them, and every housewife that saw and heard her, bought her eggs at a double price.

At sundown, the guests with their presents began streaming into the house of Man You. Amongst them was a little old woman. She was not as well off as the other guests, but because she was the oldest of all the company, she was given the seat of honor. Ah Leen, the youngest daughter of the house, sat on a footstool at her feet. Ah Leen’s eyes were very bright and her cheeks glowed. She was wearing a pair of slippers with butterfly toes, and up her little red sleeve, carefully folded in a large leaf, were three small silver leaves.

Once when the mother of Ah Leen brought a cup of tea to the little old woman, the little old woman whispered in her ear, and the mother of Ah Leen patted the head of her little daughter and smiled kindly down upon her.

Then the baby’s father shaved the head of the baby, the Little Bright One. He did this very carefully, leaving a small patch of hair, the shape of a peach, in the centre ofthe small head. That peach-shaped patch would some day grow into a queue. Ah Leen touched it lovingly with her little finger after the ceremony was over. Never had the Little Bright One seemed so dear.

The gifts were distributed after all the lanterns were lit. It was a pretty sight. The mother of the Little Bright One held him on her lap, whilst each guest, relative, or friend, in turn, laid on a table by her side his gift of silver and gold, enclosed in a bright red envelope.

The elder sister had just passed Ah Leen with her gift, when Ah Leen arose, and following after her sister to the gift-laden table, proudly deposited thereon three leaves.

“They are silver—silver,” cried Ah Leen.

Nearly everybody smiled aloud; but Ah Leen’s mother gently lifted the leaves and murmured in Ah Leen’s ear, “They are the sweetest gift of all.”

How happy felt Ah Leen! As to the old woman who sold ducks’ eggs, she beamed all over her little round face, and when she went away, she left behind her a pink parasol and a folding fan.

THE PEACOCK LANTERN

It was such a pretty lantern—the prettiest of all the pretty lanterns that the lantern men carried. Ah Wing longed to possess it. Upon the transparent paper which covered the fine network of bamboo which enclosed the candle, was painted a picture of a benevolent prince, riding on a peacock with spreading tail. Never had Ah Wing seen such a gorgeous lantern, or one so altogether admirable.

“Honorable father,” said he, “is not that a lantern of illuminating beauty, and is not thy string of cash too heavy for thine honorable shoulders?”

His father laughed.

“Come hither,” he bade the lantern man. “Now,” said he to Ah Wing, “choose which lantern pleaseth thee best. To me all are the same.”

Ah Wing pointed to the peacock lantern, and hopped about impatiently, whilst the lantern man fumbled with the wires which kept his lanterns together.

“Oh, hasten! hasten!” cried Ah Wing.

The lantern man looked into his bright little face.

“Honorable little one,” said he, “would not one of the other lanterns please thee as well as this one? For indeed, I would, if I could, retain the peacock lantern. It is the one lantern of all which delights my own little lad and he is sick and cannot move from his bed.”

Ah Wing’s face became red.

“Why then dost thou display the lantern?” asked the father of Ah Wing.

“To draw attention to the others,” answered the man. “I am very poor and it is hard for me to provide my child with rice.”

The father of Ah Wing looked at his little son.

“Well?” said he.

Ah Wing’s face was still red.

“I want the peacock lantern,” he declared.

The father of Ah Wing brought forth his string of cash and drew therefrom more than double the price of the lantern.

“Take this,” said he to the lantern man. “’Twill fill thy little sick boy’s bowl with rice for many a day to come.”

The lantern man returned humble thanks, but while unfastening the peacock lantern from the others, his face looked very sad.

Ah Wing shifted from one foot to another.

The lantern man placed the lantern in his hand. Ah Wing stood still holding it.

“Thou hast thy heart’s desire now,” said his father. “Laugh and be merry.”

But with the lantern man’s sad face before him, Ah Wing could not laugh and be merry.

“If you please, honorable father,” said he, “may I go with the honorable lantern man to see his little sick boy?”

“Yes,” replied his father. “And I will go too.”

When Ah Wing stood beside the bed of the little sick son of the lantern man, he said:

“I have come to see thee, because my father has bought for my pleasure the lantern which gives thee pleasure; but he has paid therefor to thy father what will buy thee food to make thee strong and well.”

The little sick boy turned a very pale and very small face to Ah Wing.

“I care not,” said he, “for food to make me strong and well—for strong and well I shall never be; but I would that I had the lantern for the sake of San Kee.”

“And who may San Kee be?” inquired Ah Wing.

“San Kee,” said the little sick boy, “is an honorable hunchback. Every evening he comes to see me and to take pleasure in my peacock lantern. It is the only thing in theworld that gives poor San Kee pleasure. I would for his sake that I might have kept the peacock lantern.”

“For his sake!” echoed Ah Wing.

“Yes, for his sake,” answered the little sick boy. “It is so good to see him happy. It is that which makes me happy.”

The tears came into Ah Wing’s eyes.

“Honorable lantern man,” said he, turning to the father of the little sick boy, “I wish no more for the peacock lantern. Keep it, I pray thee, for thy little sick boy. And honorable father”—he took his father’s hand—“kindly buy for me at the same price as the peacock lantern one of the other beautiful lanterns belonging to the honorable lantern man.”

They were two young people with heads hot enough and hearts true enough to believe that the world was well lost for love, and they were Chinese.

They sat beneath the shade of a cluster of tall young pines forming a perfect bower of greenness and coolness on the slope of Strawberry hill. Their eyes were looking ocean-wards, following a ship nearing the mistyhorizon. Very serious were their faces and voices. That ship, sailing from west to east, carried from each a message to his and her kin—a message which humbly but firmly set forth that they were resolved to act upon their belief and to establish a home in the new country, where they would ever pray for blessings upon the heads of those who could not see as they could see, nor hear as they could hear.

“My mother will weep when she reads,” sighed the girl.

“Pau Tsu,” the young man asked, “do you repent?”

“No,” she replied, “but—”

She drew from her sleeve a letter written on silk paper.

The young man ran his eye over the closely penciled characters.

“’Tis very much in its tenor like what my father wrote to me,” he commented.

“Not that.”

Pau Tsu indicated with the tip of her pink forefinger a paragraph which read:

Are you not ashamed to confess that you love a youth who is not yet your husband? Such disgraceful boldness will surely bring upon your head the punishment you deserve. Before twelve moons go by you will be an Autumn Fan.

The young man folded the missive and returned it to the girl, whose face was averted from his.

“Our parents,” said he, “knew not love in its springing and growing, its bud and blossom. Let us, therefore, respectfully read their angry letters, but heed them not. Shall I not love you dearer and more faithfully because you became mine at my own request and not at my father’s? And Pau Tsu, be not ashamed.”

The girl lifted radiant eyes.

“Listen,” said she. “When you, during vacation, went on that long journey to New York, to beguile the time I wrote a play. My heroine is very sad, for the one she loves is far away and she is much tormented by enemies. They would make her ashamed of her love. But this is what she replies to one cruel taunt:

“When Memory sees his face and hears his voice,The Bird of Love within my heart sings sweetly,So sweetly, and so clear and jubilant,That my little Home Bird, Sorrow,Hides its head under its wing,And appeareth as if dead.Shame! Ah, speak not that word to one who loves!For loving, all my noblest, tenderest feelings are awakened,And I become too great to be ashamed.”

“When Memory sees his face and hears his voice,

The Bird of Love within my heart sings sweetly,

So sweetly, and so clear and jubilant,

That my little Home Bird, Sorrow,

Hides its head under its wing,

And appeareth as if dead.

Shame! Ah, speak not that word to one who loves!

For loving, all my noblest, tenderest feelings are awakened,

And I become too great to be ashamed.”

“You do love me then, eh, Pau Tsu?” queried the young man.

“If it is not love, what is it?” softly answered the girl.

Happily chatting they descended the green hill. Their holiday was over. A little later Liu Venti was on the ferry-boat which leaves every half hour for the Western shore, bound for the Berkeley Hills opposite the Golden Gate, and Pau Tsu was in her room at the San Francisco Seminary, where her father’s ambition to make her the equal in learning of the son of Liu Jusong had placed her.

The last little scholar of Pau Tsu’s free class for children was pattering out of the front door when Liu Venti softly entered the schoolroom. Pau Tsu was leaning against her desk, looking rather weary. She did not hear her husband’s footstep, and when he approached her and placed his hand upon her shoulder she gave a nervous start.

“You are tired, dear one,” said he, leading her towards the door where a seat was placed.

“Teacher, the leaves of a flower you gave me are withering, and mother says that is a bad omen.”

The little scholar had turned back to tell her this.

“Nay,” said Pau Tsu gently. “There are no bad omens. It is time for the flower to wither and die. It cannot live always.”

“Poor flower!” compassionated the child.

“Not so poor!” smiled Pau Tsu. “The flower has seed from which other flowers will spring, more beautiful than itself!”

“Ah, I will tell my mother!”

The little child ran off, her queue dangling and flopping as she loped along. The teachers watched her join a group of youngsters playing on the curb in front of the quarters of the Six Companies. One of the Chiefs in passing had thrown a handful of firecrackers amongst the children, and the result was a small bonfire and great glee.

It was seven years since Liu Venti and Pau Tsu had begun their work in San Francisco’s Chinatown; seven years of struggle and hardship, working and waiting, living, learning, fighting, failing, loving—and conquering. The victory, to an onlooker, might have seemed small; just a modest school for adult pupils of their own race, a few white night pupils, and a free school for children. But the latter was in itself evidence that Liu Venti and Pau Tsu had not only sailed safely through thewaters of poverty, but had reached a haven from which they could enjoy the blessedness of stretching out helping hands to others.

During the third year of their marriage twin sons had been born to them, and the children, long looked for and eagerly desired, were welcomed with joy and pride. But mingled with this joy and pride was much serious thought. Must their beloved sons ever remain exiles from the land of their ancestors? For their little ones Liu Venti and Pau Tsu were much more worldly than they had ever been themselves, and they could not altogether stifle a yearning to be able to bestow upon them the brightest and best that the world has to offer. Then, too, memories of childhood came thronging with their children, and filial affection reawakened. Both Liu Venti and Pau Tsu had been only children; both had been beloved and had received all the advantages which wealth in their own land could obtain; both had been the joy and pride of their homes. They might, they sometimes sadly mused, have been a little less assured in their declarations to the old folk; a little kinder, a little more considerate. It was a higher light and a stronger motive than had ever before influenced their lives which had led them to break the ties which had boundthem; yet those from whom they had cut away were ignorant of such forces; at least, unable, by reason of education and environment, to comprehend them. There were days when everything seemed to taste bitter to Pau Tsu because she could not see her father and mother. And Liu’s blood would tingle and his heart swell in his chest in the effort to banish from his mind the shadows of those who had cared for him before ever he had seen Pau Tsu.

“I was a little fellow of just about that age when my mother first taught me to kotow to my father and run to greet him when he came into the house,” said he, pointing to Little Waking Eyes, who came straggling after them, a kitten in his chubby arms.

“Oh, Liu Venti,” replied Pau Tsu, “you are thinking of home—even as I. This morning I thought I heard my mother’s voice, calling to me as I have so often heard her on sunny mornings in the Province of the Happy River. She would flutter her fan at me in a way that was peculiarly her own. And my father! Oh, my dear father!”

“Aye,” responded Liu Venti. “Our parents loved us, and the love of parents is a good thing. Here, we live in exile, and though we are happy in each other, in our children, andin the friendships which the new light has made possible for us, yet I would that our sons could be brought up in our own country and not in an American Chinatown.”

He glanced comprehensively up the street as he said this. A motley throng, made up, not only of his own countrymen, but of all nationalities, was scuffling along. Two little children were eating rice out of a tin dish on a near-by door-step. The singsong voices of girls were calling to one another from high balconies up a shadowy alley. A boy, balancing a wooden tray of viands on his head, was crossing the street. The fat barber was laughing hilariously at a drunken white man who had fallen into a gutter. A withered old fellow, carrying a bird in a cage, stood at a corner entreating passers-by to pause and have a good fortune told. A vender of dried fish and bunches of sausages held noisy possession of the corner opposite.

Liu Venti’s glance travelled back to the children eating rice on the doorstep, then rested on the head of his own young son.

“And our fathers’ mansions,” said he, “are empty of the voices of little ones.”

“Let us go home,” said Pau Tsu suddenly.

Liu Venti started. Pau Tsu’s words echoedthe wish of his own heart. But he was not as bold as she.

“How dare we?” he asked. “Have not our fathers sworn that they will never forgive us?”

“The light within me this evening,” replied Pau Tsu, “reveals that our parents sorrow because they have this sworn. Oh, Liu Venti, ought we not to make our parents happy, even if we have to do so against their will?”

“I would that we could,” replied Liu Venti. “But before we can approach them, there is to be overcome your father’s hatred for my father and my father’s hatred for thine.”

A shadow crossed Pau Tsu’s face. But not for long. It lifted as she softly said: “Love is stronger than hate.”

Little Waking Eyes clambered upon his father’s knee.

“Me too,” cried Little Sleeping Eyes, following him. With chubby fists he pushed his brother to one side and mounted his father also.

Pau Tsu looked across at her husband and sons. “Oh, Liu Venti,” she said, “for the sake of our children; for the sake of our parents; for the sake of a broader field of work for ourselves, we are called upon to make a sacrifice!”

Three months later, Liu Venti and Pau Tsu,with mingled sorrow and hope in their hearts, bade goodbye to their little sons and sent them across the sea, offerings of love to parents of whom both son and daughter remembered nothing but love and kindness, yet from whom that son and daughter were estranged by a poisonous thing called Hate.

Two little boys were playing together on a beach. One gazed across the sea with wondering eyes. A thought had come—a memory.

“Where are father and mother?” he asked, turning to his brother.

The other little boy gazed bewilderedly back at him and echoed:

“Where are father and mother?”

Then the two little fellows sat down in the sand and began to talk to one another in a queer little old-fashioned way of their own.

“Grandfathers and grandmothers are very good,” said Little Waking Eyes.

“Very good,” repeated Little Sleeping Eyes.

“They give us lots of nice things.”

“Lots of nice things!”

“Balls and balloons and puff puffs and kitties.”

“The puppet show is very beautiful!”

“Very beautiful!”

“And grandfathers fly kites and puff fire flowers!”

“Fly kites and puff fire flowers!”

“And grandmothers have cakes and sweeties.”

“Cakes and sweeties!”

“But where are father and mother?”

Little Waking Eyes and Little Sleeping Eyes again searched each other’s faces; but neither could answer the other’s question. Their little mouths drooped pathetically; they propped their chubby little faces in their hands and heaved queer little sighs.

There were father and mother one time—always, always; father and mother and Sung Sung. Then there was the big ship and Sung Sung only, and the big water. After the big water, grandfathers and grandmothers; and Little Waking Eyes had gone to live with one grandfather and grandmother, and Little Sleeping Eyes had gone to live with another grandfather and grandmother. And the old Sung Sung had gone away and two new Sung Sungs had come. And Little Waking Eyes and Little Sleeping Eyes had been goodand had not cried at all. Had not father and mother said that grandfathers and grandmothers were just the same as fathers and mothers?

“Just the same as fathers and mothers,” repeated Little Waking Eyes to Little Sleeping Eyes, and Little Sleeping Eyes nodded his head and solemnly repeated: “Just the same as fathers and mothers.”

Then all of a sudden Little Waking Eyes stood up, rubbed his fists into his eyes and shouted: “I want my father and mother; I want my father and mother!” And Little Sleeping Eyes also stood up and echoed strong and bold: “I want my father and mother; I want my father and mother.”

It was the day of rebellion of the sons of Liu Venti and Pau Tsu.

When the two new Sung Sungs who had been having their fortunes told by an itinerant fortune-teller whom they had met some distance down the beach, returned to where they had left their young charges, and found them not, they were greatly perturbed and rent the air with their cries. Where could the children have gone? The beach was a lonely one, several miles from the seaport city where lived the grandparents of the children. Behind the beach, the bare land rose for a little wayback up the sides and across hills to meet a forest dark and dense.

Said one Sung Sung to another, looking towards this forest: “One might as well search for a pin at the bottom of the ocean as search for the children there. Besides, it is haunted with evil spirits.”

“A-ya, A-ya, A-ya!” cried the other, “Oh, what will my master and mistress say if I return home without Little Sleeping Eyes, who is the golden plum of their hearts?”

“And what will my master and mistress do to me if I enter their presence without Little Waking Eyes? I verily believe that the sun shines for them only when he is around.”

For over an hour the two distracted servants walked up and down the beach, calling the names of their little charges; but there was no response.

Thy grandson—the beloved of my heart, is lost, is lost! Go forth, old man, and find him.”

Liu Jusong, who had just returned from the Hall, where from morn till eve he adjusted the scales of justice, stared speechlessly at the old lady who had thus accosted him. The loss of his grandson he scarcely realized; but thathis humble spouse had suddenly become his superior officer, surprised him out of his dignity.

“What meaneth thy manner?” he bewilderedly inquired.

“It meaneth,” returned the old lady, “that I have borne all I can bear. Thy grandson is lost through thy fault. Go, find him!”

“How my fault? Surely, thou art demented!”

“Hadst thou not hated Li Wang, Little Waking Eyes and Little Sleeping Eyes could have played together in our own grounds or within the compound of Li Wang. But this is no time to discourse on spilt plums. Go, follow Li Wang in the search for thy grandsons. I hear that he has already left for the place where the stupid thorns who had them in charge, declare they disappeared.”

The old lady broke down.

“Oh, my little Bright Eyes! Where art thou wandering?” she wailed.

Liu Jusong regarded her sternly. “If my enemy,” said he, “searcheth for my grandsons, then will not I.”

With dignified step he passed out of the room. But in the hall was a child’s plaything. His glance fell upon it and his expression softened. Following the servants despatchedby his wife, the old mandarin joined in the search for Little Waking Eyes and Little Sleeping Eyes.

Under the quiet stars they met—the two old men who had quarrelled in student days and who ever since had cultivated hate for each other. The cause of their quarrel had long been forgotten; but in the fertile soil of minds irrigated with the belief that the superior man hates well and long, the seed of hate had germinated and flourished. Was it not because of that hate that their children were exiles from the homes of their fathers—those children who had met in a foreign land, and in spite of their fathers’ hatred, had linked themselves in love.

They spread their fans before their faces, each pretending not to see the other, while their servants inquired: “What news of the honorable little ones?”

“No news,” came the answer from each side.

The old men pondered sternly. Finally Liu Jusong said to his servants: “I will search in the forest.”

“So also will I,” announced Li Wang.

Liu Jusong lowered his fan. For the first time in many years he allowed his eyes to rest on the countenance of his quondam friend,and that quondam friend returned his glance. But the servant men shuddered.

“It is the haunted forest,” they cried. “Oh, honorable masters, venture not amongst evil spirits!”

But Li Wang laughed them to scorn, as also did Liu Jusong.

“Give me a lantern,” bade Li Wang. “I will search alone since you are afraid.”

He spake to his servants; but it was not his servants who answered: “Nay, not alone. Thy grandson is my grandson and mine is thine!”

“Oh, grandfather,” cried Little Waking Eyes, clasping his arms around Liu Jusong’s neck, “where are father and mother?”

And Little Sleeping Eyes murmured in Li Wang’s ear, “I want my father and mother!”

Liu Jusong and Li Wang looked at each other. “Let us send for our children,” said they.

How many moons, Liu Venti, since our little ones went from us?” asked Pau Tsu.

She was very pale, and there was a yearning expression in her eyes.

“Nearly five,” returned Liu Venti, himself stifling a sigh.

“Sometimes,” said Pau Tsu, “I feel I cannot any longer bear their absence.”

She drew from her bosom two little shoes, one red, one blue.

“Their first,” said she. “Oh, my sons, my little sons!”

A messenger boy approached, handed Liu Venti a message, and slipped away.

Liu Venti read:

May the bamboo ever wave. Son and daughter,return to your parents and your children.

May the bamboo ever wave. Son and daughter,

return to your parents and your children.

Liu Jusong,Li Wang.

“The answer to our prayer,” breathed Pau Tsu. “Oh Liu Venti, love is indeed stronger than hate!”

Many years ago in the beautiful land of China, there lived a rich and benevolent man named Chan Ah Sin. So kind of heart was he that he could not pass through a market street without buying up all the live fish, turtles, birds, and animalsthat he saw, for the purpose of giving them liberty and life. The animals and birds he would set free in a cool green forest called the Forest of the Freed, and the fish and turtles he would release in a moon-loved pool called the Pool of Happy Life. He also bought up and set free all animals that were caged for show, and even remembered the reptiles.

Some centuries after this good man had passed away, one of his descendants was accused of having offended against the laws of the land, and he and all of his kin were condemned to be punished therefor. Amongst his kin were two little seventh cousins named Chan Ming and Chan Mai, who had lived very happily all their lives with a kind uncle as guardian and a good old nurse. The punishment meted out to this little boy and girl was banishment to a wild and lonely forest, which forest could only be reached by travelling up a dark and mysterious river in a small boat. The journey was long and perilous, but on the evening of the third day a black shadow loomed before Ming and Mai. This black shadow was the forest, the trees of which grew so thickly together and so close to the river’s edge that their roots interlaced under the water.

The rough sailors who had taken the childrenfrom their home, beached the boat, and without setting foot to land themselves, lifted the children out, then quickly pushed away. Their faces were deathly pale, for they were mortally afraid of the forest, which was said to be inhabited by innumerable wild animals, winged and crawling things.

Ming’s lip trembled. He realized that he and his little sister were now entirely alone, on the edge of a fearsome forest on the shore of a mysterious river. It seemed to the little fellow, as he thought of his dear Canton, so full of bright and busy life, that he and Mai had come, not to another province, but to another world.

One great, big tear splashed down his cheek. Mai, turning to weep on his sleeve, saw it, checked her own tears, and slipping a little hand into his, murmured in his ear:

“Look up to the heavens, O brother. Behold, the Silver Stream floweth above us here as bright as it flowed above our own fair home.” (The Chinese call the Milky Way the Silver Stream.)

While thus they stood, hand in hand, a moving thing resembling a knobby log of wood was seen in the river. Strange to say, the children felt no fear and watched it float towards them with interest. Then a wateryvoice was heard. “Most honorable youth and maid,” it said, “go back to the woods and rest.”

It was a crocodile. Swimming beside it were a silver and a gold fish, who leaped in the water and echoed the crocodile’s words; and following in the wake of the trio, was a big green turtle mumbling: “To the woods, most excellent, most gracious, and most honorable.”

Obediently the children turned and began to find their way among the trees. The woods were not at all rough and thorny as they had supposed they would be. They were warm and fragrant with aromatic herbs and shrubs. Moreover, the ground was covered with moss and grass, and the bushes and young trees bent themselves to allow them to pass through. But they did not wander far. They were too tired and sleepy. Choosing a comfortable place in which to rest, they lay down side by side and fell asleep.

When they awoke the sun was well up. Mai was the first to open her eyes, and seeing it shining through the trees, exclaimed: “How beautiful is the ceiling of my room!” She thought she was at home and had forgotten the river journey. But the next moment Ming raised his head and said: “The beauty you see is the sun filtering through the trees and the forest where—”

He paused, for he did not wish to alarm his little sister, and he had nearly said: “Where wild birds and beasts abound.”

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Mai in distress. She also thought of the wild birds and beasts, but like Ming, she also refrained from mentioning them.

“I am impatiently hungry,” cried Ming. He eyed enviously a bright little bird hopping near. The bird had found a good, fat grasshopper for its breakfast, but when it heard Ming speak, it left the grasshopper and flew quickly away.

A moment later there was a great trampling and rustling amongst the grasses and bushes. The hearts of the children stood still. They clasped hands. Under every bush and tree, on the branches above them, in a pool near by, and close beside them, almost touching their knees, appeared a great company of living things from the animal, fish, fowl, and insect kingdoms.

It was true then—what the sailors had told them—only worse; for whereas they had expected to meet the denizens of the forest, either singly or in couples, here they were all massed together.

A tiger opened its mouth. Ming put his sister behind him and said: “Please, honorableanimals, birds, and other kinds of living things, would some of you kindly retire for a few minutes. We expected to meet you, but not so many at once, and are naturally overwhelmed with the honor.”

“Oh, yes, please your excellencies,” quavered Mai, “or else be so kind as to give us space in which to retire ourselves, so that we may walk into the river and trouble you no more. Will we not, honorable brother?”

“Nay, sister,” answered Ming. “These honorable beings have to be subdued and made to acknowledge that man is master of this forest. I am here to conquer them in fight, and am willing to take them singly, in couples, or even three at a time; but as I said before, the honor of all at once is somewhat overwhelming.”

“Oh! ah!” exclaimed Mai, gazing awestruck at her brother. His words made him more terrible to her than any of the beasts of the field. Just then the tiger, who had politely waited for Ming and Mai to say their say, made a strange purring sound, loud, yet strangely soft; fierce, yet wonderfully kind. It had a surprising effect upon the children, seeming to soothe them and drive away all fear. One of little Mai’s hands dropped upon the head of a leopard crouchingnear, whilst Ming gazed straight into the tiger’s eyes and smiled as at an old friend. The tiger smiled in return, and advancing to Ming, laid himself down at his feet, the tip of his nose resting on the boy’s little red shoes. Then he rolled his body around three times. Thus in turn did every other animal, bird, fish, and insect present. It took quite a time and Mai was glad that she stood behind her brother and received the obeisances by proxy.

This surprising ceremony over, the tiger sat back upon his haunches and, addressing Ming, said:

“Most valorous and honorable descendant of Chan Ah Sin the First: Your coming and the coming of your exquisite sister will cause the flowers to bloom fairer and the sun to shine brighter for us. There is, therefore, no necessity for a trial of your strength or skill with any here. Believe me, Your Highness, we were conquered many years ago—and not in fight.”

“Why! How?” cried Ming.

“Why! How?” echoed Mai.

And the tiger said:

“Many years ago in the beautiful land of China, there lived a rich and benevolent man named Chan Ah Sin. So kind of heart was he that he could not pass through a market streetwithout buying up all the live fish, turtles, birds, and animals that he saw, for the purpose of giving them liberty and life. These animals and birds he would set free in a cool green forest called the Forest of the Freed, and the fish and turtles he would release in a moon-loved pool called the Pool of Happy Life. He also bought up and set free all animals that were caged for show, and even remembered the reptiles.”

The tiger paused.

“And you,” observed Ming, “you, sir tiger, and your forest companions, are the descendants of the animals, fish, and turtles thus saved by Chan Ah Sin the First.”

“We are, Your Excellency,” replied the tiger, again prostrating himself. “The beneficent influence of Chan Ah Sin the First, extending throughout the centuries, has preserved the lives of his young descendants, Chan Ming and Chan Mai.”

Many a moon rose and waned over the Forest of the Freed and the Moon-loved Pool of Happy Life, and Ming and Mai lived happily and contentedly amongst their strange companions. To besure, there were times when their hearts would ache and their tears would flow for their kind uncle and good old nurse, also for their little playfellows in far-away Canton; but those times were few and far between. Full well the children knew how much brighter and better was their fate than it might have been.

One day, when they were by the river, amusing themselves with the crocodiles and turtles, the water became suddenly disturbed, and lashed and dashed the shore in a very strange manner for a river naturally calm and silent.

“Why, what can be the matter?” cried Ming.

“An honorable boat is coming,” shouted a goldfish.

Ming and Mai clasped hands and trembled.

“It is the sailors,” said they to one another; then stood and watched with terrified eyes a large boat sail majestically up the broad stream.

Meanwhile down from the forest had rushed the tiger with his tigress and cubs, the leopard with his leopardess and cubs, and all the other animals with their young, and all the birds, and all the insects, and all the living things that lived in the Forest of the Freed and the Moon-loved Pool. They surrounded Mingand Mai, crouched at their feet, swarmed in the trees above their heads, and crowded one another on the beach and in the water.

The boat stopped in the middle of the stream, in front of the strip of forest thus lined with living things. There were two silk-robed men on it and a number of sailors, also an old woman carrying a gigantic parasol and a fan whose breeze fluttered the leaves in the Forest of the Freed.

When the boat stopped, the old woman cried: “Behold, I see my precious nurslings surrounded by wild beasts. A-ya, A-ya, A-ya.” Her cries rent the air and Ming and Mai, seeing that the old woman was Woo Ma, their old nurse, clapped their little hands in joy.

“Come hither,” they cried. “Our dear friends will welcome you. They are not wild beasts. They are elegant and accomplished superior beings.”

Then one of the men in silken robes commanded the sailors to steer for the shore, and the other silk-robed man came and leaned over the side of the boat and said to the tiger and leopard:

“As I perceive, honorable beings, that you are indeed the friends of my dear nephew and niece, Chan Ming and Chan Mai, I humblyask your permission to allow me to disembark on the shore of this river on the edge of your forest.”

The tiger prostrated himself, so also did his brother animals, and all shouted:

“Welcome, O most illustrious, most benevolent, and most excellent Chan Ah Sin the Ninth.”

So Mai crept into the arms of her nurse and Ming hung on to his uncle’s robe, and the other silk-robed man explained how and why they had come to the Forest of the Freed and the Moon-loved Pool.

A fairy fish, a fairy duck, a fairy butterfly, and a fairy bird, who had seen the children on the river when the cruel sailors were taking them from their home, had carried the news to the peasants of the rice fields, the tea plantations, the palm and bamboo groves. Whereupon great indignation had prevailed, and the people of the province, who loved well the Chan family, arose in their might and demanded that an investigation be made into the charges against that Chan who was reputed to have broken the law, and whose relatives as well as himself had been condemned to suffer therefor. So it came to pass that the charges, which had been made by some malicious enemy of high official rank, wereentirely disproved, and the edict of banishment against the Chan family recalled.

The first thought of the uncle of Ming and Mai, upon being liberated from prison, was for his little nephew and niece, and great indeed was his alarm and grief upon learning that the two tender scions of the house of Chan had been banished to a lonely forest by a haunted river, which forest and river were said to be inhabited by wild and cruel beings. Moreover, since the sailors who had taken them there, and who were the only persons who knew where the forest was situated, had been drowned in a swift rushing rapid upon their return journey, it seemed almost impossible to trace the little ones, and Chan Ah Sin the Ninth was about giving up in despair, when the fairy bird, fish, and butterfly, who had aroused the peasants, also aroused the uncle by appearing to him and telling him where the forest of banishment lay and how to reach it.

“Yes,” said Chan Ah Sin the Ninth, when his friend ceased speaking, “but they did not tell me that I should find my niece and nephew so tenderly cared for. Heaven alone knows why you have been so good to my beloved children.”

He bowed low to the tiger, leopard, and all the living things around him.

“Most excellent and honorable Chan Ah Sin the Ninth,” replied the Tiger, prostrating himself, “we have had the pleasure and privilege of being good to these little ones, because many years ago in the beautiful land of China, your honorable ancestor, Chan Ah Sin the First, was good and kind to our forefathers.”

Then arising upon his hind legs, he turned to Ming and Mai and tenderly touching them with his paws, said:

“Honorable little ones, your banishment is over, and those who roam the Forest of the Freed, and dwell in the depths of the Pool of Happy Life, will behold no more the light of your eyes. May heaven bless you and preserve you to be as good and noble ancestors to your descendants as your ancestor, Chan Ah Sin the First, was to you.”

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