Part 3

Nep and Ruky often talked together, and though one used barks and the other words, there was a perfect understanding between them. Woe to the straggler that dared to rouse Nep’s wrath, and woe to the bird or rabbit that ventured too near!—those great teeth snapped at their prey without even the warning of a growl. But Ruky could safely pull Nep’s ears or his tail, or climb his great shaggy back, or even snatch away the untasted bone. Still, as I said before, every one loved the child; so, of course, Nep was no exception.

One day Ruky’s “Cor! Cor!” had sounded oftener than usual. His rosy face had bent saucily to kiss Cora’s upturned forehead, as she raised her arms to lift him from the tree; but the sparkle in his dark eyes had seemed to kindle so much mischief in him that his sister’s patience became fairly exhausted.

“Has Cor nothing to do but to wait upon _you_?” she cried, “and nothing to listen to but your noise and your racket? You shall go to bed early to-day, and then I shall have some peace.”

“No, no, Cor. Please let Ruky wait till the stars come. Ruky wants to see the stars.”

“Hush! Ruky is bad. He shall have a whipping when Uncle comes back from town.”

Nep growled.

“Ha! ha!” laughed Ruky, jerking his head saucily from side to side; “Nep says ‘No!’”

Nep was shut out of the cottage for his pains, and poor Ruky was undressed, with many a hasty jerk and pull.

“You hurt, Cor!” he said, plaintively. “I’m going to take off my shoes my own self.”

“No, you’re not,” cried Cora, almost shaking him; and when he cried she called him naughty, and said if he did not stop he should have no supper. This made him cry all the more, and Cora, feeling in her angry mood that he deserved severe punishment, threw away his supper and put him to bed. Then all that could be heard were Ruky’s low sobs and the snappish clicks of Cora’s needles, as she sat knitting, with her back to him.

He could not sleep, for his eyelids were scalded with tears, and his plaintive “Cor! Cor!” had reached his sister’s ears in vain. She never once looked up from those gleaming knitting-needles, nor even gave him his good-night kiss.

It grew late. The uncle did not return. At last Cora, sulky and weary, locked the cottage door, blew out her candle, and lay down beside her brother.

The poor little fellow tried to win a forgiving word, but she was too ill-natured to grant it. In vain he whispered, “Cor, Cor!” He even touched her hand over and over again with his lips, hoping she would turn toward him, and, with a loving kiss, murmur, as usual, “Good night, little bird.”

Instead of this, she jerked her arm angrily away, saying:

“Oh, stop your pecking and go to sleep! I wish you were a crow in earnest, and then I’d have some peace.”

After this, Ruky was silent. His heart drooped within him as he wondered what this “peace” was that his sister wished for so often, and why he must go away before it could come to her.

Soon, Cora, who had rejoiced in the sudden calm, heard a strange fluttering. In an instant she saw by the starlight a dark object circle once or twice in the air above her, then dart suddenly through the open window.

Astonished that Ruky had not shouted with delight at the strange visitor, or else clung to her neck in fear, she turned to see if he had fallen asleep.

No wonder that she started up, horror-stricken,—Ruky was not there!

His empty place was still warm; perhaps he had slid softly from the bed. With trembling haste she lighted the candle, and peered into every corner. The boy was not to be found!

Then those fearful words rang in her ears:

“_I wish you were a crow in earnest!_”

Cora rushed to the door, and, with straining gaze, looked out into the still night.

“Ruky! Ruky!” she screamed.

There was a slight stir in the low-growing tree.

“Ruky, darling, come back!”

“Caw, caw!” answered a harsh voice from the tree. Something black seemed to spin out of it, and then, in great sweeping circles, sailed upward, until finally it settled upon one of the loftiest trees in the forest.

“Caw, caw!” it screamed, fiercely.

The girl shuddered, but, with outstretched arms, cried out:

“Oh, Ruky, if it is _you_, come back to poor Cor!”

“Caw, caw!” mocked hundreds of voices, as a shadow like a thunder-cloud rose in the air. It was an immense flock of crows. She could distinguish them plainly in the starlight, circling higher and higher, then lower and lower, until, with their harsh “Caw, caw!” they sailed far off into the night.

“Oh, Ruky, answer me!” she cried.

Nep growled, the forest trees whispered softly together, and the lake, twinkling with stars, sang a lullaby as it lifted its weary little waves upon the shore: there was no other sound.

It seemed that daylight never would come; but at last the trees turned slowly from black to green, and the lake put out its stars, one by one, and waited for the new day.

Cora, who had been wandering restlessly in every direction, now went weeping into the cottage. “Poor boy!” she sobbed; “he had no supper.” Then she scattered breadcrumbs near the doorway, hoping that Ruky would come for them; but only a few timid little songsters hovered about, and, while Cora wept, picked up the food daintily, as though it burned their bills. When she reached forth her hand, though there were no crows among them, and called “Ruky! Ruky!” they scattered and flew away in an instant.

Next she went to the steep-roofed barn, and, bringing out an apronful of grain, scattered it all around his favorite tree. Before long, to her great joy, a flock of crows came by. They spied the grain, and soon were busily picking it up with their short, feathered bills. One even came near the mound where she sat. Unable to restrain herself longer, she fell upon her knees with an imploring cry:

“Oh, Ruky! is this you?”

Instantly the entire flock set up an angry “caw,” and, surrounding the crow, who was hopping closer and closer to Cora, hurried him off, until they all looked like mere specks against the summer sky.

Every day, rain or shine, she scattered the grain, trembling with dread lest Nep should leap among the hungry crows, and perhaps kill her “little bird” first. But Nep knew better; he never stirred when the noisy crowd settled around the cottage, excepting once, when one of them pounced upon his back. Then he started up, wagging his tail, and barking with uproarious delight. The crow flew off in a flutter, and did not venture near him again.

Poor Cora felt sure that this could be no other than Ruky. Oh, if she only could have caught him then! Perhaps with kisses and prayers she might have won him back to Ruky’s shape; but now the chance was lost.

There was no one to help her; for the nearest neighbor dwelt miles away, and her uncle had not yet returned.

After a-while she remembered the little cup, and, filling it with grain, stood it upon a grassy mound. When the crows came, they fought and struggled for its contents with many an angry cry. One of them made no effort to seize the grain. He was content to peck at the berries painted upon its sides, as he hopped joyfully around it again and again. Nep lay very quiet. Only the tip of his tail twitched with an eager, wistful motion. But Cora sprang joyfully toward the bird.

“It _is_ Ruky!” she cried, striving to catch it.

Alas! the cup lay shattered beneath her hand, as, with a taunting “caw, caw,” the crow joined its fellows and flew away.

Next, gunners came. They were looking for other birds; but they hated the crows, Cora knew, and she trembled for Ruky. She heard the sharp crack of fowling-pieces in the forest, and shuddered whenever Nep, pricking up his ears, darted with an angry howl in the direction of the sound. She knew, too, that her uncle had set traps for the crows, and it seemed to her that the whole world was against the poor birds, plotting their destruction.

Time flew by. The leaves seemed to flash into bright colors and fall off almost in a day. Frost and snow came. Still the uncle had not returned, or, if he had, she did not know it. Her brain was bewildered. She knew not whether she ate or slept. Only the terrible firing reached her ears, or that living black cloud came and went with its ceaseless “caw.”

At last, during a terrible night of wind and storm, Cora felt that she must go forth and seek her poor bird.

“Perhaps he is freezing—dying!” she cried, springing frantically from the bed, and casting her long cloak over her night-dress.

In a moment, she was trudging barefooted through the snow. It was so deep she could hardly walk, and the sleet was driving into her face; still she kept on, though her numbed feet seemed hardly to belong to her. All the way she was praying in her heart; promising never, never to be passionate again, if she only could find her bird—not Ruky the boy, but whatever he might be. She was willing to accept her punishment. Soon a faint cry reached her ear. With eager haste, she peered into every fold of the drifted snow. A black object caught her eye. It was a poor storm-beaten crow, lying there benumbed and stiff.

For Ruky’s sake she folded it closely to her bosom, and plodded back to the cottage. The fire cast a rosy light on its glossy wing as she entered, but the poor thing did not stir. Softly stroking and warming it, she wrapped the frozen bird in soft flannel and blew into its open mouth. Soon, to her great relief, it revived, and even swallowed a few grains of wheat.

Cold and weary, she cast herself upon the bed, still folding the bird to her heart. “It may be Ruky! It is all I ask,” she sobbed. “I dare not ask for more.”

Suddenly she felt a peculiar stirring. The crow seemed to grow larger. Then, in the dim light, she felt its feathers pressing lightly against her cheek. Next, something soft and warm wound itself tenderly about her neck, and she heard a sweet voice saying:

“Don’t cry, Cor,—I’ll be good.”

She started up. It was, indeed, her own darling! The starlight shone into the room. Lighting her candle, she looked at the clock.

It was just two hours since she had uttered those cruel words! Sobbing, she asked:

“Have I been asleep, Ruky, dear?”

“I don’t know, Cor. Do people cry when they’re asleep?”

“Sometimes, Ruky,” clasping him very close.

“Then you have been asleep. But Cor, please don’t let Uncle whip Ruky.”

“No, no, my little bird—I mean, my brother. Good night, darling!”

“Good night.”

THE SOUL OF THE GREAT BELL[2] By LAFCADIO HEARN

_She hath spoken, and her words still resound in his ears._

_Hao-Khieou-Tchouan: c. ix._

Footnote 2:

From _Some Chinese Ghosts_. Copyright, 1887, by Little, Brown & Company.

THE water-clock marks the hour in the _Ta-chung sz’_,—in the Tower of the Great Bell: now the mallet is lifted to smite the lips of the metal monster,—the vast lips inscribed with Buddhist texts from the sacred _Fa-hwa-King_, from the chapters of the holy _Ling-yen-King_! Hear the great bell responding!—how mighty her voice, though tongueless!—_KO-NGAI!_ All the little dragons on the high-tilted eaves of the green roofs shiver to the tips of their gilded tails under that deep wave of sound; all the porcelain gargoyles tremble on their carven perches; all the hundred little bells of the pagodas quiver with desire to speak. _KO-NGAI_!—all the green-and-gold tiles of the temple are vibrating; the wooden goldfish above them are writhing against the sky; the uplifted finger of Fo shakes high over the heads of the worshippers through the blue fog of incense! _KO-NGAI!_—What a thunder tone was that! All the lacquered goblins on the palace cornices wriggle their fire-colored tongues! And after each huge shock, how wondrous the multiple echo and the great golden moan and, at last, the sudden sibilant sobbing in the ears when the immense tone faints away in broken whispers of silver,—as though a woman should whisper, “_Hiai!_” Even so the great bell hath sounded every day for well-nigh five hundred years,—_Ko-Ngai_: first with stupendous clang, then with immeasurable moan of gold, then with silver murmuring of “_Hiai!_” And there is not a child in all the many-colored ways of the old Chinese city who does not know the story of the great bell,—who cannot tell you why the great bell says _Ko-Ngai_ and _Hiai!_

* * * * *

Now, this is the story of the great bell in the Ta-chung sz’, as the same is related in the _Pe-Hiao-Tou-Choue_, written by the learned Yu-Pao-Tchen, of the City of Kwang-tchau-fu.

Nearly five hundred years ago the Celestially August, the Son of Heaven, Yong-Lo, of the “Illustrious,” or Ming dynasty, commanded the worthy official, Kouan-Yu, that he should have a bell made of such size that the sound thereof might be heard for one hundred _li_. And he further ordained that the voice of the bell should be strengthened with brass, and deepened with gold, and sweetened with silver; and that the face and the great lips of it should be graven with blessed sayings from the sacred books, and that it should be suspended in the centre of the imperial capital, to sound through all the many-colored ways of the City of Pe-king.

Therefore the worthy mandarin, Kouan-Yu, assembled the master-moulders and the renowned bellsmiths of the empire, and all men of great repute and cunning in foundry work; and they measured the materials for the alloy, and treated them skilfully, and prepared the moulds, the fires, the instruments, and the monstrous melting-pot for fusing the metal. And they labored exceedingly, like giants,—neglecting only rest and sleep and the comforts of life; toiling both night and day in obedience to Kouan-Yu, and striving in all things to do the behest of the Son of Heaven.

But when the metal had been cast, and the earthen mould separated from the glowing casting, it was discovered that, despite their great labor and ceaseless care, the result was void of worth; for the metals had rebelled one against the other,—the gold had scorned alliance with the brass, the silver would not mingle with the molten iron. Therefore the moulds had to be once more prepared, and the fires rekindled, and the metal remelted, and all the work tediously and toilsomely repeated. The Son of Heaven heard, and was angry, but spake nothing.

A second time the bell was cast, and the result was even worse. Still the metals obstinately refused to blend one with the other; and there was no uniformity in the bell, and the sides of it were cracked and fissured, and the lips of it were slagged and split asunder; so that all the labor had to be repeated even a third time, to the great dismay of Kouan-Yu. And when the Son of Heaven heard these things, he was angrier than before; and sent his messenger to Kouan-Yu with a letter, written upon lemon-colored silk, and sealed with the seal of the Dragon, containing these words:—

... “_From the Mighty Yong-Lo, the Sublime Tait-Sung, the Celestial and August,—whose reign is called ‘Ming,’—to Kouan-Yu the Fuh-yin: Twice thou hast betrayed the trust we have deigned graciously to place in thee; if thou fail a third time in fulfilling our command, thy head shall be severed from thy neck. Tremble, and obey!_”

Now, Kouan-Yu had a daughter of dazzling loveliness, whose name—Ko-Ngai—was ever in the mouths of poets, and whose heart was even more beautiful than her face. Ko-Ngai loved her father with such love that she had refused a hundred worthy suitors rather than make his home desolate by her absence; and when she had seen the awful yellow missive, sealed with the Dragon-Seal, she fainted away with fear for her father’s sake. And when her senses and her strength returned to her, she could not rest or sleep for thinking of her parent’s danger, until she had secretly sold some of her jewels, and with the money so obtained had hastened to an astrologer, and paid him a great price to advise her by what means her father might be saved from the peril impending over him. So the astrologer made observations of the heavens, and marked the aspect of the Silver Stream (which we call the Milky Way), and examined the signs of the Zodiac,—the _Hwang-tao_, or Yellow Road,—and consulted the table of the Five _Hin_, or Principles of the Universe, and the mystical books of the alchemists. And after a long silence, he made answer to her, saying: “Gold and brass will never meet in wedlock, silver and iron never will embrace, until the flesh of a maiden be melted in the crucible; until the blood of a virgin be mixed with the metals in their fusion.” So Ko-Ngai returned home sorrowful at heart; but she kept secret all that she had heard, and told no one what she had done.

* * * * *

At last came the awful day when the third and last effort to cast the great bell was to be made; and Ko-Ngai, together with her waiting-woman, accompanied her father to the foundry, and they took their places upon a platform over-looking the toiling of the moulders and the lava of liquefied metal. All the workmen wrought their tasks in silence; there was no sound heard but the muttering of the fires. And the muttering deepened into a roar like the roar of typhoons approaching, and the blood-red lake of metal slowly brightened like the vermilion of a sunrise, and the vermilion was transmuted into a radiant glow of gold, and the gold whitened blindingly, like the silver face of a full moon. Then the workers ceased to feed the raving flame, and all fixed their eyes upon the eyes of Kouan-Yu; and Kouan-Yu prepared to give the signal to cast.

But ere ever he lifted his finger, a cry caused him to turn his head; and all heard the voice of Ko-Ngai sounding sharply sweet as a bird’s song above the great thunder of the fires,—“_For thy sake, O my Father_!” And even as she cried, she leaped into the white flood of metal; and the lava of the furnace roared to receive her, and spattered monstrous flakes of flame to the roof, and burst over the verge of the earthen crater, and cast up a whirling fountain of many-colored fires, and subsided quakingly, with lightnings and with thunders and with mutterings.

Then the father of Ko-Ngai, wild with his grief, would have leaped in after her, but that strong men held him back and kept firm grasp upon him until he had fainted away and they could bear him like one dead to his home. And the serving-woman of Ko-Ngai, dizzy and speechless for pain, stood before the furnace, still holding in her hands a shoe, a tiny, dainty shoe, with embroidery of pearls and flowers,—the shoe of her beautiful mistress that was. For she had sought to grasp Ko-Ngai by the foot as she leaped, but had only been able to clutch the shoe, and the pretty shoe came off in her hand; and she continued to stare at it like one gone mad.

* * * * *

But in spite of all these things, the command of the Celestial and August had to be obeyed, and the work of the moulders to be finished, hopeless as the result might be. Yet the glow of the metal seemed purer and whiter than before; and there was no sign of the beautiful body that had been entombed therein. So the ponderous casting was made; and lo! when the metal had become cool, it was found that the bell was beautiful to look upon, and perfect in form, and wonderful in color above all other bells. Nor was there any trace found of the body of Ko-Ngai; for it had been totally absorbed by the precious alloy, and blended with the well-blended brass and gold, with the intermingling of the silver and iron. And when they sounded the bell, its tones were found to be deeper and mellower and mightier than the tones of any other bell,—reaching even beyond the distance of one hundred _li_, like a pealing of summer thunder; and yet also like some vast voice uttering a name, a woman’s name,—the name of Ko-Ngai!

* * * * *

And still, between each mighty stroke there is a long low moaning heard; and ever the moaning ends with a sound of sobbing and complaining, as though a weeping woman should murmur, “_Hiai!_” And still, when the people hear that great golden moan they keep silence; but when the sharp, sweet shuddering comes in the air, and the sobbing of “_Hiai!_” then, indeed, do all the Chinese mothers in all the many-colored ways of Pe-king whisper to their little ones: “_Listen! that is Ko-Ngai crying for her shoe! That is Ko-Ngai calling for her shoe!_”

THE TEN TRAILS By ERNEST THOMPSON SETON

ONCE there were two Indians who went out together to hunt. Hapeda was very strong and swift and a wonderful bowman. Chatun was much weaker and carried a weaker bow; but he was very patient.

As they went through the hills they came on the fresh track of a small Deer. Chatun said: “My brother, I shall follow that.”

But Hapeda said: “You may if you like, but a mighty hunter like me wants bigger game.”

So they parted.

Hapeda went on for an hour or more and found the track of ten large Elk going different ways. He took the trail of the largest and followed for a long way, but not coming up with it, he said: “That one is evidently traveling. I should have taken one of the others.”

So he went back to the place where he first found it, and took up the trail of another. After a hunt of over an hour in which he failed to get a shot, he said: “I have followed another traveler. I’ll go back and take up the trail of one that is feeding.”

But again, after a short pursuit, he gave up that one to go back and try another that seemed more promising. Thus he spent a whole day trying each of the trails for a short time, and at night came back to camp with nothing, to find that Chatun, though his inferior in all other ways, had proved wiser. He had stuck doggedly to the trail of the one little Deer, and now had its carcass safely in camp.

MORAL: _The Prize is always at the end of the trail._

WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO[3] By COUNT LEO TOLSTOI

Footnote 3:

Reprinted from the Everyman Edition of Tolstoi’s _Tales and Parables_, by special permission of the publishers. Copyright by E. P. Dutton & Company.