Part 13

“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.

II

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 the waters 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 bound them; 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, and in 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 echoed the 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.

III

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.”

“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 good and 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 way back 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.

IV

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 that his 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 despatched by 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.

V

“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.

LIU JUSONG, LI WANG.

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

THE BANISHMENT OF MING AND MAI

I

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 animals that 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 children from 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 watery voice 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, honorable animals, 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 crouching near, 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 street without 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.”

II THE TIGER’S FAREWELL