Part 3

I, dressed in muslin, cream-coloured ground dashed over with wild roses, or blue ground with white chrysanthemums (the latter is not very becoming to my yellow skin) stand at his left hand stretching my mouth to the utmost, trying to give utterance to the tones he is striking on the piano, and trying to look Spanish, too.

Senor de la Prisa is teaching me the Spanish language--a lesson every day, and I am beginning to jabber the strange gibberish like a parrot: "_Es un dia bonita. El viento es frio. Se esta haciendo tarde. Es temprano._" I'll soon believe myself that I am _really_ Spanish, and have never come from "the country of yellow gods and green dragons," as Uncle Theodore calls my dear native land.

I have been watching people, reading the daily newspapers and my Chinese books, and asking grandmother questions until I feel very wise. I am almost as wise as a real American now.

Some weeks following Mrs. Paton's Sunday visit to my grandmother, I was out for a short walk of pleasure when I overtook her. She was pleased to meet me again, she said, and we walked along together, chatting, at least she talked and I listened, sometimes asking questions.

"Just think of it, my dear," she said, "this is the day on which men are applying for licenses to sell poison to kill their fellow-men."

Then she told me story after story of the terrible misery caused by intoxicating drinks, and the sin and crime they caused people to commit, until I was almost in tears.

A noise of voices and tramping feet interrupted her, and there came around a corner, marching toward us, a long procession of men.

"Who are they?" I inquired, slipping my arm into hers. I had never before seen so many men together.

"Strikers," she returned sadly.

"Strikers?" I exclaimed.

"Yes," she added, "men who will not work until their employers pay them the amount they think they ought to be paid."

Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! the great crowd passed us in long file, dusty, worn, hard-worked men. My heart swelled as I looked at their strained faces; I could not go any farther on my walk; I had to rush home to ask grandmother questions.

"Grandmother!" I cried, panting into her room, "strikes in a country that follows Christ!--And men asking for a license to sell poison to their fellow-men!"

I fell on my knees in front of her chair and sobbed, I could not have told why.

She took my face in her soft old withered hands, and holding it was about to speak, when my Aunt Gwendolin, who had overheard me, came into the room and cried indignantly:

"That crank of a Mrs. Paton has been talking to the girl; I know her very words. That woman should be forcibly restrained!"

Grandmother did not answer her, but continued to stroke my face until I grew quieter, and until my aunt had left the room. Then in reply to my many pointed questions she told me in brief, that the reason men got licenses to sell liquor was that they paid money for them, and the country granted them for the sake of the great revenue they brought into its treasury.

"Oh, grandmother!" I cried, raising my head from her lap, "when Britain tried to induce the Chinese Emperor to legalise the opium traffic because of the import duty, he said, 'Nothing shall induce me to derive a revenue from the vice and misery of my people'!"--I had read all this in my books on China.

Grandmother was wiping away tears, and I said no more.

I went up to my own room, and half an hour later I heard my Uncle Theodore, to whom my grandmother had repeated my words, say:

"She is preternaturally sharp. No girl of this country thinks of the things she does. I suppose they develop younger in those Eastern climes."

"It is all new to her," said my grandmother; "she has just come in upon it and sees it with fresh eyes. The girls here have grown up with it and become used to it by degrees."

"Oh, it's that Oriental blood--half witch, half demon--that's at the bottom of all her tantrums. The Orientals are all a subtle lot, and we as a country are wise to make them stay at home," said my Aunt Gwendolin.

_April 10, 1----_

Aunt Gwendolin has discovered my Chinese books that I had intended to keep hidden in my room. She came in suddenly one day and found me seated in the midst of them.

"What's this? What's this?" she cried in great agitation. "How are we ever going to get you into the ways of Christianised, civilised folk if you keep feeding your mind on literature about uncivilised people?" And she gathered my books up into her arms and carried them away.

I have them all read, however, and she cannot carry away the thoughts they have left in my mind. What great creatures we human beings are! What a world with which no one else can meddle we can carry around in our little brains and hearts! It is all the same whether they are American or Chinese brains or hearts.

"I see now where she has gotten all her smart sayings about the Chinese," my aunt said to my grandmother and Uncle Theodore. "How can we ever hope to do anything with her when she is being poisoned by such stuff as is in those books? 'For ways that are dark and tricks that are vain' commend me to the Chinese!"

"I'll sicken her of the Chinese," she added: "I'll bring one into the kitchen to cook; then perhaps she'll feel more compunction about acknowledging that she is part Celestial. She actually seems as if she were proud of the fact now."

Grandmother remonstrated, but my aunt replied: "I have always been wanting to try a Chinese cook; they are really the world's cooks and so careful and clean, it is said. Then I would like to give Pearl enough of it. She will not be so fond of claiming kinship with the cook."

The result of all this was that inside of twenty-four hours a Chinaman was installed in the kitchen--and the biscuits are perfect.

His name is Yee Yick; of course he has three names, all Chinamen have; but trying to become Americanised they use only two in this country.

My aunt has decided that it is sufficient to call him Yick. "The English call their servants by their surnames," was all the explanation she made.

Yick is a dude; he has a suit for almost every day in the week, and is very vain of his appearance. His queue is rolled up around his head, which is a sign that he has not yet abandoned his home gods. He is very anxious to learn English, and Betty tells me that he has a slate hanging up in the kitchen on which he is writing English words every spare moment.

I had watched Yick a good deal, but I never exchanged a word with him, until the event occurred about which I am going to write; and I know he never dreamed that I could speak his language. Poor Yick! if he is "chief cook and bottle-washer," as my aunt says, he is my countryman, and I cannot help taking an interest in him.

One day I walked to the end of the veranda which runs the whole length of the house, and glancing in through the kitchen window as I passed, I saw Yick making his tea-biscuits. He had the flour and shortening all mixed, and raising the bowl of milk which was on the table, he took a great mouthful, and then began to force it out in a heavy spray through his teeth into the dish of prepared flour, in the same manner as the Chinese laundryman sprinkles clothes.

I wrung my hands, and cried within myself, "Oh, Yick, you terrible man! You horrible little pigtail!"

But I slipped back to the front of the veranda without making an audible sound. How could I tell on poor Yick, and bring down such an awful storm on his head as would result? He was a stranger in a strange land, and it was my duty to protect him. Was it such a very wicked thing he had done? He never killed little birds, anyway, and wore them on his head; nor trapped cunning little animals, and strung their heads and tails around his neck! I decided I would not tell on him.

But that evening at dinner I passed the plate of white, flaky biscuits without taking any. I sat at grandmother's left hand, and when she was not looking, I slipped the biscuit which she had taken away from her bread-and-butter plate, and let it slide from my hand down onto the floor. Dear, absent-minded grandmother never missed it. Aunt Gwendolin and Uncle Theodore ate three biscuits each.

"It seems to me that Yick keeps constantly improving in his biscuits," said my aunt, as she reached for her third.

"They ought to be better than other people at most everything," returned my Uncle Theodore, "they have been a long while practising. They may have been making biscuits before Moses was born. The Chinaman possesses a history which dwarfs the little day of modern nations. It is a saying of theirs that from the time heaven was spread and earth was brought into existence China can boast a continuous line of great men."

I looked pleased and smiled. My aunt seeing it said, with a toss of her head:

"A continuous line of great cooks and laundrymen."

That evening when my aunt and uncle were out, and grandmother had gone to bed, I slipped down to the kitchen and stood face to face with Yick.

He almost kotowed to me, but commanding him to stand up, I told him in plain Chinese that I had seen him mixing the biscuits, and disapproved of his plan.

His hair almost seemed to stand on end when he heard me speaking his native tongue. He started to tremble, and his knees bent under him.

"Yee Yick," I continued, in the language he thoroughly understood, "if you ever put the milk in your mouth again, and sift it out through your teeth into the flour, I shall inform the mistress of the house, and you shall be dismissed!"

Trembling all over Yick began rapidly in Chinese to promise that he would never, _never_ be guilty of the act again. Then, as if scarcely able to believe that I could understand his native tongue, he repeated his promise in English.

"No, missee, Yee Yick not putee milk in mouthee! No, missee, Yee Yick not putee milk in mouthee!"

I assured him in Chinese that I would keep the secret of what I had seen on condition that he would keep his promise, and went out of the kitchen, leaving the poor fellow almost in tears. I believe he scarcely knows whether to regard me as a spirit or a being of flesh and blood, it is so hard for him to understand how I can speak Chinese.

The plumbers have closed up the hole in the floor, so I shall hear no more about the "wily Celestial."

_April 20th, 1----_

While I have been waiting to be prepared to "come out," I determined to walk around the streets and see some more of the doings of Americans. Grandmother gave her consent, with a warning to keep off certain streets.

"It is quite safe for a young girl to walk alone in most places in our country, thank God," said dear grandmother devoutly, "and I am very willing that you should look about you. I remember when I was a girl I liked to walk and see things, too."

But Aunt Gwendolin knocked the whole thing in the head--apparently.

"It is so plebeian for her to go tramping through the streets," she said to my grandmother. "Cannot she be satisfied to go out every day with us in the automobile? The grounds are spacious around this place, and she can have all the exercise she wants right here."

So the question was settled--to all appearance.

A week after my aunt's fiat I read in the daily newspaper that in the "House of Jacob," a certain Jewish synagogue downtown, there was conducted on a certain afternoon every week sewing classes for young Jewish girls. Instantly I decided that I wished to visit it, and see those "Children of Abraham," about whom grandmother had been teaching me in the Bible, those people who were God's favourites, and I set about laying plans to accomplish my desire.

Happily, when that afternoon came around, Aunt Gwendolin went out to a Bridge Party--I have not yet found out what that means, but I hoped that afternoon that she would have a good many bridges to cross, so it would keep her a long time away--and it was Betty's day out.

Previous to this I had found in a closet a black skirt and shawl formerly worn by grandmother, and a bonnet which she had laid aside.

As soon as my aunt had safely departed (I had seen Betty go an hour before), I hastily threw the heavy black satin skirt over mine, draped the black embroidered silk shawl around my shoulders, and tied on the bonnet. With a black chiffon veil, which was not very transparent, tied over my face, I felt very comfortable. It was quite proper for an _elderly_ lady to go anywhere she wished.

Grandmother was taking her customary afternoon nap, as I slipped down the backstairs into the kitchen. Yick, preparing the flour for his biscuits, saw me and started. I could not keep my secret from him; I decided to take him into my confidence and trust him.

So lifting my veil, I looked at him markedly, and told him rapidly in Chinese that he was not to tell any one he had seen me.

He smiled, winked, and nodded knowingly, assuring me in voluble Chinese that he would keep my secret.

"You no tellee onee me," he said significantly, with grimaces and gesticulations.

Going out through the back door, and down through a lane at the back of the house, I was soon on the street.

Taking the street-cars--in which Aunt Gwendolin thinks it is very plebeian to ride--I was soon whirled down in front of the "House of Jacob."

What a mercy it is, in this curious America, that so many people are plebeian and ride in street-cars that they do not pay any attention to one another. Nobody noticed my grandmotherly garb.

A woman reporter entered the front door of the synagogue along with me, and I imagined that I was regarded with some deference--grandmother's old skirt and shawl are made of rich material.

I followed the reporter around the room in which the classes were held, a few yards in the rear.

There they were, a hundred or more little Jewish children, red-headed, black-headed, blonde-headed, and Jewish women had them arranged in groups, and were teaching them to sew.

"These little red-heads are typical Russian Jews," I heard the director of the ceremonies say to the reporter, "only in this country a few months. _There's_ one that has the marked Jewish features," she added, pointing to another type of child. "They are all fond of jewellery--an Oriental trait."

Dear, dear, I only stayed a short time looking at them. They are not much different from others, those people who struck rocks and water gushed out, had manna and quails rained down on them, and walked through a wilderness led by a pillar of cloud by day, and a pillar of fire by night. I have seen hundreds of Chinese who looked just as remarkable. I cannot understand why God showed partiality to Abraham's children.

I went out onto the street again, and wandered on till I came to what I recognized as Chinese quarters. There were the laundries of Hoy Jan, Lem Tong, Lee Ling, and the shops and warehouses of Moy Yen, Man Hing, and Cheng Key. The dear names; it did me almost as much good to look at them as it could to make a visit to my own country.

As I walked down the quiet street, a wistful oval face looked down on me from a window. A Chinese woman's face, and the first I had seen since coming to America. Stepping into a little shop near by, a shop containing preserved ginger, curious embroidered screens, little ivory elephants and jade ornaments, I asked who lived in the house where I saw the face at the window, and was informed that it was the home of Mr. and Mrs. Lee Yet.

It was drawing near dinner time in my grandmother's house; already I had stayed out longer than I had intended: I had no time to investigate further regarding Mrs. Yet.

When I got back to the house I found that my aunt had returned before me, but fortunately had not noticed my absence.

When Yick walked into the dining room with the steaming plum-pudding for our dinner, Aunt Gwendolin said:

"Yick, who was that little old woman I saw coming up our back lane half an hour ago?"

"Me nevee see no little old womee," returned Yick, with a child-like smile.

"How stupid those Chinese are," said my aunt, when Yick had left the room. "I certainly saw an old woman, and there that creature never saw her!"

The _Creature_ had helped a _young_ woman take off her black bonnet and shawl, and escape up the backstairs half an hour before.

I suppose it's "that Oriental blood--half witch, and half demon" that's at the bottom of my tantrum of this afternoon.

_April 25th, 1----_

Mrs. Paton has been in to make another Sunday visit to grandmother; she is an old friend and privileged to come when she chooses--and as before I had the privilege of hearing her talk.

"We are calling ourselves a Christian country," she said to grandmother, "and yet we care more for pleasure than for anything else. An actress is paid more money in one month than a preacher of the Gospel is paid in a year. Does not that show what the people of our country care most for? Going over to Christianise the heathen forsooth! We are not following Christ ourselves! What an example we set them! How can we expect them to think much of our religion when they see it has done so little for _us_?

"Christianity is despised, and rightly so. It is called cant, and so it is; going around with the Bible under its arm, and never obeying its precepts. We want more men overturning the tables of the money-changers, and upsetting the commercialism that is grinding other men down to starvation!"

Dear grandmother was not argumentative, and gently assented to all her visitor was saying.

"When this country is really following Christ itself," continued the visitor, "we shall see our wealthy men, instead of using their wealth to build palaces, and to minister to the pride of themselves in a thousand forms, choosing to lead the simple life, with personal expenditure cut down to a minimum, and their ability to minister to others increased to a maximum; in short we will find them following in the footsteps of their Lord. Man is really the richer as he decreases his wants, and increases his capacity to help."

When she rose to leave, at the end of an hour's chat, she said very solemnly to me as she held my hand in a farewell clasp:

"My dear, each man and woman is born with an aptitude to do something impossible to any other. _You_ have an aptitude that the world has no match for. It is your aptitude for your own peculiar and immediate duty."

Oh, how solemn the words look as I write them down. What can my duty be? I wonder when I am going to find out. Aunt Gwendolin thinks it is to sing Spanish songs, I know; she firmly believes that to be my own _peculiar and immediate duty_. Grandmother thinks it is to study the Bible. And Uncle Theodore thinks it is to look artistically dressed. I have not come to a conclusion yet as to what I think myself.

When I get so terribly lonesome in this America that I cannot stand it any longer, I get Betty to steal down my yellow silk out of the box in the attic, the one trimmed with green dragons, and I dress up in it, and put on my head the pretty embroidered band that the Chinese women wear instead of the hideous hats of America, and sweep up and down the room like a peacock with a spreading tail, Betty going into raptures over my appearance, sometimes laughing hysterically, and sometimes almost in tears, because they have "no such grand clothes in America." If Aunt Gwendolin hears a noise and comes trailing along the hall, I jump into bed and cover myself up, yellow silk and all, and Betty proceeds to bathe my head for a headache--I really have one by that time.

How many foreigners they have in this great country, Shanghai roosters, Turkey hens, Persian cats, Arabian horses. I wonder do all those foreign creatures feel something calling them back, back to their own country?

Cousin Ned spends most all his time at grandmother's at present. He had his arm broken at a baseball game, and is carrying it in a sling.

_April 30th, 1----_

We had the pleasure of Professor Ballington's company at lunch to-day--Uncle Theodore had him down in his office on some business, and insisted on his coming home and lunching with him.

When he and my uncle walked in unannounced they found grandmother, Aunt Gwendolin, and me in the sitting-room.

The professor shook hands with me in a very friendly manner; he really seemed pleased to see me. Oh, it is awfully nice for a girl in a strange land, feeling alone and lonesome, to have some one glad to see her. He had not spoken to me since that morning my uncle introduced me to him, but he has seen me a number of times when I have been out in the carriage with my grandmother and aunt.

He seated himself beside me, and we were just beginning to chat pleasantly when my Aunt Gwendolin said:

"You have not heard our little Dependency sing, Professor Ballington?"

Grandmother's cheeks flushed, and Uncle Theodore looked embarrassed.

"Pearl, dear," she added sweetly, addressing me, "give us one of your stirring Spanish songs before we go to lunch. You can sing better before lunch than after."

In obedience to the request--which I felt to be a command--I went to the piano and sang lightly the only Spanish song _I could_ sing.

All the hearers seemed pleased with my effort. Professor Ballington looked calmly at me, but a smile lay behind his blue eyes. What did that smile mean?

We immediately sat down to lunch, and I was saved the embarrassment of having to tell that I could only sing _one_ Spanish song. I guess Aunt Gwendolin made sure that no such a dilemma should occur.

By some stray remark of Uncle Theodore's, the conversation at the table turned on what he calls the "Asiatic Problem."

"Those dreadful Asiatics," interposed Aunt Gwendolin, "so sly and subtle, they certainly should be shut out. They are a menace to any country."

"Above all nations is humanity," smilingly returned Professor Ballington.

"Especially those inferior people, the Chinese," added my aunt.

"We can scarcely call the Chinese inferior, Miss Morgan," returned Professor Ballington. (How I wanted to give him a hug!) "The Chinaman despises our day of small things. Like the Jew he possesses a great national history which dwarfs that of all other nations. The golden era of Confucius lies back five hundred years before the coming of Christ, and the palmy days of the Chan dynasty antedate the period of David and Solomon."

"Oh, yes," said my aunt curtly, "but what has he accomplished in all that time? We regard them as a nation of laundrymen."

"And they regard us as a nation of shopkeepers, and express lofty contempt for our greed of gain," said the professor.

"The idea!" said my aunt scornfully; "the fact is I always feel inclined to relegate the yellow-skinned denizens of China to the brute kingdom. Think of the _dreadful_ things that happen there! Life itself is of small account to them!"

"One of our own writers," returned the professor, "says, 'Life is safer in Pekin than in New York.' Another writer adds, 'Chicago beats China for official dishonesty!'"