“A shamelessly rainy day, my honorable Brother Chi.”
“That is truth, esteemed Brother Cha. It rains perfectly hard. There
will be plenty of leisure in which to beat the children.”
Ching Chi was merely quoting an old Swa Tou saying. Every one knows that
on rainy days old and young are crowded, arm against elbow, in the
house; often to get in each the other’s way—and misunderstandings are
likely to arise. Then the bamboo is brought into play—and there are
wailings. That is how the Swa Tou saying originated. When Ching Chi used
it, he did so in fun, and, no doubt, to make talk.
But Ching Cha thought that his brother was speaking with earnestness.
His face, made glum by the rain and by secret troubles, brightened at
such a pleasing prospect. “Ho. Leisure to beat the children? What an
utterly excellent idea. I, myself, will cut bamboos for your hand. Ah
Mee is the one to beat. He played at being a mad wild elephant—oh, so
perfectly wild, and with such trampling—in the midst of my _huang ya
tsai_ patch.”
Ching Chi seemed altogether astonished. His face showed that he thought
Ching Cha must be overstepping the truth. “What? What do you say to me,
honorable Brother Cha? Ah Mee playing wild elephant in your cabbage
patch? But I thought that I told him, emphatically, to break no more of
your cabbages.”
“It is no blemish upon my lips. It is the truth,” said Ching Cha, sullen
and hurt because Chi disbelieved. “He played elephant in my cabbages.
Come and I will show you.”
“Oh, no.” Ching Chi shook his head. “It is raining far too hard. I’ll
speak of the matter again to my son.”
Ching Cha adjusted his _wei li_ (rain hat) the straighter and shuffled
off through the downpour. As he went he muttered something that sounded
like “_Wou ton meng_.” If that is what he really said, he called Ching
Chi a stupid old noddy.
But Ching Chi merely laughed. He had no intention of beating Ah Mee, his
“pearl in the palm,” his son.
Now whether Ching Chi was right or wrong is a pretty question. Some
persons answer it one way, and some, another. But there is no question
about this. . . . Ah Mee was terrible. If anything, he was as bad as
that lazy Ah Fun, son of Dr. Chu Ping. Here is their only difference. Ah
Fun never did what he was told to do. Ah Mee always did what he was told
_not_ to do. But he did it in such manner as to leave a loophole. He
always had a perfectly good excuse. Take the matter of his uncle Ching
Cha’s cabbage patch. . . .
Only a day or so before, Ah Mee had pretended that he was a fierce and
furious dragon—a _loong_. As a fierce and furious dragon, he threshed
this way and that through Uncle Ching Cha’s very delectable
cabbages—causing much hurt. Ching Chi, the parent, told Ah Mee never
again to play dragon in Uncle Cha’s cabbages. “Ah Mee, you must never
again play dragon in your honorable uncle’s cabbage patch. If you do, I
shall speak to you most sharply.” And Ah Mee said, “Yes, sir,” and
obeyed. He pretended to be a ferocious wild elephant. He didn’t play
dragon again. _Oh, no. Not at all. He was very careful not even to think
of a dragon._ He was a weighty elephant—amid the cabbages.
[Illustration: Oh, no, not at all. He was very careful not even to think
of a dragon. He was a weighty elephant—amid the cabbages.]
Ching Chi, the fond parent, lived with his wife—her name is
forgotten—and the son, Ah Mee, and a little daughter, in a neat house
that stood in the Street of The Hill Where The Monkey Bit Mang. Ching
Chi was a carver of wood, and ivory, and jade. His bachelor brother
Ching Cha who lived next door, did scrivening—wrote things with a
blackened brush upon parchment and paper—and the wall, when he had no
paper. Some people said they were stories, but certainly they brought in
no money. As for that, neither did Ching Chi’s carvings bring in any
money. Yet Chi was a good carver. His designs were artistic, and his
knife was obedient to the slightest touch. From an inch block of ivory
he could carve seven balls—one inside the other. Howbeit, Chi was
neither famous nor wealthy. Instead of carving pagodas and trinkets for
sale in the bazaars, he spent most of his time in carving toys for Ah
Mee—who promptly smote them with an axe, or threw them in the well, or
treated them in some other manner equally grievous.
For six months Ching Chi worked to carve a dragon. When finished, the
_loong_ was a thing of beauty. In the bazaar it would, perhaps, have
fetched a bar of silver from some rich mandarin. But fond Ching Chi gave
it to Ah Mee. And Ah Mee, tiring of it after five minutes of play,
hurled it through the paper-covered window.
Are windows made to be broken? Are toys fashioned only to be thrown
away? Certainly not. Papa Chi wagged a finger at Ah Mee and he spoke
thus, “Ah Mee, most wonderful son in the world, you must not throw your
dragon through the window into the back yard again. What I say, that I
mean. Don’t throw your dragon into the yard any more.” Having said, he
proceeded with his work, carving beautiful designs upon teak-wood blocks
. . . for Ah Mee’s pleasure.
And Ah Mee said, “Very well then, _Tieh tieh_ (Daddy), I won’t.” He
proceeded with his work—which was to pile carven teak-wood blocks high
as his not-so-long arms could reach. There was one block covered with so
much exquisite carving that it gave little support to the blocks above.
For that reason the tower wavered and fell. Ah Mee promptly lost his
temper. Made furious beyond endurance, he seized the offending block and
hurled it through a paper-paneled door.
Who will say that Ah Mee was disobedient? He had been told not to throw
his toy dragon through the window. But had his father, Ching Chi, told
him not to heave a _block_ through the _door_? Not at all. Ching Chi had
said nothing about blocks, and he had pointed his finger at the window.
Nevertheless, Mr. Ching felt almost inclined to scold his son. He said,
very sternly, “Ah Mee. . . .”
“Whang. Bang. Bang,” came the sound of sticks on the door frame.
Crash—the door flew open. In rushed stalwart men, dressed in the King’s
livery, and bearing heavy staves. “Oh, you vile _tung hsi_ (east
west—very abusive talk), you murderer,” screamed the men. “Are you
trying to assassinate your King? What do you mean by hurling missiles
into the King’s sedan as he is carried through the street? Answer,
before your head falls.”
But Ching Chi was unable to answer. He could only press his forehead to
the floor, and tremble, and wait for the quick death he expected.
Meantime, Ah Mee pelted the King’s men with various large and small
toys—including a hatchet.
King Tan Ki, seated comfortably in a sedan chair, was being carried
through the Street of The Hill Where The Monkey Bit Mang. He had no
thought of danger. Peril had no place in his mind. The street seemed a
street of peace. When lo—from a paper-covered door there came a large
missile, striking a slave and falling into the King’s lap. Instantly the
body-guard rushed to the terrible house and battered in the door. But
King Tan Ki felt more curiosity than alarm. He examined the object that
had so unceremoniously been hurled into the sedan. At once his interest
was quickened. The King knew good carvings—whether they came from old
masters, or from hands unknown. Here was a block carved with superlative
art. Tan Ki wished to know more of the artist who carved it.
Ching Chi was still kneeling, still expecting instant death, when the
King’s chamberlain rushed in. The Chamberlain uttered a sharp order. The
body-guards grasped Ching Chi and hastened him out of the house, to
kneel at the King’s sedan. Ah Mee fired a last volley of broken toys at
the retreating chamberlain. . . . Not especially nice of him, perhaps,
but then, no one had forbidden it.
Fortune had smiled her prettiest upon the house of Ching Chi. King Tan
Ki was immensely pleased with the old engraver’s work. The odds and ends
of toys that had been fashioned for Ah Mee, now graced the palace. There
they were appreciated. Every day Ching Chi worked faithfully, carving
plaques and panels and medallions for the King. He was wealthy. Upon his
little skull-cap was a red button. He was a mandarin, if you please.
Only mandarins of the highest class may wear ruby buttons on their
caps. . . . And Ah Mee was worse than ever.
To say it again, for emphasis, Ah Mee was worse than ever—if possible.
He dabbled in all the hundred-and-one varieties of mischief. All day
long it was “Ah Mee, don’t do that.” “Ah Mee, don’t do the other.”
“Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.” Papa Ching was so tired of saying “Don’t” that
his tongue hurt every time he used the word. Occasionally he changed his
talk and said the opposite of what he really meant. Thus he would say,
“That’s right, little darling, fill papa’s boots with hop toads and
muddy terrapins, and that will make papa happy.” Or, “Pray take another
jar, my precious. Eat all the jam you possibly can. Six jars is not at
all too much.” For Ah Mee doted on jam. It was a passion with him. He
started the day on jam, finished the day on jam. Every time a back was
turned, his fingers sought the jam pot. Indeed, rather frequently he ate
so much jam that there were pains . . . and the doctor.
Ching Chi took a bird cage from the wall and hung it on his arm. (In
that land when gentlemen go for a stroll they usually carry their pet
larks, instead of their pet _chous_.) At the door he paused and said to
Ah Mee: “Little pearl in the palm, please refrain from too much
mischief. Don’t [there it was again] be any worse than you are really
compelled to be. Of course, it’s quite proper for you to put arsenic in
Mother’s tea, and to hit baby sister with the axe again. And you may
burn the house if you feel so inclined. . . . I want you to have plenty
of innocent fun. But don’t [again] be bad. For instance, don’t, I beg of
you, don’t get in those jars of jam any more.”
Off went Ching Chi with his lark singing blithely.
Ah Mee was quite puzzled. “Don’t get in the jars of jam.” How in the
world _could_ he get in the little jars? It was silly. He was much
larger than any one of the jars. But perhaps _Tieh tieh_ meant not put a
hand in the jars. That must be it. Ah Mee made a stern resolve to keep
his hands out. Not so much as a finger should go in those jars. . . .
Obedient Ah Mee arranged several of his father’s carven plaques on the
floor, and tilted a jar. The plaques were beautifully decorated flat
pieces of wood, somewhat larger than dinner plates. They made reasonably
good dishes for the stiff jam. Surrounded by little mountains of jam, Ah
Mee sat on the floor and . . . how the mountains disappeared. Really, it
was fairish tasting jam.
When Ching Chi came home and discovered his carvings smeared with black
and sticky jam, that good soul fell into a passion. First he screamed.
Next he howled. _Then he seized the plaques and flung them from him_,
flung them with all his strength. Flinging seems to have been a family
failing.
[Illustration: Then he seized the plaques and flung them from him.]
Ching Chi was weeping for sorrow, and howling with rage when his brother
Cha entered the room. The quick eyes of Brother Cha soon saw that
something was amiss. He gazed at the wall where the plaques had struck.
He gazed at the jam-coated plaques. Then he too howled, but with joy.
“Oh, Brother Chi,” he shouted. “You have chanced upon a wonderful
invention. It is a quick way for making books. What huge luck.” He led
Brother Chi to the wall and pointed. “See. For reason of its jam, each
plaque has made a black impression on the wall. Every line of the
carving is reproduced upon the wall. Now do you understand? You will
carve my thoroughly miserable stories upon blocks of wood. Ah Mee will
spread black jam upon the carven blocks. Then I will press the blocks
upon paper, sheet after sheet, perhaps a hundred in one day. . . . With
the laborious brush I can make only one story a month. With the
blocks—I can make thousands. Oh, what a wonderful invention.”
Ching Chi carved his brother’s stories upon wooden blocks. Ah Mee spread
the jam thickly—only pausing now and then for a taste. Ching Cha
pressed the blocks upon paper, sheet after sheet. . . . There were the
stories upon paper—all done in a twinkling, and with little expense.
The poorest people in the land could afford to buy Ching Cha’s most
excellent stories.
Thus was invented _Yin Shu_ (Make Books) or, as the very odd foreign
demons call it in their so peculiar language—“Printing.” Ching Chi, his
brother Ching Cha, and Ah Mee, all had a hand in the invention. As a
matter of exact truth, Ah Mee had two hands in the invention (or in the
jam), so he is generally given all the credit. His monument reads, “Ah
Mee, the Inventor of Printing.”
[Illustration]