With the first splash of ink it should be stated that this, the story of
Meng Hu, is not intended for those who disbelieve in signs and portents.
Such persons will merely say “Pish” and “Tush” together with other
hurtful remarks, and remain unconvinced and scornful. But the
open-minded—they are the people. They will nod their heads in
understanding.
So. The history of Meng Hu, a merry rascal and a clever.
Upon the night that Meng Hu was born, in the house of his father Hao
Shou, in the village named Two Roads Meeting, which stands at the foot
of Mount Chieh Man (meaning: “Do not hurry—it is tremendously steep”),
in Ping Shan Province, there happened many queer and unseemly
happenings. A pack of wolves came down from Mount Chieh Man, and,
leaping into Hao Shou’s pigsty, carried off a well-fattened
red-and-black pig, for which Hao Shou had been offered eighty
cash—every one good. Between the howling of the wolves and the
squealing of the red-and-black pig, all Two Roads Meeting Village was
aroused.
The excitement had scarcely subsided when Hao Shou’s pet monkey, for
some reason best known to himself and the Shen of mischief, entered the
house where Hao Shou’s fowls roosted. The disturbance thus created
caused Two Roads Meeting Village again to leap from bed.
Only an hour later a tiger, which some coolies were carrying as a gift
to the King, escaped from his cage, and with much roaring pounced upon
Hao Shou’s amiable white cow. There was no more sleep in Two Roads
Meeting Village that night. And no wonder.
Now the village called Two Roads Meeting was much like any other
village, in that it housed some extremely wise men—men who knew
everything about practically everything. These men gathered and wagged
their beards much. Some of them said: “It is a sign, an omen. Hao Shou’s
son, born in the midst of last night’s disturbances, will gain his
fortune by the agency of animals. With the help of animals he,
undoubtedly, will become King. . . . He may even become mayor of our
excellent village.” Other wise men, however, said to the first: “Do you
fellows live in a well? (You don’t know much of the world.) To be sure
it is an omen—but _mei chi_ (a bad one). The son of Hao Shou will be
done to death by animals. Mark our words.” Then the old men of the two
parties fell to fighting and forgot all about Meng Hu, son of Hao Shou,
the innocent cause.
Having lost his pig, his cow, and many of his fowls, the father of Meng
Hu found himself a pauper. He who had been rich was now poor. Worse
still, a suit was brought by the tiger’s owner. The great beast had been
gored while pulling down Hao Shou’s sinful white cow, and its owner sued
in a court for damages. Being unable to pay, Hao Shou went to jail—and
lucky he was to escape with his miserable life. For the tiger was being
sent, a gift, to the King.
Thus beset by poverty, the boy Meng Hu was no sooner able to walk than
he was bound over to a herder, who immediately put him to work. It was
Meng Hu’s duty to watch over a flock. Early every morning he drove his
sheep into the green hills, watching over them throughout the day, and
with night’s coming, marshaled them back to the lowland fold. It was
lonesome work, very. Meng Hu had no companions with whom to play and
chatter. The solitude oppressed him. He sometimes thought that his mind
must surely break—insanity would claim him. A flute, such as the other
shepherds used to beguile away loneliness, was beyond his means to buy.
But he must have something, must do something.
[Illustration: It was the howl of a wolf.]
While thinking of a plan to amuse, he became aware that he was making
strange noises in his throat. He opened his mouth. A long, weird howl
echoed between the hills. It was the howl of a wolf—yet it came from
the throat of Meng Hu. It came without effort; a perfect wolf cry. The
boy was quite as surprised as were his sheep. He went away from the
flock to a secluded valley, where he could practice the cry without
harm. “Ow-w-w-w-wh,” and again “Ow-w-w-w-w-wh.” The sound was
terrifying. Any gray leader of a pack might have been proud of it.
At last Meng Hu grew tired of making wolf howls. He tried his voice at
imitating the calls of other animals. A cow—“Am-oo-ooh.” Sun-awakening
rooster—“Cockadoodledoo.” A tiger; Meng Hu gave the buzzing sound of
pleasure, the open-mouthed roar of anger, the coughing “woof” of pain.
He found it easy to give the various calls of _hou erh_ (the monkey). He
squealed in a manner most pig-like. He imitated the “Onkee Onkee” of his
master’s donkey. He gave the neigh of a horse.
Day after day Meng Hu practiced in the hills, imitating the calls of
many animals, usually in a low voice so that his sheep would receive no
fright. Lonesomeness no longer oppressed him. He had a toy more
entrancing than a lute with ivory bands. He was wolf, and tiger, and
clucking biddy by turns. He knew all cries of the wild.
A train of coolies trudged along the road below. Meng Hu, seeing them,
thought to have great fun. He placed his hands trumpet fashion to his
mouth and gave the wolves’ hunting song: “Ow-w-w-w-wh.” Instantly the
coolies flung down their burdens and ran as fast as men can run to the
village. Those scary fellows had no wish to help fatten a
famine-maddened wolf. Naturally, their fright lent great powers to their
imaginations. Not only had they heard the wolf—they had seen him—as
large as the Emperor’s battle horse. And the flock owners had better see
about their sheep. A dozen sheep would be only a trifling morsel for
that huge beast. This large—holding their hands high in air.
How the village hubbubbed with excitement. Such a collection of spears
and scythes and warlike jingals as rushed to the wolf-haunted hills.
When Meng Hu saw half of the village’s population drawing near in a
glorious gleam of weapons, he realized what had happened. Beyond a
doubt, he would be questioned. Had he seen the wolf? They would ask him
that. No—he hadn’t _seen_ the wolf, but most certainly he had heard it.
Perhaps the beast was hiding in the thicket. Then hunt for it. That
would prevent suspicion.
The villagers came up to find Meng Hu bravely poking with his staff in
the bushes. Oh, but they praised him. “See,” said the villagers, “brave
Meng Hu all alone hunts the wolf. How courageous is Meng Hu. His heart
is as bold as the heart of Mi Tze—he who pulled the King’s beard.
Valiant Meng Hu is an added honor to the Village of Two Roads
Meeting—renowned for its heroic men.”
Meng Hu said nothing—just then. When alone, he brayed like a donkey. It
was so funny, so laughably ridiculous. He had fooled the wisest men of
Two Roads Meeting Village.
For the next several days Meng gave the villagers plenty of violent
exercise. He had them come puffing up the hill at all hours.
“Ow-w-w-w-w-w-wh.” One long-drawn-out howl was sufficient to set scythes
and spears in motion.
But the villagers were not so gullible as one might think. They had
eyes. Why was it that they never _saw_ the wolf? Never a glimpse could
they catch of the rogue. And there were no tracks to be found. Suspicion
dawned. Could it be that someone was making sport of Two Roads Meeting
Village? Several men hid in the bushes. Meng Hu was seen to climb a rock
that overhung the lowland. He raised his hands to form a trumpet.
“Ow-w-w-w-w-wh.” The wolf.
“Oho,” said the men, of whom the flock owner was one. “Aha. So it was
you all the time.” They rushed upon Meng Hu and gave him a good taste of
bamboo sauce, which is served upon the back, and sounds “Swish, thump.
Swish, thump.” The flock owner then paid Meng what few cash were due and
bade him, “_Chu pa_ (Away with you). And don’t dare ever to return.
_Hsiao tsai tzu_ (You young animal).”
Meng Hu called to his heels for assistance. He ran and ran, till the
hills were far behind. Every now and again he murmured sadly: “How wise
were the old men. They _said_ that an animal would be my downfall. A
wolf. A mock wolf was my undoing.”
The lowland was a pleasant country, with here and there a ripening
field, and here and there a forest. Young Meng stood at the edge of a
wood, casting about for a bed to serve him the night. A clatter of hoofs
broke the silence. Some twenty men or more dashed into view. From their
weapons and general swashbuckling appearance Meng knew them to be
robbers. And knowing—he swiftly clambered up a tree.
The robbers halted and gazed about them right and left. Their chieftain
said: “I thought I saw a man here. If you find him, kill him, for the
people hereabouts are fierce enemies. Ho. . . . What’s That in Yonder
Leafy Tree?”
Meng Hu could imagine a knife at his throat. He shook the tree with his
trembling. Nevertheless, his wits worked faithfully. From his lips came
the scolding chatter of _hou erh_ (the monkey). It was exceedingly well
done. The robber chieftain laughed. “Only a monkey—and what vile names
he seems to call us. Ho. Ho. Ho. Only a silly monkey.”
[Illustration: Meng Hu could imagine a knife at his throat.]
Meng Hu tossed down a ripened fruit from the tree—that being the way of
all monkeys. The fruit spattered its juices in the chieftain’s eyes.
“What a sweet-tempered old brute,” complained the chief. “Hurry on.
We’ve no time to waste with a monkey.”
The robbers rode deeper into the forest and under a spreading tree
dismounted. Meng Hu, now feeling that he was a match for forty robbers,
followed the trail and spied upon the camp. He saw the knaves divide
their booty—gold and jewels flashing in the firelight. There were bales
of rich silk; brocades and moires—all rich stuffs. The eyes of Meng
popped with amazement. He wished that some day he might own such
treasure. But why not own it at once—why wait for _some_ day? Could
there be any way to take it from the robbers? He shut his dazzled eyes
and thought.
The night was at its most eerie hour—the hour when whitened ghosts
appear—when the _yao mo_ (the ghosts that have no chins) appear. A
monkey chattered in frantic warning. The robber chief awoke and said to
his men: “Do you hear that sound? Monkeys always make such alarm when
danger is near. That monkey warns us—a tiger is near. Get to your
horses.”
Before the thieves could mount their horses, the horror-striking, the
flesh-chilling roar of a tiger filled the forest. Instantly the horses
dashed away. Shrieking with fear the brigands followed. Three roars
emptied the camp. Six roars emptied the forest. Between roars Meng Hu
found breath enough to murmur: “How wise were the old men of the
village. They _said_ that an animal would bring me my fortune. A tiger.
A pretty tiger am I. Ho. Ho. Ho.” And he roared again for good measure.
Morning’s glow was still faint in the east when Meng rounded up the
horses. Those that had strayed too far he ignored. No telling when the
robbers would return. Besides, the boy had plenty, in all conscience. As
blithe as any bobolink he bobbed up and down, pounding the road toward
Chang An, the capital city.
The fortunate fellow settled down in a comfortable mansion and converted
his goods into gold as rapidly as possible. To put the merchants in
better humor and make them more disposed to buy his silks and jewels,
Meng Hu often howled and mooed and cackled. He gave the buyers much
entertainment. His strange antics became the talk of Chang An City.
The upshot was that Lui Tsung, Mightiest King, heard of the youth who
made such marvelous noises. His Majesty sent a courier bidding Meng Hu
appear in the square that fronted the palace, there to entertain. Meng
promptly appeared, bringing with him a tiger robe, a calf skin, a wolf
hide, and other disguises. He intended that the performance should seem
very real. And so it was, at first. As a wolf, he frightened three
soldiers into running. His bawling was so true to life that an old
peasant rushed to the square, declaring that he recognized the voice of
his lost calf, and would someone lend him a rope. Oddly enough, the
tiger mimicry created no astonishment. It caused neither laughs nor
screams. Meng Hu was surprised. Had he not thrown fear into the robbers’
very marrow with his tiger noise? Roaring furiously, he rushed at a
soldier. The soldier merely yawned. Roaring ten times more furiously,
the “tiger” sprang at Lui Tsung, The Mighty King. . . .
Now, of course, Meng Hu was merely a peasant boy. He knew nothing of
royalty and its ways. But, is ignorance ever an excuse? Never. Meng Hu
should have known better than to spring at his Monarch, and to tooth the
royal robes. His Majesty gasped and beckoned to a captain of the guard.
“Seize this audacious person and imprison him. Hold him until I can
think of an utterly new punishment to fit his crime. He merits something
more severe than mere sword or fire.”
With such delightful prospects to ponder, Meng Hu languished behind lock
and key. Over and over he moaned: “How wise were the old men. They
_said_ that I would meet my death because of an animal. A tiger. A
tiger. _Ai ja_ (Alas).” Though extremely downcast, yet he kept a faint
hope. His mind fabricated numerous schemes for escape. He had noticed
that the Queen seemed extremely fond of a ridiculous little yipping
Chou. (The scamp; with his noise he had frightened the poor dog in a
manner most scandalous.) While thinking of the Chou, he hit upon an idea
that promised much.
Directly after the new guards had been posted, Meng Hu began to yelp
dismally. His yelping was enough to bring tears of pity to the soldiers’
eyes. It was distressing. Presently a voice said: “O soldiers, my dear
little dog is locked up, and I don’t know where. Hasten and open all the
doors.” That voice was the Queen’s voice. Every soldier of the guard
recognized it. Every soldier hastened along the corridor—slip slap,
slip slap—opening doors. One and all they hastened to free the Queen’s
dear little pet Chou.
The Queen’s voice commanded that the doors be opened. Yet, at that very
moment the Queen was in a sedan chair, several miles away, taking her
evening ride. Perhaps Meng Hu could have explained the mystery—had he
waited. But there was no waiting. The guards had not finished opening
the farther doors when Meng crawled away. He didn’t even pause to thank
the guards. Their kindness went unrewarded.
To the wall. To the gate. Toward the Great Wall galloped Meng Hu. The
night cloaked his hurry. No one hindered. No one pursued. Over the
mountain—a mile to go. There stood the Great Wall—there the gate.
There lay safety.
Meng paused for a breath and turned in his saddle. Far behind appeared a
streak of light. That would be a torch—and a King’s man bearing it.
They were pursuing—upon the King’s swift horses. Then hasten. Speed. To
the gate.
Away galloped Meng Hu. . . . The gate was before him. . . .
Closed. . . . Closed. _Ai ja_. His escape was blocked by the ponderous
gate. He would be captured. He would be killed, and alas for it. Ai yu.
The gate was closed for the night. It would not be opened till morning
came. No ten bags of gold could open it before the morning dawned. Not
even a royal order could open it.
The warden of the gate slept peacefully.
“Cockadoodledoo.”
The warden turned in his quilt.
“Cockadoodledoo.”
The warden opened his eyes. “Can it be so late?”
“Cockadoodledoo.”
“Heigho. Morning already—and—what a noisy fowl.”
“Cockadoodledoo.”
“Yes, it must be morning. Time to open the gate, so that the early
caravans can pass.”
“Cockadoodledoo.”
The key clicked in the lock. The heavy hinges groaned.
Clatter, clatter of hoofs that were urged.
“How wise were the old men of the village,” murmured Meng Hu. “They
_said_ that an animal would save my neck some day. A rooster. What a
toothsome fowl am I. Ho Ho. Ho.”
He laughed as his horse took the open road.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]