Prince Chang petitioned his father, the King. “My Honored Parent, give
me permission to make a journey throughout the kingdom. I would learn
how the people live, and note wherein they are contented and
discontented. Thus I shall be prepared against the time when I ascend
the throne.” The King nodded approval. “Your plan is good, my son. I
shall immediately order that new gold tires be put upon the royal
carriage, and summon ten troops of cavalry to guard you.” But the prince
would not listen to such arrangements. “Oh, no, sire, I mean to go alone
and in disguise. Instead of the carriage, a stick will serve for my
vehicle. Instead of the troops, that selfsame stick will guard me.”
Whereat, the King was greatly troubled, and the prince was put to much
argument before he won his point. “Then do as you wish, my only and much
beloved son,” said the King, grudgingly. “But it behooves you to observe
extreme care. Disorder is rife in all the provinces. Go, and may your
stick be as strong as the magic mace of Sun How Erh.”
“Farewell, my royal father.”
“Farewell, my noble son.”
Now it must be remembered that Prince Chang was no graybeard. In years
he was nearing thirteen. Is it, after all, such a great wonder that
homesickness caused his heels to drag, and his eyes to need the
kerchief? He had walked all of twenty li. That, he began to imagine, was
journey enough for the present. To the edge of Hu Pei Forest he
continued. At the edge of the forest he stopped. The woodland was so
dark . . . so dark. The wolves howled “Oo-o-o-o-o-wh—We starve.” And
such a futile little stick with which to enter the forest of Hu Pei.
“Oo-o-o-o-owh.” What wolves. . . .
The prince had turned his face toward home when a merry voice hailed
him. “Ho. Brother, I’m glad you are come. Tell me if my fiddle be in
tune.” A comical fellow hopped down from a stump and chinned his fiddle
while Prince Chang stared. “Eek. Eek. Eeek.” “How does it sound, little
brother?” “I dare say it——” But the fiddler was not waiting for an
answer. His bow arm fell to sawing while his legs and voice joined in
the tune—“A beggar asked the King to dine.” And that’s a foolish song.
Prince Chang thought he had never before heard or seen anything so funny
by half. The more he laughed the greater his need for laughter. Such a
comical beggar and how he could play and sing.
From one end of Hu Pei Forest to the other Prince Chang laughed while
the beggar capered and fiddled. No wolves at all appeared. Homesickness
was a thing of the past—forgotten. “Let me give you a copper cash,
merry stranger,” said Chang, when they came to a Y of the road. “Not
now,” said he of the fiddle and bow. “I judge you are poorer than I.”
“Indeed?” laughed the prince. “When I am King (he forgot himself there),
I shall reward you handsomely.” “Ho. Ho,” shrieked the beggar. “When you
are King. When you are King, I’ll accept a reward. Make me a general in
your army.” “It shall be done,” said Chang. “What is your very nice
name?” “My pitiful name is Tang—Tang, the fiddler. Farewell, my little
King, who rides a bamboo horse.” So, they parted, both merry.
Sad to relate, Prince Chang’s merriment was to be of brief duration. A
band of robbers sprang up from the roadside and surrounded him,
pummeling him without mercy—all striking at one time. They took his
stick and his clothing and the little bag of coins that hung from his
neck. They left him in the road for dead. A sorry ending, that, to his
journey. . . .
Shortly, another traveler chanced by, and he was a man of warm heart. He
revived Prince Chang and took him on his shoulder, carrying him to a
village. There he set out food and clothing and bade the prince ask for
what more he desired. Chang was deeply thankful. “How can I ever repay
you?” “_Ya ya pei_ (Pish tush),” said the man. “It is nothing. What is a
bit of food? And what is a gift of clothing? Besides, you must know that
I am a tailor and will charge my next customer double. ‘A tailor—a
rogue,’ says the proverb.” “I do not believe it,” exclaimed Chang, “and
when I become King——” (There he forgot himself again.) “Ho. Ho. Ho,”
roared the tailor. “When you become King. Ho. Ho. When you are King, you
may reward me. You may make me a general in your army.” “It shall be
done,” declared Chang. “What is your honorable name?” “Wang is my
miserable name. Wang, the tailor. Farewell, and good luck be with you,
my future King.” So they parted, merrily enough—each laughing at the
excellent jest.
Prince Chang continued his journey. For three days he saw no man of
flesh and bone, nor came upon a dwelling. At the end of the third day he
was weak and unsteady from hunger. His stick broke beneath his weight
and he lay beside the road, waiting for death to come. Instead of death,
there came a shepherd with sheep and goats. The shepherd picked up Chang
and saw that the boy was far spent. It was quite plain that hunger had
used him evilly. Promptly the quick-witted fellow slung Chang on his
shoulder and carried him off to a cave. Milk in bottles of leather hung
on the cavern walls. Also, there were cheeses. Chang was made to drink
of the milk—a little at first—only enough to moisten his throat. With
the return of strength, he drank greedily, completely emptying a
goatskin. And the emptier the bottle grew, the more he thanked the
shepherd. “You have done me a great service,” said Chang. “If I had
money I——” “_Ya ya pei_ (Pish tush),” said the shepherd. “It is
nothing. I fed you with no thought of reward.” “Nevertheless,” declared
Chang, “when I am made King I——” The shepherd was like to strain his
throat with guffawing. “Ho. Ho. Ho. When you are made King. What a merry
chap you seem to be. Very well, when you are King you may reward me.
Make me a general in your army. Ho. Ho. Ho.” “I shall. I shall.” The
prince was emphatic. “What is your honorable name?” “My paltry name?
Most folk call me Mang—Mang, the shepherd. And here, you must carry
some food with you, for the nearest house is thirty li distant. Take
this cheese—and may good luck be your companion, my King of the
wandering road.”
Burdened as he was, Prince Chang made slow work of getting over the
mountain. He had begun to think seriously of dropping the cheese when a
troop of soldiers clattered up the road behind him. “How fortunate,”
said Chang. “Here are my father’s soldiers. They will take me on their
horses to the next village.” But the soldiers halted with a “Who are
you, and what brings you here?” queried most fiercely and with scowls.
The prince stammered that he was sometimes called Chun, a most
unfortunate invention, for Chun was the name of a local bandit. The
soldiers’ frowns turned to pleased smiles (there was a reward offered),
and the captain said: “So you are Chun, and you have just robbed some
poor person of a new suit and a cheese. Off with his head, my braves.”
Chang now saw that he was indeed in a tangle. A bold face seemed the
only escape. He put on a stern look, saying: “How dare you execute men
without a trial? Do you not know that I am Prince Chang, son of your
noble King?” The captain bowed in mock humility. “Your Highness seems
large for such a tender age. I happen to know that King Yen Chi’s eldest
son is only two years old. Let your swords drink, men.”
The terrible truth was made plain to Chang. He had wandered across the
border of his father’s kingdom. He was in a neighboring and hostile
country. . . .
The swords were lifted to strike, when—swish—came an arrow. After it,
quickly, another, and another. Each found its mark. For each arrow a
soldier crumpled. The others dug heels in their horses galloping
pell-mell for their lives.
A stalwart youth stepped out from a pine. “You had better go quickly,”
he said to Chang. “The border of our own country lies a full mile back.”
“I thank you with all my heart,” declared Prince Chang, “and shall
reward you fittingly when——” “When you are King?” finished the other.
“I heard what you said to the soldiers, and wondered at your daring.
Very well. Make me a general when you become King, and that will be
ample reward.” “It shall be done,” vowed the prince. “What brave name do
you bear?” “Name? Oh, you may call me Lang. Lang, the very indifferent
archer. And now you must go, for more soldiers will come, and my arrows
are few.”
Prince Chang was not long returned from his journey when the King passed
away in an illness. Immediately the crown was placed on Chang’s brow,
and all the people burned much incense of _la ka_ wood, crying “Hail.”
And almost with their next breath they shouted “_Kou chou_ (The Enemy).”
An enemy was marching upon Ku Hsueh. The new King had barely seated
himself upon the heighty throne before he found it necessary to see
about raising an army. There were two great troubles with the old army.
It was dwarfish small and it boasted more generals than bowmen. Of
course, the generals never fought. They did nothing but plan—usually
what they’d have for dinner, and which sword they’d wear to the King’s
next reception. Yet, King Chang added more generals to the army.
The first complaint raised against King Chang by his people was that he
had added four more generals to the army. His new generals were named
Tang, Wang, Mang, and Lang—though doubtless, such information is hardly
necessary. They were old friends of the King. The four arrived at the
capital in time to see a huge army of hostiles encamp on the far side of
the river that bordered the city. By great good fortune, the river was
past fording, so holding the enemy in check. The King and his generals
gazed across the river. Said he: “It is easily seen that the enemy has
twenty men for every one we muster. What are your plans?” Of all his
generals, only Wang seemed to have so much as the shadow of a plan. Wang
said, “Give me all the tailors in the city, and all the cloth stored in
the royal go-downs.” “Take them,” said King Chang. “If you don’t, the
enemy will.”
Throughout the night General Wang and his tailors slaved needle and
thread. The click of thimbles made a continuous humming sound. The
hostiles on the farther shore heard, and wondered what strange warlike
engines King Chang might be preparing.
With day’s coming, Chang moved all his troops—he had only a thousand.
The thousand men marched in parade along the river’s brim. Their
uniforms were old and dowdy. The words, “We are brave,” that adorned
their tattered jackets seemed a poor and weak boast. They were
ragamuffins. They marched as if weary. The enemy jeered.
[Illustration: The king and his generals gazed across the river.]
But, lo. The first thousand had no sooner disappeared than another
thousand circled past the river—stepping smartly, smartly uniformed in
cloth of gold, the words “Very brave” embroidered upon their fronts. The
enemy was not so quick to jeer.
Following the second thousand came a thousand men in trig red uniforms.
Upon their breasts were broidered “Extremely brave.” They stepped it
briskly, shouting dares across the river. The enemy replied with little
heart.
Another thousand followed. Jade green uniforms clothed them.
Rumbledumblededum sang their drums, and their steps kept perfect time.
Upon their breasts were the words “Still braver,” and upon their lips
great threats. The enemy said little.
Now came men in crow’s-wing black. Upon their breasts were the words
“Braver by far.” Their taunts were hard to bear. Yet, the enemy remained
silent.
A thousand men in pink, the same number in blue. Came white-clad men and
orange-clad men. Violet uniforms replaced uniforms of brown. . . . The
enemy thought it hardly fair. King Chang, evidently, had a million
soldiers. . . . How could they fight against a million? The tents came
down and the enemy vanished.
General Wang continued to sew until the last hostile disappeared. He and
his tailors were terribly tired. But the thousand soldiers were even
more tired. All day long they had marched and changed uniforms, then
marched again. They had changed from red to green, to black, to every
color in the spectrum. They were color blind and weary. But King Chang
merried much and blessed the day that had sent him General Wang, the
tailor.
In a month or so King Chang’s happiness turned to gloom. The enemy had
learned of Wang’s clever trick, and resolved to march again. The army of
Chang was scarcely larger than before. To come off victorious each man
would have to whip a dozen of the enemy. There was no time to increase
the royal army. And the enemy lay on the other side of Ku Hsueh River,
waiting for the waters to lower.
King Chang rode with his generals to the river. Said he: “There lies the
enemy. The depth of the river lessens with each minute. Who has a plan?”
Some of the generals stroked their beards. Others twisted their
mustachios. All wrinkled their brows. Not one of them parted his lips.
“Come. Come, my doughty generals. Have you no plan? General Tang?” Tang
bowed his head the three times required by law and courtesy. “Sire, with
your permission, I have a small scheme that may serve.” “_Chen hao_
(Very good); spare no expense. Draw on the treasury for whatever you may
desire—silk, tailors, fans, or false faces—anything except more
soldiers, for soldiers we have not.” “Then, please, Your Majesty,” said
Tang, “may I ask you to sign an order on the treasury for one ounce of
pine resin.” Then the King thought Tang jesting. His first impulse was
to strike off his head. Instead of doing so, however, he signed the
order for two cents’ worth of resin.
At night General Tang sat upon a crag that towered above the river. He
fondled his precious violin. A little breeze sprang up at his back. Tang
the general was no more, but Tang the musician lived and thrilled. Bow
swept strings with a magic sweetly sad. The breeze caught up the melody.
The river was its sounding board. The soldiers on the farther shore
turned in their blankets to listen. Than home there is no spot
dearer—and the violin sang of home. More and more sad came the music.
The musician wept. Across the river ten thousand eyes grew moist. The
soldiers wept and were unashamed. Why had they left their warm
hearthstones—to die in an alien land? Fierce resolve faded, and a
longing took its stead, a longing for home and the loved ones it
sheltered.
Morning saw the hostile camp deserted. Soldier after soldier had stolen
away in the darkness, thinking only of home. Not one remained to
threaten Ku Hsueh City.
[Illustration: More sad and more sad came the music.]
King Chang assembled his generals and spoke high praise of Tang. Then he
discussed the need of preparation for the future. He knew very well that
the enemy would return. “Have any of you, my trusty generals, a plan for
humbling the enemy in his next invasion?” General Mang, the former
shepherd, voiced a plan. “I would suggest that all horses be replaced by
lean sheep of the mountain.” General Lang, the archer, said, “I would
suggest that all cases at law be settled by trial with bow and arrow.”
“So be it,” said the King, “I grant both requests.”
The enemy soon marched upon Ku Hsueh in greater numbers than before.
Grasshoppers in the August fields were never thicker. It was plain that
only a miracle could save the city. All eyes were turned to General
Mang, turned beseechingly, and rather doubtfully. Could a mountain
shepherd save Ku Hsueh?
That night the question was answered. Mang herded his sheep in a
tremendous body toward the enemy camp. At the proper moment he raised a
great din and startled the animals into flight. Through the camp of the
enemy they rushed, and instantly the camp was confusion. The soldiers
had fared none too well on their march. They were hungry. And here was
good food to be had for the catching. Away went sheep. Away went
soldiers. Thoroughly frightened, the lean-limbed sheep sped their
fastest. Thoroughly desirous, the hungry soldiers followed at their
fastest.
While the camp was empty, Mang and a score of daring men darted from
tent to tent. In their hands were torches. Behind them rose a flare of
ever-spreading flame. “To roast their meat when they catch it,” said
Mang. The wind was a helpful friend, scattering brands with a will. The
destruction was soon finished. What had been a white encampment became a
red and rolling flame. The tents were burned, and the spears and the
bows. Nothing was spared. A thoroughly discomfited enemy stole away from
Ku Hsueh that night.
So far, General Lang had done nothing of a warlike nature—nothing at
all—unless stepping upon the toes of a citizen be considered warlike.
Lang had done that. Naturally, the citizen was incensed. He wished to
see justice done and went to a court of law. The judge said: “Take this
bow and shoot five arrows in yonder target. He who shoots best has the
right on his side.” The young citizen shot first, and his marksmanship
was poor to say the least. Whereupon, Lang drew the bow. Oddly enough,
his aim was no better than that of the citizen. With that the judge
declared the suit undecided and set a future date for its retrial.
General Lang left court well pleased. The young citizen went home to
spend many hours in practice with bow and arrow.
Thereafter the courts were flooded with lawsuits. From morn till night
the bow strings twanged. It appeared that all the men of Ku Hsueh had
grievances to be settled. And they who were wise spent much time in
archery practice ere they went to court. Many became quite expert with
the bow and arrow. . . .
King Chang impressed all of them into his army. At last he had a large
force, a force that would give pause to any foe. Long the King waited
for his enemy’s return. But he waited in vain. Spies had watched the men
of Ku Hsueh at practice with the bow. They sent messages that Ku Hsueh
was prepared. So the country was troubled no more by alarms of hostile
armies.
Thus, without loss of a man, was the kingdom saved for Chang, by Wang,
Tang, Mang, and Lang—a thousand years ago all this, but very learned
men still dispute as to which was the greatest, Lang, Mang, Tang, or
Wang—which of the four generals.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]