Han Hsin was not at all high as to stature. He was short, short as a day
in the Month of Long Nights. But as a leader of bow-drawing men, his
place is high. As inventor of the world’s first kite, he rose very high
indeed, and that accounts for the saying, “High as Han Hsin.”
The night that saw Han Hsin’s birth was no ordinary night. It was a
night of fear and grandeur. The Shen who places the stars in the sky had
a shaking hand that eve. His fingers were palsied and could not hold.
Star after star dropped down toward earth, and the people prayed and
wept, the while they exploded firecrackers. It’s a sinister sign when
the stars tumble out of the sky. This the people knew. Therefore, they
trembled.
But, amid the falling stars, was one that rose, as if the Shen had
tossed it, as if the Shen had thrown it high. One large star mounted
higher and higher the while its companions fell. Wise men, astrologers,
they who scan the heavens, said: “The stars that fall—are mighty men
who die. The star that rises—that is the star of a future great
man—born this night.”
The wise men of the village kept careful watch over Han Hsin. He had
been born on the night of the Rising Star. They thought perhaps he might
be the ward of the Star. They watched closely for signs to strengthen
their belief. But for some years Han Hsin disappointed them. He rattled
his calabash in an extremely ordinary manner. There was no hint of
greatness in the way he bounced a ball. Yet the astrologers held to
their faith and watched—and finally were rewarded.
There came a rain, not a hard rain, nevertheless a wetting rain,
sufficient to drive the villagers under shelter. But Han Hsin remained
in the open where quick drops pelted. A foolish villager noticed him and
said, laughing: “Look you at our future great man. He knows not enough
to seek cover from the storm. Ho. Ho. Ho. How wise.”
[Illustration: Han Hsin raised a bridge from island to mainland.]
An old astrologer said: “Hush, _Chieh Kuo_ (Dunce), do you not see that
the youth makes a bridge? Come with me.” They went closer to have a more
complete view. The flowing water had formed a little island in the
street. Upon the island were many ants. As the water rose, the island
grew smaller—and the number of ants grew smaller, many being swept away
to their death. Han Hsin raised a bridge from island to mainland. The
ants quickly discovered his bridge and crossed to safety. “It is a
sign,” said the old astrologer, “_Chi li_ (a good omen). He has
befriended the ants. The ants will remember. Some day they will do him
an equal service—helping him to become great.”
Han Hsin discovered in the King’s paved road a hatchet of better than
fair metal. None of the villagers could prove ownership. Little Han was
permitted to keep his treasure. Quite soon a spirited chopping was
heard—steel ringing upon stone. A foolish villager said: “Look. Han
Hsin uses his fine hatchet to chop the old millstone—thus demonstrating
his great genius. Ho. Ho. Ho. He uses valuable edged steel to chip
stone.”
The old astrologer said, “Hush, _Sha Tzu_ (Imbecile), come with me, and
behold.” A wornout millstone lay at the edge of the road. Through the
hole in its center grew a bamboo tree. The hole was small. Already it
hindered the tree’s growth. Retarded as it was, the bamboo could never
reach a full growth. Han Hsin belabored the stone till it split in two
pieces. Then there was plenty of room for the tree. There was nothing to
“pull its elbow.”
“That is good,” asserted the astrologer. “He saves the bamboo from
death. Some day the bamboo will reward him—help him to become great.”
Shortly afterward, the astrologer gave Han Hsin a note of recommendation
to the King. Han went to the King, seeking employ. He wished a command
in the army. But His Majesty was in a sulky mood and would not see the
boy. Therefore, Han continued his journey into Chin Chou, a neighboring
country. He went to the ruler, Prince Chin, and exhibited his note. The
prince read—and laughed. “You are too small to serve in my army. My
soldiers are giants, all—very strong. You—are _Ko Tsao_ (Little
hopping insect). No.” Han solemnly declared that his strength was that
of a river in flood, and begged for a trial. “Well, if you are
determined,” said the prince, “take my spear and raise it above your
head.” The prince’s spear was solid iron from point to heel, and longer
than the mast of a sea-venturing junk. Furthermore, it had been greased
with tiger fat to prevent rust. Han grasped the spear to raise it. His
fingers slipped. Down crashed the heavy weapon. “Take whips and lash him
out of the city—clumsy knave that he is,” Prince Chin roared in a great
voice—angrily. The spear had missed His Royal Person by the merest
mite.
An old councillor spoke. “Your Highness, surely it cannot be that you
intend to let the rogue live? He will some day return with an army to
take revenge.” “Nonsense,” said the prince. “He is no more than an
ant—and idiotic besides. How could such a fellow secure an army?”
“Nevertheless, I fear the ant will work your downfall. He must be
killed.” The councillor insisted. He argued so strongly for Han’s death
that, rather than hear more, the prince consented. “It is useless. But
do as you wish. Send a squad of horse to overtake him and fetch back his
head.”
When Han Hsin beheld the soldiers approaching at top speed, there was no
doubt in his mind as to what harsh errand brought them. He knew they
intended to have his head. But Han, having lived so long with his head,
had become fond of it, and preferred to keep it on his shoulders. But
how? How could it be saved? There was no escape by running. There was no
place to hide. The boy must use his wits.
Hastily tying a cord to his bamboo staff, he threw the staff into a
tiny, shallow puddle of water that lay beside the road. The soldiers
galloped up to find him seated on the bank—fishing—and weeping. “And
what ails you, simpleton?” a soldier asked. “Have you lost your nurse?”
Between sobs Han answered, “I am hungry and I can’t catch any fish.”
“What a booby,” said another soldier. “He fishes in a puddle no larger
than a copper cash.” “Look,” said yet another, “he throws in the pole,
and holds the hook in his hand. What a _chieh kuo_; as foolish as Nu Wa,
who melted stones to mend a hole in the sky.” “Do you suppose this is
the creature we were told to kill?” He was answered: “Nonsense. Prince
Chin doesn’t send his cavalry to kill an ant. Spur your horses.”
When the troops returned and reported their lack of success, there was
much talk. The councillor raged, offering to resign. He was positive
that so long as Han Hsin lived the government would be in danger. He was
bitter because the troops had mistaken Han’s cunning for imbecility.
Merely to humor the councillor, Prince Chin mounted a horse and galloped
away with his troops.
Han Hsin put his best foot foremost, hurrying toward the border. He
longed to trudge the turf of his own country once more. It was not that
homesickness urged his steps. Han felt reasonably sure that his friends,
the soldiers, would shortly take the road again. The next time they
might not be so easily deluded. Therefore, he hastened. But it was
useless. His own country was still miles distant when he beheld the dust
of men who whipped their horses.
It is not pleasant to have one’s head lopped off. At times it is almost
annoying. Han thought quickly. Near by was a melon patch. The melons
were large in their ripeness. Upon a huge striped _hsi kua_ the boy sat
him down and wept. The tears coursed down his cheeks, and his body shook
with sobbing. Undoubtedly, his sorrow was great.
[Illustration: “I—I—I am hungry,” stammered Han Hsin.]
Prince Chin stopped his steed with a jerk. “_Ai chi_—such grief. Are
you trying to drown yourself with tears?” “I—I—I am hungry,” stammered
Han Hsin. “Hungry? Then why don’t you eat a melon?” “I would, sire, but
I’ve lost my knife. So I must s-s-starve.” The prince was well assured
that he had met with the most foolish person in the world. “What? Starve
because you have no knife? . . . Strike the melon with a stone. . . .
Such a dunce. It would never do for me to behead this fellow. The Shen
who watches over imbeciles would be made angry.” A trooper slashed a
dozen melons with his sword. Surely, a dozen would save the idiot from
starvation. Oh, what an idiot.
Han Hsin sat on the ground, obscuring his features in the red heart of a
melon as the prince and his men departed. His lips moved—but not in
eating. His lips moved in silent laughter.
Han Hsin bothered no more Kings with notes setting forth the argument
that he had been born under a lucky star, and so deserved well. Quite
casually, he fell in with King Kao Lin’s army. He received no pay. His
name was not on the muster. He hobnobbed with all the soldiers and soon
became a favorite. The boy had a remarkable memory. He learned the name
of every soldier in the army. Further, he learned the good and bad
traits of each soldier, knew who could be depended upon and who was
unreliable. He knew from what village each man came, and he could
describe the village with exactness. All from hearing the soldiers talk.
A fire destroyed the army muster-roll. Han Hsin quickly wrote a new
list, giving the name of each man, his age, his qualities, his parents,
and his village. King Kao Lin marveled. Shortly afterward, he added
Han’s name to the list—a general.
Prince Chin made war upon King Kao Lin. He marched three armies through
the kingdom, and where the armies had passed there was desolation, and
no two stalks of grain remained in any field. Han Hsin moved against the
smallest of the three armies. The enemy waited, well hidden above a
mountain pass through which Han must march. It was an excellent
ambush—there was no other passage. The mountain was so steep no man
could climb it.
Han caused his soldiers to remove their jackets and fill them with sand,
afterward tying bottom and top securely. The sand bags were placed
against a cliff, to form a stair way. Up went Han and his men, to come
upon the enemy from behind and capture the whole army—cook and general.
The second hostile army retreated to the river Lan Shui. It crossed the
river, then burned all boats and bridges. So safe from pursuit felt the
hostile general, he neglected to post sentries. Instead, he ordered all
the men to feast and make pleasure. Han Hsin ordered his men to remove
the iron points from their spears. The hollow bamboo shafts of the
spears were lashed together, forming rafts. Armed only with light bows
the men quickly crossed Lan Shui River and pounced upon their unready
enemy. The feast was eaten by soldiers other than those for whom it had
been intended.
Prince Chin led the third and largest army. He had far more braves than
Han commanded. There could be no whipping him in open battle. In
strategy lay the only hope. Han Hsin clothed many thousand scarecrows
and placed them in the battle-line—a scarecrow, a soldier—another
scarecrow, another soldier. In that manner, to all appearance, he
doubled his army. Forthwith, he wrote a letter demanding
surrender—pointing out that since his army was so much larger than Chin
Pa’s, to fight would be a useless sacrifice.
Prince Chin took long to decide upon his course. So long it took him
that Han grew impatient and sat down to write again. While he wrote, a
strong wind broke upon the camp. The papers on Han’s table were lifted
high in air. Higher and higher they swirled, higher than an eagle—for
the Shen of Storms to read. Han’s golden knife, resting on a paper, was
lifted by the wind, transported far over the foeman’s camp.
Immediately an idea seethed in the leader’s mind. If a small piece of
paper could carry a knife, might not a large piece carry the knife’s
owner? Especially, when that owner happened to be not much more weighty
than a three-day bean cake? It seemed reasonable. Again the little
general took spears from his soldiers. The iron points were removed and
the long bamboo shafts were bound together in a frame. Over the frame
was fastened tough bamboo paper in many sheets. Away from prying enemy
eyes, the queer contrivance was sent into air. It proved sky-worthy,
lifting its maker to a fearsome height. Thus was the _feng cheng_
invented. Thus was the kite, little brother of the aeroplane, invented
by Han Hsin.
[Illustration: Prince Chin Pa tried in vain to hold his followers.]
The night showed no moon. Not a star had been lighted. The wind blew
strong, with an eerie whistling. It was such a night as demons walk
about their mischief, and honest men keep under their quilts. Out of the
sky above the enemy camp came a great flapping sound. Could it be a
dragon? All eyes peered upward through the darkness. . . . Two red eyes
appeared. . . . Nothing more could be seen. . . . Only the two evil
eyes. A voice came from the sky. “Return to your homes,” boomed the
voice. “The battle is lost. Return to your homes, ere they too are
lost.” The men of Chin shook with their fear. The Shen of the sky had
spoken. They had heard his voice. They had heard the flapping of his
wings. They had seen his red and terrible eyes. How could the men of
Chin know that the words they heard were uttered by Han Hsin? How could
they know that the flapping was caused by a man-made thing, later to be
named “_feng cheng_” (kite)? And how could they know that the eyes were
mere bottles filled with insects called “Bright at night (Fireflies)”?
The men of Chin could not know. They loosened the ropes of their
tents—and the tents came down.
Prince Chin tried in vain to hold his followers. No longer followers
were they. They were fugitives, fleeing to their homes. Only a few
hundred remained true to their prince. Doubly armed with the weapons
that had been thrown away, they ascended a steep and rocky hill, there
to make their last great fight.
But Han Hsin had anticipated just such action, and had prepared for it.
Unseen, he had slipped through the enemy lines and climbed the hill.
With a brush dipped in honey he wrote words upon a stone. As he wrote,
came hungry ants. The ants came—to aid—and to feast. Soon the stone
was black with a crawling multitude.
Prince Chin scaled the hill to its summit. Ten thousand swords could not
dislodge him from those rocks. He would make the enemy pay a red price
for success. . . . His gaze fell upon the rock. . . . He saw a host of
ants forming characters that read “The Battle is Lost.” His men also
beheld, and they said, “The ant is wisest of all animals. Let us crawl
in the dust, for we are conquered.”
So, Han Hsin victored over the three hostile armies. His country was
invaded no more. In time it became really his country, for he ruled
it—as a King—ruled it well. But now his wise rule is forgotten. He is
remembered as the man who first made kites.
[Illustration]