Three plump mandarins hid behind a single tiny rose bush. The chancellor
crawled under a chair. All courtiers fell upon their chins, and
shivering, prayed that soft words might prevail.
For no slight reason did they shiver and hide and pray. King Yang Lang
was angry. And he was an old-fashioned monarch, living in the long ago.
Nowadays, any greasy kitchen lout may tweak a King’s beard, and go forth
to boast of his bravery. But then-a-days, Kings were Kings, and their
swords were ever sharp.
King Yang Lang was such a ruler—and more angry than is good to see. His
face was purple, and his voice boomed like a battle drum. “Keeper of the
Treasury, has all my gold been used to make weights for fishing lines?”
Time after time the treasurer knocked his head against the paving. “Most
Glorious and Peaceful Monarch, your gold is so plentiful that seven
years must pass before I can finish counting the larger bars—ten years
more for the smaller.”
That was rather pleasant news. The King’s voice lost some of its
harshness. “What of ivory? Has all my ivory been burned for firewood, a
pot to boil?”
The treasurer continued to knock his Head. “Supreme Ruler of The World
and The Stars, your ivory completely fills a hundred large and closely
guarded vaults.”
The King hadn’t dreamed that his wealth was so vast. His voice was not
more moderately furious as he asked: “For what reason have you disposed
of my jade? Do you mean to say that my jade has been used to build a
stable for donkeys?”
Tap, tap, tap, went the treasurer’s head on marble paving: “Oh, Powerful
Potentate, the store of green jade grows larger each day. Your precious
white jade is worth more than green, and gold, and ivory combined. It is
all quite safe, under lock and key and watchful spears.”
The King was astonished and put in somewhat better humor. His voice was
no louder than thunder as he again questioned the treasurer. “Then why,
tell me why is my daughter, the Princess Chin Uor, not given suitable
toys. If the treasury holds gold and ivory and jade, why is my daughter
compelled to use toys of common clay?”
The treasurer could not explain: “Monarch whose word compels the sun to
rise, we have pleaded with the wee Princess Chin Uor. We have given her
a thousand dolls of solid gold, with silver cradles for each, cradles
set with rubies—and the dolls have eyes of lustrous black pearl. For
the princess we have made ivory cats, and ivory mice for the cats to
catch—two thousand of each. For the princess we have fashioned from
jade, lovely tossing balls, wonderful dishes, and puppy dogs that bark
and come when called. Yet, the princess ignores these things . . . and
makes mud pies—Mud Pies. Mightiest Majesty, I do not know why, unless
it may be that the princess is a girl, as well as a princess.”
A trifle relieved, King Yang Lang passed into the garden. Beside the
river bank he found his daughter, the Princess Chin Uor, or Princess
Many Dimples—for that is the meaning of Chin Uor. Nurses standing near
kept watch upon wheelbarrows spilling over with golden dolls. But Chin
Uor had no thought for such toys. Her royal hands shaped the tastiest of
mud pies. Very pretty pies they were—made of white clay.
The King said: “Littlest and most beautiful daughter, the golden dolls
are longing for your touch. Why do you not please them? It is not seemly
for a princess to dabble in clay. Then why do you make pies?”
The princess had a very good answer ready. “Because, Daddy, I want to
make pies. This nice large one is for your dinner.”
The King was so shocked that he could say nothing more. Mud pies for a
King’s dinner? Such nonsense. His Majesty was scandalized at the
thought. He departed in haste.
But the Princess Chin Uor smiled and kneaded more and more pies. And
when she had made enough she placed them in a wheelbarrow and trundled
them to the palace.
And now the story changes. Far away to the west, in a mountain named
Huge Rocks Piled, the famous dragon, Oo Loong, made his home. This
fierce dragon was a creature of consuming greed. He was ever hungry and
anxious to dine. A rabbit or an elephant—nothing was too large, nothing
too small. A turtle or a jellyfish—nothing was too hard, nothing too
soft. A man he considered fine eating. Boys he liked somewhat better.
Girls? Girls were far superior to boys—in the dragon’s opinion.
[Illustration: This nice large one is for your dinner.]
Much sorrow this ferocious _loong_ had created in His Majesty’s kingdom.
A reward of one hundred silver pieces had been offered for the dragon’s
horns, two hundred for his ears. Magicians had worked charms to slay
him—only themselves to be slain. Hunters had loaded their jingals with
yellow paper, and had fired where the dragon was thickest, fired where
he was thinnest—only to be eaten—their guns with them. Made angry by
the loss of so many people, King Yang Lang marched an army into the
Mountain of Huge Rocks Piled. And the army was well armed with thumping
drums and fifes and smoking guns.
Then the dragon became doubly furious and ferocious. To punish King Yang
Lang, he resolved to visit the palace. That, he knew, would cause the
army to be withdrawn. Accordingly, at the hour of deepest slumber,
darksome mid of night, he prowled round Yang Lang’s palace, seeking
entrance. He had no easy task. Upon the King’s door were pictures, also
the word “Chi,” written in gold. And so that door was well protected.
The Queen’s door likewise was dragon proof. It was covered with whole
sentences taken from the black book of Hu Po, master magician. The door
that led to where Princess Chin Uor slept was made strong by magic words
and symbols. More of Hu Po’s sorcery. Useless to prowl there. Dangerous
to prowl there. The dragon was a knowing beast and prudent. The signs
were against him. Hence, he tarried not, but crawled down the hallway in
leaving.
A wheelbarrow stood in his path. He could not pass to the right. To the
left he could not pass. Nor could he leap over the obstruction. But the
dragon was not one to be baffled by such a weak and wooden contrivance.
His huge mouth opened and his white hot breath rushed forth. In a
twinkling the wooden barrow vanished. Like a butter cake dropped upon
the summer sun it melted, burned to a cinder of nothingness.
Now the wheelbarrow thus destroyed was property of the little Princess
Chin Uor. In it had been golden dolls, dolls of the princess. The dolls
were dolls no longer. Under the dragon’s fiery breath they changed to a
pool of liquid gold. The hard gold became soft and flowing.
In the barrow had been pretty mud pies, pies of the princess. Under the
dragon’s burning breath they were changed to discs of stony hardness.
The soft clay took on a hardness as of flint. The princess had wished
her pies to dry. And her wish had been granted.
Next morning, the palace, from presence room to pantry, buzzed with
excitement. Oo Loong had dared intrude within the royal dwelling. It
could not be doubted. He had left his footprints in the molten gold, and
the gold, in hardening, had preserved his tracks.
Witches and wizards came to make more able charms. Messengers galloped
away to summon the distant army. The King raged and roared. Said His
Majesty: “Let that reprobate dragon return, if he dares. If he dares,
let that reprobate dragon return.” The courtiers trembled and gasped:
“Pray may the wicked _loong_ never return. Never, never return.” But
little Princess Many Dimples played with her pies and was happy. Her
pies had been baked to a queen’s taste—or rather to the taste of a
princess. Beside the river she worked faithfully in wet white clay. Such
beautiful pies. “I do hope that the nice _loong_ will return,” said
Princess Chin Uor. “He is such a fine oven. I shall make a hundred more
pies for his baking.”
Pie after pie. Even the nurses helped. Instead of saying, “Please, will
your Royal Highness not play with this lovely doll?” they said, “Please,
is this one rounded enough?” and “Please, shall I scallop the edges a
trifle deeper?” and “Shall I imagine that this one contains cherries, or
radishes?” or whatever it may be that makers of pies would say in a
royal kitchen. So, a hundred pies were made and wheeled to the palace.
In reality, they numbered a hundred and one, but the odd one was so
thick that it must be called a cake. Howbeit, that is not so important
as you might think.
Night followed day—a habit that most nights have. The soldiers
slept—as they had been ordered not to do. The hour approached when
clock hands point to the highest sky. Midnight came, and with it the
mountainous mountain _loong_. Unseen by those whose duty was seeing, the
dragon entered King Yang Lang’s courtyard. And there he was perplexed
and paused. The King’s door was a hodgepodge of magic signs, plastered
with yellow paper. Vain to think of entering there. The Queen’s door was
upside down—best charm of all. To think of entering was vain. The door
that led to Princess Chin Uor’s sleeping chamber was written thick with
words to still a dragon’s heart, circles to dizzy his head. Say what you
please, the witches and wizards had done good work upon that door. Their
charms were written with clearness and force. The _loong_ dared not take
a second glance. He felt his limbs grow weak. Wisely hastened he from
the spell-guarded threshold.
Now in the reign of the Emperor Ming, a crazed and knavish fellow, known
to the world as Wing Dow, invented a contrivance called by him
“Look-through-the-wall,” but which we of today call a “Window.” His
invention gave the Emperor Ming a severe cold, and Wing Dow came within
a sword’s width of losing his ears—but more of that later. Here it is
necessary to say only that Look-through-the-walls became popular, and
many such were to be found in King Yang Lang’s palace. In the Princess
Chin Uor’s room were many wing-dows (or windows), and—hard to
believe—those wing-dows were unguarded either by charm or by apple wood
beam, which is as good as a charm. Could the dragon pass by such a fine
chance? Could he pass the wing-dow and not have a try? When he had come
with purpose to do harm? It is easy to imagine the thing that happened.
And yet not so easy as may seem.
The dragon’s lumpish head entered the wing-dow. His deer horns, his
rabbit eyes, his snake tongue, all entered, and easily enough. A
ponderous sofa-cushion foot he placed upon the window ledge. . . .
Crash, and smash, and clatter. . . .
The nurses awoke and screamed, “Save us.”
The Princess Chin Uor awoke and said, “Shoo.”
Soldiers in the courtyard awoke and lighted green fires as they smote
their drums, saying: “Come if you dare. Help. Help.”
The dragon was already awake—awake to the danger. Promptly he vanished.
Such noise he could not abide.
King Yang Lang came with a golden torch. Greatly he was pleased that the
_loong_ had been routed.
But Princess Chin Uor was far from pleased. Indeed, she was fretful.
From the floor she took a sliver of flint-hard clay. “My pies are all
broken. All. All are broken,” mourned Princess Many Dimples. “I had
placed them in the wing-dow. And the dragon knocked them down and broke
them.” And beyond doubt so had he done. There were the pieces.
Still the King remained cheerful. His little daughter’s sadness passed
unnoticed. His Majesty said: “Your pies, my daughter, are excellent
food—let no one deny it—but even better are they to give warning of
the dragon’s nearness. Your pies have provided me with a wonderful idea.
Hereafter we need have no more fear of the _loong_. . . . Ho. General.
Awaken your soldiers again. Let them march to the river.”
For a week the King’s army did no other labor than make mud pies. And
liked it. The pies were given heat in giant ovens, were baked into stony
hardness. Then they were placed throughout the palace, in windows, upon
tables, chairs, upon chests and shelves, high and low and everywhere.
Even on the chimney tops were rows of glistening pies. The slightest
misstep by a prowling dragon would have caused a din most tremendous.
The royal dining table was a shining whiteness, covered with mud pies.
So numerous were the pies of the princess that no room remained for
food. But that was no cause for worry. The King merely ordered that his
rice be placed upon a baked clay pie. Mandarins who visited the palace
were much surprised at what they saw—a King eating from common clay.
Nevertheless, their own tables were soon covered with Princess Chin
Uor’s pies. For the King, of course, set all fashions.
And so, we modern peoples speak of our plates and cups and saucers as
“China.” China? Is it? Yes, and no. China is merely our way of
pronouncing Chin Uor. Our plates are merely thin copies of Princess Chin
Uor’s pies.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]