"A long time ago there lived a man named Wang Chih, which in our
language means 'the stuff of which kings are made.' In spite of his
name, however, he was only a common husbandman, spending his summers in
plowing, planting and harvesting, and his winters in gathering
fertilizers upon the highways, and fire-wood in the mountains.
"On one occasion he wandered into the mountains of Ch'u Chou, his axe
upon his shoulder, hoping to find more and better fire-wood than could
be found upon his own scanty acres, or the adjoining plain. While in
the mountains he came upon a number of aged men, in a beautiful
mountain grotto, intently engaged in a game of chess. Wang was a good
chess-player himself, and for the time forgot his errand. He laid down
his axe, stood silently watching them, and in a very few moments was
deeply interested in the game.
"It was while he was thus watching them that one of the old men,
without looking up from the game, gave him what seemed to be a date
seed, telling him at the same time to put it in his mouth. He did so,
but no sooner had he tasted it, than he lost all consciousness of
hunger and thirst, and continued to stand watching the players and the
progress of the game, thinking nothing of the flight of time.
"At last one of the old men said to him:
"'You have been here a long time, ought you not to go home?'
"This aroused him from his reverie, and he seemed to awake as from a
dream, his interest in the game passed away, and he attempted to pick
up his axe, but found that it was covered with rust and the handle had
moulded away. But while this called his attention to the fact that time
had passed, he felt not the burden of years.
"When he returned to the plain, and to what had formerly been his home,
he discovered that not only years but centuries had passed away since
he had left for the mountains, and that his relatives and friends had
all crossed to the 'Yellow Springs,' while all records of his departure
had long since been forgotten, and he alone remained a relic of the
past.
"He wandered up and down inquiring of the oldest people of all the
villages, but could discover no link which bound him to the present.
"He returned to the mountain grotto, devoted himself to the study of
the occult principles of the 'Old Philosopher' until the material
elements of his mortal frame were gradually evaporated or sublimated,
and without having passed through the change which men call death, he
became an immortal spirit returning whence he came."
Just as the old woman finished this story, my teacher, who always took
a nap after lunch, ascended the steps.
"Ah, the story of Wang Chih."
"Do you know any of these stories?" I asked him as I sat down beside
him.
"All children learn these stories in their youth," he answered, and
then as if fearing I would try to induce him to tell them to me he
continued, "but nurses always tell these stories better than any one
else, because they tell them so often to the children, for whom alone
they were made."