shrill, high-pitched voice speaking to him from the latticed window
above him, saying: “Little boy! little boy! where is your _mo chun_?”
“She at home,” he replied, and then hesitatingly faltered, “_Ngo pa ngo
tong cho lu lok_” (I am afraid I have lost my way).
He was crying now, and presented a very mournful appearance to the gaze
of the passer-by. These ladies above him were those of the tiny “golden
lily feet,” and very wealthy and aristocratic, so they could not leave
their rooms and come down to him, as that was not their custom. If it
had been the next day they could have done so, for on every day of the
week of San Nin they were permitted to leave their homes and go
anywhere they pleased.
“_Ni kiu mat meng a?_” (what is your name?) they asked.
“My name? Sing Ho,” he cried.
“You come up,” they called down to him, pointing meanwhile to a dark and
narrow stairway which led up from the street.
“It so dark--Sing Ho ’flaid to go alone--I want _mo chun_--boo, hoo,” he
wailed, in a pitiful little voice.
“But you must come. We find _mo chun_; we give you heap plenty
fiah-clackeh (fire-cracker), plenty nice little cake; come on!”
Baby though he was, he remembered that his mother had always warned him
against strangers, and told him never to allow any one to persuade him
to go with them. But finally he decided that this was very different,
and that anything would be better than being lost on the street.
“All light!” he sobbed, and started in great fear up the narrow
stairway. Ugh! how dark it was! and he trembled, as his little sandalled
feet crept hesitatingly on. When he at last reached the end of the
stairway he found himself in a dark and narrow hall thick with the fumes
of opium.
Where were the beautiful ladies?--and the little cakes? Nothing was to
be seen but the gaunt figures of Chinamen gliding stealthily to and fro
in the narrow hall. There were many doors on either side the hallway,
and in each door was a small, square lattice into which the men would
speak some queer words in Chinese, when the door would be cautiously
opened, and he would enter. When the doors opened little Sing Ho caught
glimpses of many Chinamen with cards in their hands, seated around some
tables and calling out in a loud voice strange Chinese words which he
could not understand. In some of the rooms he could see men reclining on
bamboo couches and smoking opium. Oh, if his mother could see him now,
as he stood there alone, and trembling in the half-darkness!
Just then his dear and beautiful little mother had put the last stitch
in the blouse she was embroidering, and proudly held it out to the
admiring gaze of her sister, who lived with her.
“He is playing outside; I go get him,” she said; and with a smile on her
lips she opened the door and called him.
“Sing Ho! Sing Ho!”
No reply.
“Why, that is strange,” she thought. “Maybe he come in the house and go
to sleep.”
She hurried into the small bedroom and looked eagerly at the couch. No,
there was no _samen jai_ there. She was trembling now, with a nameless
fear. Her pretty face grew pale, and the little brown nervous fingers
were like ice.
Her boy--her baby--the honored one of the house of Sing, whose birth had
crowned her with glory. Why, he must be there; he could not be gone from
her--and yet--where was he? Her little tender baby boy who had never
been from her side; the little brown face, naughty, sometimes, it is
true, but always, to the mother, the dearest of things in all the big
world.
Without stopping to change her house-robes she rushed down the street,
and to the store of her husband, Sing Kee. He was just going down into
the cellar after some tubs of preserved ginger, when he was startled by
seeing his wife appear before him. The cat, that had always been loved
and petted by little Sing Ho, lay sunning itself at the entrance, and
Sing Kee looked up with a very serious face, for he knew that no little
matter would bring his wife thus unexpectedly to his place of business.
She surely would not be going on the street the day before the New
Year.
“What’s the matter?” he asked in Chinese. She could hardly reply for the
wild throbbing of her tender heart.
“My baby--my precious pearl--he lost! I no can find him; he gone--I no
know where.”
And then she hid her face in her trembling brown hands and wept in the
wildest grief. The poor father was terrified, for he knew what a big
place Chinatown was, and how easily a little child could be lost or
stolen, or hidden away, and no one would ever see it again. He knew the
underground passages and dark opium dens which were thick around them,
and his heart almost broke as he listened to her story. She had little
to tell. It was only that he had wanted to take a walk, and she had told
him he must not go, believing that he would obey her, as he always had.
They started through the streets now, in search of him, their eager eyes
gazing in all directions. Two of his little playmates stood on a
doorstep, and they inquired of them if they had seen him. Yes, they had
seen him early in the afternoon. He had passed them, carrying his
umbrella.
The distracted parents searched until the dark night fell and the great
dragon lanterns were lighted in the balcony of the joss house near by.
The joss house!--there was an idea! Why had they not thought of it
before? They would go there at once, and supplicate the god, that they
might find their baby. They ascended the long flights of stairs until
they were right in the room with the joss. There were little bowls of
ashes full of punks, to be burned before the god, and the odor of
incense filled the air as they lighted them and waved them before the
joss.
Sing Kee threw many of the little carved prayer-sticks into the air,
too, and when they fell, looked at them eagerly, evidently seeing
something about them which pleased him, for he smiled, and said to the
timid little mother: “They say we find him to-mollow--we go home now.”
They went home, but it was not home to-night without the dear little
round, saucy face on the hard pillow, the patter of the little
sandalled feet on the floors, and the click of the little chopsticks.
There was no sleep for them that night. They had told the Chinatown
police of their loss, but no clue had yet been reported.
Early next morning they started out again, on their weary search. It was
the first day of the New Year, but they had not dreamed they would
celebrate it in this way, as with heavy hearts they picked their way
through the narrow streets, glancing in every direction, and up at the
flower-laden balconies, with the candles burning for the joss.
Meanwhile the little Sing Ho had stood in fright, and looked around him,
in the darkness of the hallway. Where were the pretty ladies? Had he
only dreamed he saw them?
Suddenly he heard a high-pitched but sweet voice somewhere above him,
saying: “Where are you, little boy? Come up the other stairs.”
The other stairs? where were they? He had supposed that he was at the
top now, but on looking around he saw still another flight of steps, and
gladly running to them he started on upward again, as fast as his tired
little legs could carry him. When he reached the top, some one opened a
door, cautiously, and calling out “_Yap loi le!_” (Come in!) reached out
a beautiful jewelled hand, and drew him softly within the room.
Oh, how lovely it all was! There was a chatter of women’s voices in
high-bred, nasal tones, and the room was warm, and smelled of incense.
One very pretty little lady drew him to her as tenderly as a mother,
and said to him in the sweetest tones: “Do not fear, little one! I will
find _mo chun_ for you. Where do you live?”
“Why, I live with _mo chun_ and _ho chun_,” he said.
“Where do they live?” she inquired.
“I no know--they live at my home--and _mo chun_ she make me velly pletty
blouse.”
Poor little boy! so he could not give them any clue, then, by which they
might find his parents. Well, they would have to wait, and do the best
they could under the circumstances. They tried to make him forget his
sorrow for a while, and showed him many wonderful things. In the centre
of the room was a table, all arranged for the New Year, and on it were
great bowls of China lilies, and Chinese lemons and oranges. Then there
was a polished tray, holding all kinds of candy and nuts. The windows
were a perfect mass of lily and almond blossom, and peacock’s feathers
were everywhere staring, with their green eyes. Outside was the balcony,
from which the ladies had first spoken to the little lost boy, and on it
were many big dragon lanterns, whose soft light fell upon the flowers,
and made it look like fairyland.
They served tea out on the balcony, and gave Sing Ho the dearest little
cup, and cakes, and plenty of watermelon seed to nibble at, and
everything that he loved, except--his dear mama. When the breezes began
to blow too roughly and sway the dragon lanterns, they decided to put
the little stranger to bed. This was the worst moment of all. How could
he go to bed without his dear mother’s kiss? Oh, how his lonely little
heart ached and ached, and he just had to let the big tears come, and
roll down his cheeks. He didn’t want to be rude to the pretty lady,
but--there was no one like his _mo chun_. Finally he did go to sleep,
though, and when he awoke it was the first day of the New Year.
He was waited upon like a little king, with a big bowl of rice and ivory
chopsticks, nice hot tea, and little almond cakes--everything that one
could wish, but--it did not take the ache out of his heart. After
breakfast he and the beautiful lady went
[Illustration: _Copyright, 1900, by Schulze._
_His own beautiful_ mo chun]
out on the balcony, and sat there for hours, looking down at the crowd.
The streets were thronged now, and there was an incessant noise of
fireworks. The New Year had begun in earnest. The lady was going to take
him for a walk that afternoon, but they would sit on the balcony now,
and watch the crowds beneath. There were so many children, and all
dressed in their richest robes. It made the heart of little Sing Ho ache
to see the richly embroidered blouses, so like his own, and if he had
not been naughty and run away he might even now be walking along down
there, wearing the blouse, and holding the hand of his own beautiful _mo
chun_.
His own beautiful _mo chun_?--Why--why--he rubbed his eyes and stared
down into the street. Was he dreaming?
“_Mo chun! Mo chun!_” he screamed, in his shrill baby voice; for down on
the street beneath the balcony hurried a pale but pretty little Chinese
woman, her searching gaze going in every direction.
“It is my _mo chun_! Stop!” he cried; and the Chinese lady on the
balcony threw down her painted fan and hit the little mother of Sing Ho
right on the head. Glancing upward in surprise, the mother looked
straight into the eyes of her precious pearl, her little Sing Ho! Oh,
the rapture and the mother-love that shone in her face now! How the
light came back into her eyes, and the red lips smiled, and the red rose
bloomed in her cheeks as she reached out her arms to the balcony and
sobbed: “_Hai tong! hai tong_ (baby! baby)!”
The father, who had gone on in front of her, Chinese fashion, was called
back, and together they ascended the same steps which had so frightened
their baby boy. As it was the New Year week it was perfectly proper that
they should both enter the rooms of the Chinese ladies, and what a happy
time that was!
Every one soon became acquainted, through the medium of a little child,
and very soon they were all having a New Year’s cup of tea and other
dainties, and were laughing and chatting away as if they had known each
other always.
When they went home Sing Ho was given so many beautiful things that his
little arms were full, and _ho_ _chun_ said as they entered the door of
their own home: “I knew we would find him, because the prayer-sticks
said so.”
_THE SLAVE-GIRL’S THANKSGIVING_
It was Thanksgiving Eve; but of this fact Pao Chu was entirely ignorant,
for how could she know anything of Thanksgiving, or of giving thanks,
when she was only a little Chinese slave, and had never been out of her
prison in Chinatown?
Quong Lee, the president of the Quong Duck Tong, a highbinder society,
was her owner, and she supposed that everybody was like him, and that
there was no goodness or happiness in all the world. All the world to
Pao Chu meant just the limited area she could see from her iron-barred
window--about one foot square. And yes--on one occasion the old hag who
guarded her had fallen into a deep opium sleep, and Pao Chu had slipped
out on the tiny, flower-decked balcony, and, leaning far over, had gazed
with pathetic eagerness down at the swarming crowd of Chinamen below.
Her name meant “precious pearl,” but she could see no reason for such a
meaning, unless--yes, it must be because she would bring a big price
when she was sold again. She had overheard Quong Lee talking to the old
hag Suey Gong one night when they had thought she slept, and he had said
then that one of his highbinder friends had offered him three thousand
dollars for Pao Chu, but he was not going to sell her yet, as he
thought he could get five thousand soon, for she was growing more
beautiful every day. But the poor little pearl paid dearly for that one
little tantalizing glimpse of the Chinese world. It happened to be the
night of a Chinese celebration,--the “Moon Festival,”--and the light
from the great dragon lanterns swaying above her shone full upon her
pretty face. Many glanced upward, and were startled by the lovely
apparition. Her face was full of Oriental witchery, and the tender young
soul of her shone out in the great velvet eyes, and the pretty mouth
glowed like a scarlet rose, while her hair shone in the mystical fairy
light of the lanterns.
But alas for Pao Chu, the pure pearl in the mire! As she gazed down at
the moving merry crowd, her whole soul in her eyes, and living a whole
life in that one moment, two passed beneath the balcony--a fateful two;
one the highbinder friend of her master, who saw her face, and forever
after wished to gain possession of it for his own, and the other her
master, Quong Lee, the great and high--Quong Lee, the demon and
arch-fiend. At first he was amazed at the transformation that happiness
had made in her face, and then--with one bound he was up the stairs. The
poor little slave-girl stood transfixed with horror. She called
hysterically on the little squatty god in the corner, but the god
stolidly refused to listen,--indeed he always had refused. She could not
recall a time when he had ever listened; and now her master strode
furiously into the room, and grasped the poor trembling child with his
great murderous hands. He shook her violently, and hurled at her all the
Chinese profanity at his command. He beat her so that she almost died,
and she would so much rather have really died, but he would not kill the
goose that laid the golden eggs. Oh, no! this little bit of stubborn
womanhood would fill his purse with gold some day, and so--he must not
go too far. He must not cripple or maim her or she would be a drug on
the market. He would simply beat her and starve her for a few days, and
bestow upon her every vile epithet in his category.
He then dragged the old Suey Gong from her hard couch and gave her a
beating. Her brain was so deadened with opium that she could not
understand why she was being beaten; but then it did not matter why, she
had often been beaten, and there must be a reason for it. She would have
liked to know, of course, but then it was a woman’s place to be beaten,
as the _yen_, or female principle, was the source of all evil, and must
be chastised whenever the male principle should see fit to do so.
From that time on there was no more freedom for the little slave. No
fresh air save that which came through the tiny lattice; no glimpse of
any human being save the old hag and the highbinder. Nothing to do but
just to sit and make cigarettes all day, for her master to sell, and to
talk to the old Suey Gong.
It was two years since her fateful visit to the balcony, and the girl
was talking in her innocent way to the old woman.
“Suey Gong! do you know when I be sold? Will the new master beat me evly
day? What kind of a life will it be? Tell me!” These, and many other
questions, but to none of them could the old woman reply. If she had
known the answers she would not have dared.
“I no _sabe_ (understand) anything,” she said, “I only know China girl
neveh be happy. Bad spirits allee timee stay with her. She must allee
timee play (pray) to the gods; she must work for man, he must beat her;
she neveh be flee (free). She have heap plenty bad time here; I no know
why; I no can tell.”
“But why should I play to god when he neveh hear? Listen! listen!--Suey
Gong! I no play to Chinese god any more. Afteh this I play--I play
to--’Melican god. Then we see!”
The old woman held up her hands in horror. The American spirit had
surely gotten into this bit of Chinese girlhood. O that she had never
told this girl about the American god! It was too late now, though, for
Pao Chu with clasped hands was saying:
“Oh, heap good ’Melican joss! Listen to a poor slave-girl’s prayer! My
master he beat me evly day; I no can tell why. I tly to be good, but he
allee time beat me and starve me; I _so_ unhappy. Oh, good ’Melican god,
if you can hear me, set me flee (free)!”
This innocent petition was enough to have brought tears to the eyes of
even the little clay god, but he was not moved. Old Suey Gong was so
terrified for fear the girl’s prayer would bring down the whole horde of
evil spirits upon them that she in feverish haste set to work to light
fresh incense sticks before the joss, and to set fresh bowls of food and
tea before him. All this happened on Thanksgiving Eve, though there was
nothing at all in the slave-girl’s life for which she could be thankful,
even if she had known it was Thanksgiving.
But wait!--there _was_ something, for old Suey Gong was telling her that
the master had received an important telegram from some member of the
Quong Duck Tong, which had called him out of the city, and he would not
be able to return for two whole days,--two days without being beaten!
Perhaps already the ’Melican god had heard. If she could only gain the
consent of the old woman she might once more venture on the forbidden
balcony. The fates were kind and the opium goddess filled the old
woman’s brain with dreams, and held down her eyelids. She slept, but the
little girl did not. Garbed in pale lavender silk, she stole noiselessly
out on the forbidden balcony. Her slim brown fingers lovingly caressed
the Chinese lilies wrapped in red paper to scare away the bad spirits.
Just now the bad spirits were not on duty, luckily for the little
Chinese maiden. The tang of the sea air was so refreshing to her
starved senses. She could look down to-night without fear, for her
master would not come to-night, and in a childish, unformed way she
breathed a blessing on the unknown highbinder who had sent the message,
and although she did not know it was Thanksgiving Eve, a prayer of
thanks to the unknown, intangible power who had given her this moment’s
freedom went up from her innocent heart.
Everywhere down the streets of “Little China” the big lanterns glowed
and swung in the fresh night air. A bell pealed out on the silence, and
seemed to speak of peace, and of something different from the life she
knew.
Suddenly her eye fell upon some one who did not wear the accustomed
queue and blouse,--a big, strong American man with a kind face stood
looking up at her. He wore a blue suit and brass buttons, and on his
coat gleamed a great shining star. While he gazed upward at the girl a
carriage rattled over the cobble-stones and stopped right under the
balcony.
And now the big man was saying--could it be that he was speaking to
her?--Hello, little one! Would you like to celebrate Che San Yet?” She
knew that meant thanksgiving, but the Chinese Thanksgiving did not come
until February, and she could not imagine what he meant.
He resumed: “Come with me, you poor little slave, and I will take you to
a good, kind home, where they will never beat you, and you will be
free.”
Free? She could not take in the meaning of the word. She could not even
dream what it must be to be free. “Oh, no! I velly much ’flaid bad
spirit catch me; I no can come; you down so low, and I up so high.”
But just then the carriage door opened, and a woman’s sweet face looked
out, and a woman held out motherly arms of love toward the high balcony
and its lonely occupant.
And old Suey Gong still slept.
A sweet voice called up: “Come and live with me, dear; I will always be
kind.”
Pao Chu’s eyes filled with tears. It was the first time in all her life
that any one had ever spoken a kind word to her. Before she could reply,
the big policeman, who had some way slipped in through the rear, had
taken her trembling little form in his strong arms, and hurrying down,
placed her in the carriage, where she was clasped in the tender arms of
Miss Cameron, Superintendent of the Chinese Rescue Mission.
She could not understand yet that she was free; but when she awoke on
Thanksgiving morning and saw all the happy Chinese girl faces around
her, and at the bountiful Thanksgiving table was made to understand the
reason of it all, she then realized the true meaning of Thanksgiving,
and said: “It would neveh have happened if I had not played to the good
’Melican God.”
End of Project Gutenberg's Little Almond Blossoms, by Jessie Juliet Knox