The schoolroom was decorated with banners and flags wrought in various
colors. Chinese lanterns swung overhead. A big, green, porcelain frog
with yellow eyes squatted in the centre of the teacher’s desk. Tropical
and native plants: azaleas, hyacinths, palms, and Chinese lilies, filled
the air with their fragrance.
It was the day before the Chinese New Year of 18— and Miss McLeod’s
little scholars, in the decoration of their schoolroom, had expressed
their love of quaint conceits and their appreciation of the beautiful.
They were all in holiday attire. There was Han Wenti in sky-hued raiment
and loose, flowing sleeves, upon each of which was embroidered a yellow
dragon. Han Wenti’s father was the Chief of his clan in America. There
was San Kee, the son of the Americanized merchant, stiff and slim in
American store clothes. Little Choy, on the girls’ side, proudly wore a
checked louisine Mother Hubbard gown, while Fei and Sie looked like
humming-birds in their native costume of bright-colored silks flowered
with gold.
Miss McLeod’s eyes wandered over the heap of gifts piled on three chairs
before her desk, and over the heads of the young givers, to where on a
back seat a little fellow in blue cotton tunic and pantaloons sat
swinging a pair of white-soled shoes in a “don’t care for anybody”
fashion.
Little Me was looked upon almost as a criminal by his schoolfellows. He
was the only scholar in all the school who failed to offer at the shrine
of the Teacher, and the fact that he was the son of a man who dined on
no richer dish than rice and soy gravy did not palliate his offense.
There were other scholars who knew not the taste of mushrooms, bamboo
shoots, and sucking pigs, yet who were unceasing in their offerings of
paper mats, wild flowers, pebbles, strange insects, and other gifts
possessing at least a sentimental value. The truth of the matter,
however, was that Little Me was neither unappreciative nor unloving. He
was simply afflicted with pride. If he could not give in the princely
fashion of Hom Hing and Lee Chu, the sons of the richest merchants in
Chinatown, he would not give at all.
Yet if Miss McLeod, in her Scotch heart, allowed herself a favorite
amongst her scholars, it was Little Me. Many a time had she incurred the
displeasure of the parents of Hom Hing and Lee Chu by rejecting the
oft-times valuable presents of their chubby, complacent-faced sons. She
had seen Little Me’s eyes cloud and his small hands draw up in his
sleeves when the pattering footsteps of the braided darlings of the rich
led them, with their offerings, to her desk.
“Attention, children!” said Miss McLeod; and she made a little speech in
which she thanked her scholars for their tokens of appreciation and
affection, but impressed upon them that she prized as much a wooden
image of his own carving from a boy who had nothing more to offer, as
she did an ivory or jade figure from one whose father could afford to
wear gold buttons; that a lichi from the orphan Amoy was as refreshing
to her as a basket of oranges from the only daughter of the owner of
many fruit ranches. The greatest of all gifts was beyond price. They
must remember the story she had told them at Christmas time of the
giving of a darling and only Son to a loved people. All the money in the
world could not have paid for that dear little boy. He was a free gift.
Little Me stopped swinging his feet in their white-soled shoes. With
solemn eyes and puckered brow he meditated over this speech.
* * * * *
The first day of the new year was kept with much rejoicing. There were
gay times under the lanterns, quaint ceremonies, and fine feasting. The
flutist came out with his flute, the banjo man with his banjo, and the
fiddler with his fiddle. No child but had a piece of gold or silver
given to him or her, and sweetmeats, loose-skinned oranges, and
watermelon seeds were scattered around galore. Strains of music
enlivened the dark alleys, and “flowers” or fireworks delighted both old
and young. The Literary and Benevolent Societies brought forth those of
their number whose imaginations and experiences gave them the power to
portray the achievements of heroes, the despair of lovers, the blessings
which fall to the lot of the filial son, and the terrible fate of the
undutiful, and while the sun went down and long after it had set, groups
of fascinated youths sat listening to tales of magic and enchantment.
In the midst of it all Little Me wandered around in his white-soled
shoes, and thought of that other story—the story of the Babe.
On the second day of the Chinese New Year, Miss McLeod, her twine bag
full to overflowing with little red parcels of joy, stopped before the
door of the Chee house. As there was no response to her knock, she
lifted the latch and entered a darkened room. By a couch in the furthest
corner of the room a woman knelt, moaning and tearful. It was Chee A
Tae, Little Me’s mother. Little Me’s proper name was Chee Ping. Miss
McLeod touched her shoulder sympathetically. The woman shuddered and the
low moans became heartrending cries and sobs. Did the teacher know that
her baby was stolen? Some evil spirit had witched him away. Her husband,
with some friends, was searching for the child; but she felt sure they
would find him—never. She had burnt incense to “Mother” and besought the
aid of the goddess of children; but her prayers would not avail, because
her husband had neglected that month to send his parents cash for
ginseng and broth. He had tried his luck with the Gambling Cash Tiger
and failed. Had he been fortunate, his parents would have received twice
their usual portion, but as it was, he had lost. And now the baby, the
younger brother of Little Me, was lost too.
“How did it happen?” inquired Miss McLeod.
“We were alone—the babe and I,” replied the mother. “My man was visiting
and Little Me was playing in the alley. I stepped over with a bowl of
boiled rice and a pot of tea for old Sien Tau. We have not much for our
own mouths, but it is well to begin the New Year by being kind to those
who may not see another. The babe was sleeping when I last beheld him.
When I returned, whether he was asleep, awake, in the land of the living
or in the spirit world, was withheld from me. A wolf—a tiger heart—alone
knew.”
This was truly a case needing sympathy. Miss McLeod did her best, and
after a while Chee A Tae sat up and listened with some hope for her
husband’s footsteps. He came at last, a tired, gaunt-looking man,
wearing in the face of the holiday, the blue cotton blouse and
pantaloons of a working Chinaman, and a very dilapidated American slouch
hat, around which he had wound his queue. He was followed into the room
by several of his countrymen who cast suspicious glances at the white
woman present; but, upon recognition came forward, each in turn, and
saluted her in American fashion. There were several points of difference
between Miss McLeod and the other white teachers of Chinatown which had
won for her the special favor of her pupil’s parents. One was that
though it was plain to all that she loved her work and taught the
children committed to her charge with the utmost patience and care, she
was not a child-cuddling and caressing woman. Another, that she had
taken pains to learn the Chinese language before attempting to teach her
own. Thirdly, she lived in Chinatown, and made herself at home amongst
its denizens.
Chee A Tae was bitterly disappointed at seeing her husband without the
babe. She arose from her couch, and pulling open the door, which the men
had closed behind them, pointed them out again, crying: “Go, find my
son! Go, find my son!”
Chee Ping the First turned upon her resentfully. “Woman,” he cried,
“that he is lost is your fault. I have searched with my eyes, ears,
tongue, and limbs; but one might as well look for a pin at the bottom of
the ocean.”
The mother began to weep pitifully. “’Tis the Gambling Cash Tiger,” she
sobbed. “’Twas he who caused you to forget your parents and ill fortune
has followed therefor. A-ya, A-ya, A-ya. My heart is as heavy as the
blackest heavens!”
“What nonsense!” exclaimed Miss McLeod, thinking it time to interfere.
“The child cannot be far away. Let us all hunt and see who will find him
first.”
A crowd of men, women, and children had gathered outside the door, most
of them in gay holiday attire. At these words of the teacher there was
an assenting babel of voices, followed by a darting into passages, up
stairways, and behind doors. Lanterns were lit for the exploration of
underground cellars, stores, closets, stairways, balconies. Not a hole
in the vicinity of the Chee dwelling but was penetrated by keen eyes.
Rich and poor alike joined in the search, a yellow-robed priest from the
joss house and one of the Chiefs of the Six Companies being
conspicuously interested.
The mother, following in the footsteps of Miss McLeod, kept up a
plaintive wailing. “A-Ya, my young bud, my jade jewel, my peach bloom.
Little hands, veined like young leaves; voice like the breath of a
zephyr. Alas, the fates are against me! You are lost to your poor mother
who is without resource and bound with fetters. Death would be sweet
indeed; but that boon is denied.”
The day wore on and evening gradually stole upon them, followed by
night. The wind blew in gusts, but the moon had risen and was shining
bright so that there was a kind of moonlight even in the dark alleys.
The main portion of Chinatown had been thoroughly scoured, and most
attention was now being given to the hills which crept up to Powell
Street. It was in a top story of a half-way hill tenement that Miss
McLeod’s room was located; a cozy little place, for all its apparently
comfortless environment. When the wind began to blow bleak from the Bay,
her thoughts drifted longingly to her easy chair and cheery grate fire;
but only for a moment. Until the baby was found she could know no rest.
The distress of these Chinese people was hers; their troubles also. Had
she not adopted them as her own when kinfolk had failed her? Their
grateful appreciation of the smallest service; their undemonstrative but
faithful affection had been as balm to a heart wounded by the
indifference and bruised by the ingratitude of those to whom she had
devoted her youth, her strength, and her abilities.
Suddenly a cry was heard. Wang Hom Hing, a merchant Chinaman, who had
taken command of the search party detailed to explore the upper part of
Chinatown, appeared at the door of a rickety tenement—the one in which
Miss McLeod had built her nest—and waved, under the lanterns, a Chinese
flag, signal that the child was found.
Pell-mell the Chinese rushed towards their country’s emblem. With the
exception of Miss McLeod, not a single white person, not even a
policeman, had been impressed into the search.
Leading the rushing crowd was Chee Ping the First; in the midst panted A
Tae and her white woman friend, and in the wake of all calmly and
quietly pattered Little Me. Though usually the chief object of his
parents’ attention, this day, or rather night, he seemed altogether
forgotten.
Up several flights of stairs streamed the searchers, while from every
door on the landings, men, women, and children peered out, inquiring
what it all meant. Hemmed in by numbers, the teacher found herself at
last blocked outside her own room.
Someone was talking loudly and excitedly. It was Wang Hom Hing, the
father of her pupil of that name, and the uncle of another pupil, Lee
Chu. What was he saying? The teacher strained her ears to catch his
words. Gracious Heavens! He was declaring that she had stolen the child;
that it lay in her room, hidden under the coverlets of her bed—positive
evidence that she who, under the guise of friendship, had ingratiated
herself into their hearts and homes, was in reality a secret enemy.
“Trust her no more—this McLeod, Jean,” he cried. “Though her smile is as
sweet as honey, her heart is like a razor.”
There was an ominous silence after this speech.
Wang Hom Hing was a pompous man whose conceit had been inflated by the
flattery of wily white people, who, unlike the undiplomatic Scotch
woman, did discriminate between the gifts of the rich and poor.
Nevertheless, as President of the Water Lily Club and Secretary of the
Society of Celestial Reason, he was a man of influence in Chinatown, and
this was painfully impressed upon the teacher when Chee A Tae cast upon
her a shuddering glance and fell swooning into the arms of a stout
countrywoman behind her.
Now, the blood of Scottish chieftains throbbed in Miss McLeod’s veins;
and it was this brave blood which, when all the ships in which she had
stored her early hopes and dreams had one by one been lost, had borne up
her soul above the stormy flood, and helped her to launch another ship
in a sea both wild and strange. That ship had weathered many a gale.
Should she, after steering it safely into port, allow it to founder—in
harbor? Never! That ship was the safe-deposit bank for all her womanly
affection and energy. It carried her Chinese work—the work in which she
had found consolation, peace, and happiness. Hom Hing should not wreck
it without some effort on her part to save.
The intrepid woman, nerved by these thoughts, pushed through the human
wall before her and reached the speaker’s side. Sleeping in the midst of
the tumult lay the babe, its little hand under its cheek. So pretty a
picture that even in her stress and excitement she paused for a moment
to wonder and admire.
Then she faced the big Chinaman in his gorgeous holiday robes, her
small, slight form drawn to its fullest height, her light blue eyes
ablaze.
“Wang Hom Hing,” she cried. “You know you are trying to make my friends
believe what you do not believe yourself! I know no more than its mother
does about how the dear baby came here.”
The Chinese merchant shrugged his shoulders insolently, and addressing
the people again, asked them to judge for themselves. The child had been
stolen. The teacher had pretended to aid in a search, yet it had been he
and not she who had led the way to her room where it had been found.
Low mutterings were heard throughout the place; but after they had
subsided, the white woman, looking around for a friendly face, was
surprised and cheered to find many. Her spirits rose.
“How was I to know the child lay in my room?” she indignantly inquired.
“I left the place in the early morning. It has been brought there since
by someone unknown to me.”
Wang Hom Hing laughed scornfully as he moved away, his revenge, as he
thought, complete.
The father of the babe raised his son in his arms and passed him on to
the mother who stood with arms outstretched. Clutching the child
convulsively, she gazed with horror-struck eyes at the teacher.
“Friends,” cried the white woman, raising her voice in a last effort,
“will you allow that man to turn from me your hearts? Have you not known
me long enough to believe that though I cannot explain to you how the
baby came to be in my room, yet I am innocent of having brought it
there. A Tae”—addressing the mother—“can you believe that I would harm
one hair of your baby’s head?”
A Tae hesitated, her eyes full of tears. She had loved the teacher, but
Wang Hom Hing had sown a poisonous seed in her superstitious mind. Miss
McLeod noted her hesitation with a sinking of the heart that was almost
despair.
Up hobbled a very old and very tiny woman.
“McLeod, Jean,” she cried, “your gracious and noble qualities of mind
and soul merit a happier New Year’s Day than this. Wang Hom Hing’s words
cannot deceive old Sien Tau.”
Ah! The Scotch woman grasped gratefully the old Chinese woman’s hand.
She could not speak for the tickle in her throat.
Then spake A Tae: “Teacher, forgive me,” besought she.
And the teacher smiled her answer.
A number of men and women came forward, looked into the teacher’s face,
thanked her for past kindnesses, and expressed their confidence in her.
“McLeod, Jean,” declared an old man, “you are a hundred women good.”
Which was the highest compliment that Jean McLeod had ever received.
“You are wrong, mother!” said she, turning with a beaming face to old
Sien Tau. “This is the happiest day I have known.”
Explained the father of the babe: “The gods, seeing my unworthiness,
took from me to give to you.”
And Little Me, straggling to the teacher’s side, piped in the language
she herself had taught him:
“I have one brother. I love him all over. You say baby boy best gift, so
I give him to you when my father and mother not see. Little Me give
better than Lee Chu and Hom Hing.”
It was some time before the tumult occasioned by Little Me’s boastful
but sweet confession subsided. It had been heard by all, but was
understood wholly by none save the teacher.
* * * * *
That when no watchful eye was there to see, the baby had been carried in
Little Me’s sturdy arms from under the home roof to the teacher’s
tenement room, was made plain to everyone by the child himself. But it
devolved upon Miss McLeod, in order to save her little scholar from
obviously justifiable paternal wrath, to explain his reason for the
kidnapping, and this she did so clearly and eloquently that the father,
raising his first born to his knee, declared in English: “I proud of
him. He Number One scholar,” while the mother fondly smiled.
Little Me looked at the baby in his mother’s lap, and then at the
teacher. His eyes filled with tears.
“You not like what I give you well enough to keep him,” he sobbed.
“Yes, yes,” consoled Miss McLeod. “I like him so well that I put him
away in my heart where I keep the baby of my story. Don’t you remember?
That was what the Father of the story gave the baby for. To be kept in
the people’s hearts after he had gone back to Him!”
“Ah, yes,” responded the child, his face brightening. “You keep my
brother in your heart and I keep him in the house with me and my father
and mother. That best of all!”
THE STORY OF ONE WHITE WOMAN
WHO MARRIED A CHINESE
I
Why did I marry Liu Kanghi, a Chinese? Well, in the first place, because
I loved him; in the second place, because I was weary of working,
struggling and fighting with the world; in the third place, because my
child needed a home.
My first husband was an American fifteen years older than myself. For a
few months I was very happy with him. I had been a working girl—a
stenographer. A home of my own filled my heart with joy. It was a
pleasure to me to wait upon James, cook him nice little dinners and
suppers, read to him little pieces from the papers and magazines, and
sing and play to him my little songs and melodies. And for a few months
he seemed to be perfectly contented. I suppose I was a novelty to him,
he having lived a bachelor existence until he was thirty-four. But it
was not long before he left off smiling at my little jokes, grew restive
and cross when I teased him, and when I tried to get him to listen to a
story in which I was interested and longed to communicate, he would bid
me not bother him. I was quick to see the change and realize that there
was a gulf of differences between us. Nevertheless, I loved and was
proud of him. He was considered a very bright and well-informed man, and
although his parents had been uneducated working people he had himself
been through the public schools. He was also an omnivorous reader of
socialistic and new-thought literature. Woman suffrage was one of his
particular hobbies. Whenever I had a magazine around he would pick it up
and read aloud to me the columns of advice to women who were ambitious
to become comrades to men and walk shoulder to shoulder with their
brothers. Once I ventured to remark that much as I admired a column of
men keeping step together, yet men and women thus ranked would, to my
mind, make a very unbeautiful and disorderly spectacle. He frowned and
answered that I did not understand him, and was too frivolous. He would
often draw my attention to newspaper reports concerning women of marked
business ability and enterprise. Once I told him that I did not admire
clever business women, as I had usually found them, and so had other
girls of my acquaintance, not nearly so kind-hearted, generous, and
helpful as the humble drudges of the world—the ordinary working women.
His answer to this was that I was jealous and childish.
But, in spite of his unkind remarks and evident contempt for me, I
wished to please him. He was my husband and I loved him. Many an
afternoon, when through with my domestic duties, did I spend in trying
to acquire a knowledge of labor politics, socialism, woman suffrage, and
baseball, the things in which he was most interested.
It was hard work, but I persevered until one day. It was about six
months after our marriage. My husband came home a little earlier than
usual, and found me engaged in trying to work out problems in
subtraction and addition. He laughed sneeringly. “Give it up, Minnie,”
said he. “You weren’t built for anything but taking care of kids. Gee!
But there’s a woman at our place who has a head for figures that makes
her worth over a hundred dollars a month. _Her_ husband would have a
chance to develop himself.”
This speech wounded me. I knew it was James’ ambition to write a book on
social reform.
The next day, unknown to my husband, I called upon the wife of the man
who had employed me as stenographer before I was married, and inquired
of her whether she thought I could get back my old position.
“But, my dear,” she exclaimed, “your husband is receiving a good salary!
Why should you work?”
I told her that my husband had in mind the writing of a book on social
reform, and I wished to help him in his ambition by earning some money
towards its publication.
“Social reform!” she echoed. “What sort of social reformer is he who
would allow his wife to work when he is well able to support her!”
She bade me go home and think no more of an office position. I was
disappointed. I said: “Oh! I wish I could earn some money for James. If
I were earning money, perhaps he would not think me so stupid.”
“Stupid, my dear girl! You are one of the brightest little women I
know,” kindly comforted Mrs. Rogers.
But I knew differently and went on to tell her of my inability to figure
with my husband how much he had made on certain sales, of my lack of
interest in politics, labor questions, woman suffrage, and world
reformation. “Oh!” I cried, “I am a narrow-minded woman. All I care for
is for my husband to love me and be kind to me, for life to be pleasant
and easy, and to be able to help a wee bit the poor and sick around me.”
Mrs. Rogers looked very serious as she told me that there were
differences of opinion as to what was meant by “narrow-mindedness,” and
that the majority of men had no wish to drag their wives into all their
business perplexities, and found more comfort in a woman who was unlike
rather than like themselves. Only that morning her husband had said to
her: “I hate a woman who tries to get into every kink of a man’s mind,
and who must be forever at his elbow meddling with all his affairs.”
I went home comforted. Perhaps after a while James would feel and see as
did Mr. Rogers. Vain hope!
My child was six weeks old when I entered business life again as
stenographer for Rutherford & Rutherford. My salary was fifty dollars a
month—more than I had ever earned before, and James was well pleased,
for he had feared that it would be difficult for me to obtain a paying
place after having been out of practise for so long. This fifty dollars
paid for all our living expenses, with the exception of rent, so that
James would be able to put by his balance against the time when his book
would be ready for publication.
He began writing his book, and Miss Moran the young woman bookkeeper at
his place collaborated with him. They gave three evenings a week to the
work, sometimes four. She came one evening when the baby was sick and
James had gone for the doctor. She looked at the child with the curious
eyes of one who neither loved nor understood children. “There is no
necessity for its being sick,” said she. “There must be an error
somewhere.” I made no answer, so she went on: “Sin, sorrow, and sickness
all mean the same thing. We have no disease that we do not deserve, no
trouble which we do not bring upon ourselves.”
I did not argue with her. I knew that I could not; but as I looked at
her standing there in the prime of her life and strength,
broad-shouldered, masculine-featured, and, as it seemed to me,
heartless, I disliked her more than I had ever disliked anyone before.
My own father had died after suffering for many years from a terrible
malady, contracted while doing his duty as a physician and surgeon. And
my little innocent child! What had sin to do with its measles?
When James came in she discussed with him the baseball game which had
been played that afternoon, and also a woman suffrage meeting which she
had attended the evening before.
After she had gone he seemed to be quite exhilarated. “That’s a great
woman!” he remarked.
“I do not think so!” I answered him. “One who would take from the
sorrowful and suffering their hope of a happier existence hereafter, and
add to their trials on earth by branding them as objects of aversion and
contempt, is not only not a great woman but, to my mind, no woman at
all.”
He picked up a paper and walked into another room.
“What do you think now?” I cried after him.
“What would be the use of my explaining to you?” he returned. “You
wouldn’t understand.”
How my heart yearned over my child those days! I would sit before the
typewriter and in fancy hear her crying for her mother. Poor, sick
little one, watched over by a strange woman, deprived of her proper
nourishment. While I took dictation from my employer I thought only of
her. The result, of course, was, that I lost my place. My husband showed
his displeasure at this in various ways, and as the weeks went by and I
was unsuccessful in obtaining another position, he became colder and
more indifferent. He was neither a drinking nor an abusive man; but he
could say such cruel and cutting things that I would a hundred times
rather have been beaten and ill-used than compelled, as I was, to hear
them. He even made me feel it a disgrace to be a woman and a mother.
Once he said to me: “If you had had ambition of the right sort you would
have perfected yourself in your stenography so that you could have taken
cases in court. There’s a little fortune in that business.”
I was acquainted with a woman stenographer who reported divorce cases
and who had described to me the work, so I answered: “I would rather die
of hunger, my baby in my arms, then report divorce proceedings under the
eyes of men in a court house.”
“Other women, as good as you, have done and are doing it,” he retorted.
“Other women, perhaps better than I, have done and are doing it,” I
replied, “but all women are not alike. I am not that kind.”
“That’s so,” said he. “Well, they are the kind who are up to date. You
are behind the times.”
One evening I left James and Miss Moran engaged with their work and went
across the street to see a sick friend. When I returned I let myself
into the house very softly for fear of awakening the baby whom I had
left sleeping. As I stood in the hall I heard my husband’s voice in the
sitting-room. This is what he was saying:
“I am a lonely man. There is no companionship between me and my wife.”
“Nonsense!” answered Miss Moran, as I thought a little impatiently.
“Look over this paragraph, please, and tell me if you do not think it
would be well to have it follow after the one ending with the words
‘ultimate concord,’ in place of that beginning with ‘These great
principles.’”
“I cannot settle my mind upon the work tonight,” said James in a sort of
thick, tired voice. “I want to talk to you—to win your sympathy—your
love.”