She was dainty, slender, and of waxen pallor. Her eyes were long and
drooping, her eyebrows finely arched. She had the tiniest Golden Lily
feet and the glossiest black hair. Her name was Li Chung O’Yam, and she
lived in a sad, beautiful old palace surrounded by a sad, beautiful old
garden, situated on a charming island in the middle of a lake. This lake
was spanned by marble bridges, entwined with green creepers, reaching to
the mainland. No boats were ever seen on its waters, but the pink lotus
lily floated thereon and swans of marvellous whiteness.
Li Chung O’Yam wore priceless silks and radiant jewels. The rarest
flowers bloomed for her alone. Her food and drink were of the finest
flavors and served in the purest gold and silver plates and goblets. The
sweetest music lulled her to sleep.
Yet Li Chung O’Yam was not happy. In the midst of the grandeur of her
enchanted palace, she sighed for she knew not what.
“She is weary of being alone,” said one of the attendants. And he who
ruled all within the palace save Li Chung O’Yam, said: “Bring her a
father!”
A portly old mandarin was brought to O’Yam. She made humble obeisance,
and her august father inquired ceremoniously as to the state of her
health, but she sighed and was still weary.
“We have made a mistake; it is a mother she needs,” said they.
A comely matron, robed in rich silks and waving a beautiful peacock
feather fan, was presented to O’Yam as her mother. The lady delivered
herself of much good advice and wise instruction as to deportment and
speech, but O’Yam turned herself on her silken cushions and wished to
say goodbye to her mother.
Then they led O’Yam into a courtyard which was profusely illuminated
with brilliant lanterns and flaring torches. There were a number of
little boys of about her own age dancing on stilts. One little fellow,
dressed all in scarlet and flourishing a small sword, was pointed out to
her as her brother. O’Yam was amused for a few moments, but in a little
while she was tired of the noise and confusion.
In despair, they who lived but to please her consulted amongst
themselves. O’Yam, overhearing them, said: “Trouble not your minds. I
will find my own heart’s ease.”
Then she called for her carrier dove, and had an attendant bind under
its wing a note which she had written. The dove went forth and flew with
the note to where a little girl named Ku Yum, with a face as round as a
harvest moon, and a mouth like a red vine leaf, was hugging a cat to
keep her warm and sucking her finger to prevent her from being hungry.
To this little girl the dove delivered O’Yam’s message, then returned to
its mistress.
“Bring me my dolls and my cats, and attire me in my brightest and best,”
cried O’Yam.
When Ku Yum came slowly over one of the marble bridges towards the
palace wherein dwelt Li Chung O’Yam, she wore a blue cotton blouse,
carried a peg doll in one hand and her cat in another. O’Yam ran to
greet her and brought her into the castle hall. Ku Yum looked at O’Yam,
at her radiant apparel, at her cats and her dolls.
“Ah!” she exclaimed. “How beautifully you are robed! In the same colors
as I. And behold, your dolls and your cats, are they not much like
mine?”
“Indeed they are,” replied O’Yam, lifting carefully the peg doll and
patting the rough fur of Ku Yum’s cat.
Then she called her people together and said to them:
“Behold, I have found my heart’s desire—a little sister.”
And forever after O’Yam and Ku Yum lived happily together in a glad,
beautiful old palace, surrounded by a glad, beautiful old garden, on a
charming little island in the middle of a lake.
THE CANDY THAT IS NOT
SWEET
Grandfather Chan was dozing in a big red chair. Beside him stood the
baby’s cradle, a thick basket held in a stout framework of wood. Inside
the cradle lay the baby. He was very good and quiet and fast asleep.
The cottage door was open. On the green in front played Yen. Mother
Chan, who was taking a cup of afternoon tea with a neighbor, had said to
him when she bade him goodbye, “Be a good little son and take good care
of the baby and your honorable grandfather.”
Yen wore a scarlet silk skullcap, a gaily embroidered vest, and purple
trousers. He had the roundest and smoothest of faces and the brightest
of eyes. Some pretty stones which he had found heaped up in a corner of
the green were affording him great delight and joy, and he was rubbing
his fat little hands over them, when there arose upon the air the cry of
Bo Shuie, the candy man. Yen gave a hop and a jump. In a moment he was
at the corner of the street where stood the candy man, a whole hive of
little folks grouped around him. Never was there such a fascinating
fellow as this candy man. What a splendid big pole was that he had slung
over his broad shoulders, and, oh, the baskets of sweetmeats which
depended from it on either side!
Yen gazed wistfully at the sugared almonds and limes, the ginger and
spice cakes, and the barley sugar and cocoanut.
“I will take that, honorable candy man,” said he, pointing to a twisted
sugar stick of many colors.
“Cash!” said the candy man holding out his hand.
“Oh!” exclaimed Yen. He had thought only of sugar and forgotten he had
no cash.
“Give it to me, honorable peddler man,” said Han Yu. “I have a cash.”
The peddler man transferred from his basket to the eager little hands of
Han Yu the sugar stick of many colors.
Quick as his chubby legs could carry him, Yen ran back to the cottage.
His grandfather was still dozing.
“Grandfather, honorable grandfather,” cried Yen. But his grandfather did
not hear.
Upon a hook on the wall hung a long string of cash. Mother Chan had hung
it there for her use when passing peddlers called.
Yen had thought to ask his grandfather to give him one of the copper
coins which were strung on the string, but as his grandfather did not
awaken at his call, he changed his mind. You see, he had suddenly
remembered that the day before he had felt a pain, and when he had
cried, his mother had said: “No more candy for Yen.”
For some moments Yen stood hesitating and looking at the many copper
coins on the bright red string. It hung just low enough to be reached,
and Yen knew how to work the cash over the knot at the end. His mother
had shown him how so that he could hand them over to her for the
peddlers.
Ah, how pleasant, how good that smelt! The candy man, who carried with
his baskets a tin saucepan and a little charcoal stove, had set about
making candy, and the smell of the barley sugar was wafted from the
corner to Yen’s little nose.
Yen hesitated no longer. Grabbing the end of the string of cash, he
pulled therefrom three coins, and with a hop and a jump was out in the
street again.
“I will take three sticks of twisted candy of many colors,” said he to
the candy man.
With his three sticks of candy Yen returned to the green. He had just
bitten a piece off the brightest stick of all when his eyes fell on a
spinning top which his mother had given him that morning. He crunched
the candy, but somehow or other it did not taste sweet.
“Yen! Yen!” called his grandfather, awaking from his sleep.
Yen ran across to him.
“Honorable grandfather,” said he, “I have some beautiful candy for you!”
He put the three sticks of candy upon his grandfather’s knees.
“Dear child!” exclaimed the old man, adjusting his spectacles. “How did
you come to get the candy?”
Yen’s little face became very red. He knew that he had done wrong, so
instead of answering his grandfather, he hopped three times.
“How did you get the candy?” again inquired Grandfather Chan.
“From the candy man,” said Yen, “from the candy man. Eat it, eat it.”
Now Grandfather Chan was a little deaf, and taking for granted that Yen
had explained the candy all right, he nibbled a little at one of the
sticks, then put it down.
“Eat some more, eat all, honorable grandfather,” urged Yen.
The old man laughed and shook his head.
“I cannot eat any more,” said he. “The old man is not the little boy.”
“But—but,” puffed Yen, becoming red in the face again, “I want you to
eat it, honorable grandfather.”
But Grandfather Chan would not eat any more candy, and Yen began to puff
and blow and talk very loud because he would not. Indeed, by the time
Mother Chan returned, he was as red as a turkeycock and chattering like
a little magpie.
“I do not know what is the matter with the little boy,” said Grandfather
Chan. “He is so vexed because I cannot eat his candy.”
Mother Chan glanced at the string of cash and then at her little son’s
flushed face.
“I know,” said she. “The candy is not sweet to him, so he would have his
honorable grandfather eat it.”
Yen stared at his mother. How did she know! How could she know! But he
was glad that she knew, and at sundown he crept softly to her side and
said, “Honorable mother, the string of cash is less than at morn, but
the candy, it was not sweet.”