I
The warmth was deep and all-pervading. The dust lay on the leaves of the
palms and the other tropical plants that tried to flourish in the Plaza.
The persons of mixed nationalities lounging on the benches within and
without the square appeared to be even more listless and unambitious
than usual. The Italians who ran the peanut and fruit stands at the
corners were doing no business to speak of. The Chinese merchants’
stores in front of the Plaza looked as quiet and respectable and drowsy
as such stores always do. Even the bowling alleys, billiard halls, and
saloons seemed under the influence of the heat, and only a subdued
clinking of glasses and roll of balls could be heard from behind the
half-open doors. It was almost as hot as an August day in New York City,
and that is unusually sultry for Southern California.
A little Chinese girl, with bright eyes and round cheeks, attired in
blue cotton garments, and wearing her long, shining hair in a braid
interwoven with silks of many colors, paused beside a woman tourist who
was making a sketch of the old Spanish church. The tourist and the
little Chinese girl were the only persons visible who did not seem to be
affected by the heat. They might have been friends; but the lady,
fearing for her sketch, bade the child run off. Whereupon the little
thing shuffled across the Plaza, and in less than five minutes was at
the door of the Los Angeles Chinatown school for children.
“Come in, little girl, and tell me what they call you,” said the young
American teacher, who was new to the place.
“Ku Yum be my name,” was the unhesitating reply; and said Ku Yum walked
into the room, seated herself complacently on an empty bench in the
first row, and informed the teacher that she lived on Apablaza street,
that her parents were well, but her mother was dead, and her father,
whose name was Ten Suie, had a wicked and tormenting spirit in his foot.
The teacher gave her a slate and pencil, and resumed the interrupted
lesson by indicating with her rule ten lichis (called “Chinese nuts” by
people in America) and counting them aloud.
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten,” the baby
class repeated.
After having satisfied herself by dividing the lichis unequally among
the babies, that they might understand the difference between a singular
and a plural number, Miss Mason began a catechism on the features of the
face. Nose, eyes, lips, and cheeks were properly named, but the class
was mute when it came to the forehead.
“What is this?” Miss Mason repeated, posing her finger on the fore part
of her head.
“Me say, me say,” piped a shrill voice, and the new pupil stepped to the
front, and touching the forehead of the nearest child with the tips of
her fingers, christened it “one,” named the next in like fashion “two,”
a third “three,” then solemnly pronounced the fourth a “four head.”
Thus Ku Yum made her début in school, and thus began the trials and
tribulations of her teacher.
Ku Yum was bright and learned easily, but she seemed to be possessed
with the very spirit of mischief; to obey orders was to her an
impossibility, and though she entered the school a voluntary pupil, one
day at least out of every week found her a truant.
“Where is Ku Yum?” Miss Mason would ask on some particularly alluring
morning, and a little girl with the air of one testifying to having seen
a murder committed, would reply: “She is running around with the boys.”
Then the rest of the class would settle themselves back in their seats
like a jury that has found a prisoner guilty of some heinous offense,
and, judging by the expression on their faces, were repeating a silent
prayer somewhat in the strain of “O Lord, I thank thee that I am not as
Ku Yum is!” For the other pupils were demure little maidens who, after
once being gathered into the fold, were very willing to remain.
But if ever the teacher broke her heart over any one it was over Ku Yum.
When she first came, she took an almost unchildlike interest in the
rules and regulations, even at times asking to have them repeated to
her; but her study of such rules seemed only for the purpose of finding
a means to break them, and that means she never failed to discover and
put into effect.
After a disappearance of a day or so she would reappear, bearing a
gorgeous bunch of flowers. These she would deposit on Miss Mason’s desk
with a little bow; and though one would have thought that the sweetness
of the gift and the apparent sweetness of the giver needed but a
gracious acknowledgment, something like the following conversation would
ensue:
“Teacher, I plucked these flowers for you from the Garden of Heaven.”
(They were stolen from some park.)
“Oh, Ku Yum, whatever shall I do with you?”
“Maybe you better see my father.”
“You are a naughty girl. You shall be punished. Take those flowers
away.”
“Teacher, the eyebrow over your little eye is very pretty.”
But the child was most exasperating when visitors were present. As she
was one of the brightest scholars, Miss Mason naturally expected her to
reflect credit on the school at the examinations. On one occasion she
requested her to say some verses which the little Chinese girl could
repeat as well as any young American, and with more expression than
most. Great was the teacher’s chagrin when Ku Yum hung her head and said
only: “Me ’shamed, me ’shamed!”
“Poor little thing,” murmured the bishop’s wife. “She is too shy to
recite in public.”
But Miss Mason, knowing that of all children Ku Yum was the least
troubled with shyness, was exceedingly annoyed.
Ku Yum had been with Miss Mason about a year when she became convinced
that some steps would have to be taken to discipline the child, for
after school hours she simply ran wild on the streets of Chinatown, with
boys for companions. She felt that she had a duty to perform towards the
motherless little girl; and as the father, when apprised of the fact
that his daughter was growing up in ignorance of all home duties, and,
worse than that, shared the sports of boy children on the street, only
shrugged his shoulders and drawled: “Too bad! Too bad!” she determined
to act.
She was interested in Ku Yum’s case the president of the Society for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Children, the matron of the Rescue Home, and
the most influential ministers, and the result, after a month’s work,
that an order went forth from the Superior Court of the State
decreeing that Ku Yum, the child of Ten Suie, should be removed from the
custody of her father, and, under the auspices of the Society for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Children, be put into a home for Chinese girls
in San Francisco.
Her object being accomplished, strange to say, Miss Mason did not
experience that peaceful content which usually follows a benevolent
action. Instead, the question as to whether, after all, it was right,
under the circumstances, to deprive a father of the society of his
child, and a child of the love and care of a parent, disturbed her mind,
morning, noon, and night. What had previously seemed her distinct duty
no longer appeared so, and she began to wish with all her heart that she
had not interfered in the matter.