IN WHICH ANOTHER JOHN AND ANOTHER MARY WANDER FURTHER FROM HOME THAN
THEY EVER HAVE BEEN BEFORE, AND FIND A MARVELOUS BALL OF GLASS, IN
WHICH ONE SEES THE STRANGEST THINGS
“Way off in the furthest corner of San Francisco, just where the sun
comes over to light up the bay, there is a hill. Of course there are
many other hills in San Francisco, but none of them quite so important
as Russian Hill. You see, the families who live there are quieter and
happier and more old-fashioned than those in other parts of the city.
I don’t know why; they just are. Right at the steepest part of the
hill, and you can believe me when I tell you the Hill is steep, there
is a Spanish Castle; not a really and truly one, but just exactly as
nice as though it were. No one lived in it, nor had for several years,
excepting an old, white-haired caretaker; a splendid man. He liked
children. That is why John and Mary were allowed in the Castle so much.
John was a rather spoiled, selfish boy who lived in the Mansion next
to the Castle, with his married sister. Mary was his best friend. She
had freckles and you would have liked her. They played nice games up on
the Hill; dozens of fascinating make-believes that you never would have
thought of. They fought pirates--oodles of them--and baked potatoes in
ovens under the rock and did other things just as nice.
“But, just like other children, they grew tired of these things at
times and wanted something new. So one day, when there were no potatoes
left, Mary suggested going down the Hill. John did not like to; he
hated to go where there were other people. Mary laughed at him and told
him he was a sissy, although he wasn’t really. He became ashamed of her
taunts, so down the Hill they went. First you go down some lovely old
steps cut right in the stone, then you come to another hill so steep
that it is easier to lie down and roll than to walk. They must have
gone at least six blocks when, all at once, Mary said to John:
“‘We are not in San Francisco any more.’
“‘Where are we, then?’ asked John.
“‘We are in China.’
“They were not really; they were in Chinatown, but it looked like
another city, altogether. There were hundreds of Chinamen shuffling
along the street, with long pig-tails and funny, large pipes in their
mouths. They talked in a queer sing-song, the funniest language you
have ever heard. There were Chinese women with gold jewelry and green
jade in their hair, and the most adorable little Chinese babies, who
looked like dolls, dressed in splendid colored silks. Up on a balcony,
where there were a dozen brightly lighted lanterns, a Chinese musician
was playing upon an instrument that sounded like dying pigs and broken
drums and tin whistles. In the shop-windows there were white lilies and
flaming oriental silks and queer toys. Also there were skinned pigs and
skinned chickens and strings of bacon hanging from nails.
“John and Mary became so interested that they forgot all about going
home. Before they knew it, darkness had fallen, lanterns on the
balconies were lighted, and Chinatown looked like Fairyland.
“Down the street came a tall, fine-looking Chinaman, in loose, blue
silk trousers and a blue silk coat with black embroidery. He seemed
very much surprised to find two American children in Chinatown at that
time of night. He came to them and said, in even better English than I
use:
“‘I assume that your small selves are lost. Is it not so?’
“‘Not exactly,’ said Mary, who was always the spokesman. ‘You see, we
came for a walk and just sort of stumbled into Fairyland and now we
don’t want to go home.’
“‘But your August Parent? Will he not be worried?’
“‘Yes,’ said Mary, ‘although John’s sister will not mind.’
“‘So,’ said the Chinaman. ‘Well, perhaps, if we were to ’phone to the
August Parent, he might feel relief. Then we could perhaps have tea and
ginger before returning.’
“‘That would be lovely,’ said Mary, and, ‘Great,’ said John.
“So the Chinaman stepped into a store and ’phoned to Mr. Devine, Mary’s
father.
“‘This is Fong Kee, Doctor of Law of the Hong Kong University,’ he
said. ‘I have just found young John and Mary enjoying the sights of
Stockton Street. I beg that you will have no worriment, as I shall give
them tea and bring them home at an early hour.’
“John and Mary could not hear what Mr. Devine said, but it must have
been satisfactory, for Mr. Fong Kee came out of the booth, smiling, and
took a hand of each of the children.
“‘Now,’ he said, ‘we shall visit my worthy friend, Fong Charles.’
“They went down a flight of narrow steps into a dark basement. There
was an odor of punks, like one uses on the Fourth of July, and the
strong breath of China Lilies. In through a latticed door went Fong
Kee, with Mary and John clinging to each other’s hands, just the least
bit frightened.
“The room they came to was decorated in beautiful golden scrolls of
carved wood. At the end of the room was a queer wooden man, and at his
feet was a bowl from which came a long ribbon of beautiful blue smoke.
On a wooden couch another Chinaman was resting, smoking a small bronze
pipe.
“Fong Kee spoke to him in Chinese and he arose and shook hands with
John and Mary. Then he struck a metal bell and a Chinese slave girl
appeared. He ordered her to bring tea and ginger. Then he turned to
John.
“‘I am the old Fong Charles,’ he said. ‘More years I have lived in San
Francisco than there are hairs on an old pig’s tail. I welcome you.’
“‘You look pretty old,’ said John. ‘What do you do? Are you a cook?’
“‘No,’ smiled Fong Charles. ‘I am a philosopher. I dream--and smoke my
pipes.’
“‘I like nice dreams,’ said Mary.
“‘So!’ said Fong Charles. ‘Then, perhaps, while we await Sanka, my
servant, who is as slow as the race of the turtles, I might tell you a
dream or two.’
“He lifted John and Mary to a black wood table, where they sat,
cross-legged, like tailors. Then he put between them a small black
pedestal, on which rested a large, round ball of glass.
“‘So,’ said Fong Charles. ‘Into the dream glass you must look and the
dreams you shall see.’
“John and Mary leaned forward and saw in the glass hundreds of lovely
colors, as though the rainbow had broken in it. Then the colors divided
and circled about like a fairy dance. Softly, oh, so very softly! Fong
Charles began to speak, in his sing-song voice, stopping only to draw
at his pipe and blow a bit of smoke into the curtains above his head.
And as he spoke, little by little, figures became clear in the glass
until John and Mary could see the dreams, just as Fong Charles told
them. There were three dreams he told, all quite short and strange:
_The Dream of The Girl’s Gift_
“Out of Ta Chung Sz, which is, August One, the Temple of the Bell, came
Tchi Niu, the Bellmaker.
“‘Those of you who are pure of heart,’ he called, ‘bring to me your
metal mirrors that I may make of them a new bell. Come, my children.’
“They came, many of them and gladly, the daughters and the mothers,
bearing in their arms the mirrors that showed their beauty, for it was
honorable to give, and what more worthy gift could be made than a new
bell for the temple?
“Tcho-Kow came last and slowly. On the mound of mirrors she placed
hers and stood aside. Then, as the torch was carried to the fire
builded to melt the mirrors, her heart grew sad, for the mirror she had
brought was the mirror that had been in her mother’s family and her
grandmother’s family, and the family of many generations before that.
And so she grew cold with grief and cried out.
“Slowly the flames crept up and slowly the mass of metal melted into a
river of shining gold. But the mirror of Tcho-Kow would not burn.
“‘How now,’ said Tchi Niu. ‘The gift burns not; you have brought
disgrace on your house, oh, daughter of a Thousand Lilies, by not
giving your heart with your gift. How, then, will you redeem yourself
in the eyes of Dong, the Great Bell?’
“Then was Tcho-Kow smitten with a great repentance and she longed for
the goodwill of Dong. So she thought and thus made her gift worthy. As
the flames crept up about the mass of metal, she cast aside her dress
and saying:
“‘Gladly I give myself as gift,’ she stepped into the flames and
disappeared. Then did the flames burn joyfully and the mirror of
Tcho-Kow melted with the others and Dong was appeased.
“Now hangs the bell in Ta Chung Sz, and when it is rung to call its
song to the world:
“‘Ko-gnai, Ko-gnai, Ko-gnai,’ it calls, and thus renders thanks to
Tcho-Kow for her gift.”
_The Dream of Hoa-Tchao_
“Kiang-Kow-Jin, who dwelled in the body of a stork in the Pearl River,
was the God of Children. He ruled for a million years and was beloved
by all the race of River Men. He ruled well and happily and knew no
worry. Came a year, then, when the Children of the River grew few and
Kiang-Kow-Jin grieved. So to him he called Chung Li, the girl child,
and said to her:
“‘I grieve because your companions are few. What then, Daughter of
Wisdom, am I to do?’
“Chung Li knew all things.
“‘Go to Ta Chung Sz, The Temple of the Bell, and pray,’ she said, ‘that
many flowers shall grow.’
“To Ta Chung Sz went Kiang-Kow-Jin and prayed, and when he came out
of the Temple all the fields were glad with myriad wondrous colored
flowers.
“‘It is Hoa-Tchao, the Birthday of A Hundred Flowers,’ he said. Then he
sought his home and slept.
“When he had slept and awakened he came again to the fields. There
played Chung Li with many new children. And so Kiang-Kow-Jin learned
that children are flowers.”
_The Dream of Bo_
“Bo is the God of The River Fish. His home is of glass and seaweed.
Yearly came the River Men to make gifts to Bo, for Bo was of great
greed. One year, with the other Men of The River, came Fong Soy, the
silk merchant.
“‘Bountiful Bo,’ said he, ‘this year I have no gift. The rains have
been few and I have sold no silks. I have no wealth or fruits to bring
to you. So, that you will bear well with me, I have brought that which
I treasure more than Life itself.’
“He opened the folds of his dress and out stepped Fong Sing, his oldest
son. Fong Sing, garbed in red, stepped into the waters and disappeared.
Then, though parted from his dearest possession, Fong Soy returned to
his home and learned that his wife had given him two sons and they were
visaged as Bo, the God of The River.”
* * * * *
“Slowly the forms in the crystal ball disappeared and Fong Charles
stopped speaking. John and Mary shook themselves as though they had
been sleeping. Down from the black table Fong Kee lifted them, and
there, on a small stand, was very black tea in lovely transparent
cups. Mary tasted it, but it was bitter, so she did not drink. Then
Sanka, the slave girl, brought dishes with cakes and candied gingers
and strange fruits and almonds. Fong Charles filled the children’s
pockets, and then Fong Kee led them away. Slowly they climbed their
Hill and to the door of the Mansion. There stood John’s sister and
Mary’s Father to welcome them, and you may believe they were relieved
when the children appeared. They shook hands with Fong Kee and made him
promise that he would come again to the Hill to visit them and perhaps,
some time, take them again to Fong Charles to look in the round glass
again.”
“Gee, that was a queer story,” said Slats, when Flip had finished.
“Yes,” said Piffy. “It made me sleepy.”
Martha Mary was afraid that the children would hurt Flip’s feelings if
they said more, so she raced them up the lawn to the house, and there
on the veranda Mother Dear had placed pitchers of lemonade and enough
cake for six times eighteen children. And so they ate till they could
eat no more and then, with their wild violets in their arms, went back
to the Charity, with Martha Mary’s promise that she would come to play
with them whenever Mother Dear gave her permission.