Chinese Fables Page 2

  Now most of the villagers, faithful Buddhists all, wished to make a pilgrimage at least once in their lives to the shrine on P’ut’oshan to Kwan-yin, the goddess of Mercy. Her statue was said to shine with the true spirit of mercy and would richly reward those who made the pilgrimage.

  And so one autumn day, the farmer set out for the shrine. After a journey of many days he reached P’ut’oshan and followed the crowds to the little temple. Imagine his disappointment to find that all the statues there were dingy and dusty, worn down by the finger marks of countless worshippers.

  The farmer complained to an old woman who stood outside the temple.

  “Everybody told me there was a true Kwan-yin here, shining with mercy. But where is she?”

  “Oh, it’s not easy to recognize her,” the old woman said, “not unless you have mercy in your heart. She always wears an old robe of hempen cloth wrong side out and shoes the wrong way. But most people who believe in her are able to see her.”

  Disappointed and puzzling all the way, the farmer walked slowly home. After several days he reached his gate as the sun was setting and found his mother bent over her broom, sweeping the path to the house. She opened the gate to him with a shy word of welcome. With new eyes, the farmer saw that she was dressed in her old hempen robe, wrong side out, and wore her shoes the wrong way.

  The King of Beasts

  One day a hungry lion caught a fox and was about to devour him. “How dare you eat me!” the fox demanded from under the lion’s claws.

  Astounded, the lion loosened his hold. “What?” he growled.

  “Don’t you know that I am the King of All Animals sent here by the gods?” the fox said. “They will punish you if you eat my sacred flesh!”

  “They will?” The lion loosened his hold a bit.

  “Of course!” the fox warned. “You are my subject, as are all the animals in the forest, big and small.”

  “Prove it!” cried the lion. Hunger gnawed at his sides, but he was a cautious creature. Slowly he lifted his paw.

  The fox wormed his way out from under the lion’s claws. “Follow me,” he ordered. “Every animal will run away in terror when they see me coming. And well they might!”

  The two set off, the fox proudly ahead, snout regally high and tail aloft, the lion slinking behind him like a servant in tow. And just as the fox had predicted, every animal they saw scurried off into the bushes as the two approached.

  “See,” said the fox, and he dashed off into the trees and disappeared, leaving the lion hungrier than ever—but, hopefully, a little wiser.

  A Small Gift

  A poor country boy came to the city to see the famous teacher, Kung-San Lung. Bowing low before the learned man, the boy said, “Let me study at your feet and learn to become wise like you.”

  Kung-San Lung was pleased that a simple country boy had traveled so far to become his pupil. “What abilities do you have?” he asked kindly.

  “Abilities?” The boy was puzzled.

  “Yes, skills, attributes, accomplishments—anything you do well, anything outstanding.”

  The boy answered without hesitation. “I have nothing except a very loud voice.”

  When Kung-San Lung introduced the boy as a pupil to the other pupils, they all laughed. They made fun of his country ways, his lack of city refinements, his loud voice. The boy said little and kept to himself.

  One day Kung-San Lung took his students into the mountains to gather specimens of the plants they were studying. In their zeal the boys scattered far and wide over the mountainside, and when the time came to start home, four of them were missing.

  Cries and calls went up from many throats.

  “Loo!!”

  “Ying!!”

  “Where are you?”

  “Han!!”

  “Chan!!”

  “Come back!”

  The trees absorbed the cries; no answers followed.

  Kung-San Lung beckoned the country boy to his side and led him to a rocky outcrop at the edge of the valley. “Let us see what your voice can do,” he said.

  The boy climbed up the rock, braced himself, and lifted his head.

  “Ying!”

  “Loo!”

  “Chan!”

  “Han!”

  “We are here!”

  His voice blasted forth over the mountainside like a trumpet, a bull horn, a thunderclap. It stilled the birdsong, shook the pine needles, bounced off the crags, and rolled down into the valley.

  Once more it resounded.

  “Ying!”

  “Loo!”

  “Chan!”

  “Han!”

  “We are here!”

  It was not long before the missing boys emerged from the trees.

  Kung-San Lung turned to his students and said, “Even a small gift has its uses.”

  Cooking the Duck

  Two brothers went hunting on an early autumn day. The weather was turning cold, and they waited a miserably long time before a flock of wild ducks appeared low in the sky. Excited and expectant, they hunkered down into the reeds at the margin of the pond to watch the approach of the birds.

  “I can’t wait for Old Mother to fry the duck!” said the first brother eagerly. “I can just taste it!” He smacked his lips.

  “Savory duck with chestnuts is better,” the second brother countered. “You can’t beat that.”

  “Duck fried in peanut oil,” the first brother insisted. “Crispy in part, tender throughout. That’s the only way to cook duck!”

  “The only way?” the other protested. “What about savory duck with eggs? Or with bamboo shoots and black mushrooms? Now, there’s a dish fit for emperors!”

  “Fried duck, with a touch of ginger, garlic, and scallions. That’s the way we’re cooking this duck!” the first brother shouted, and he aimed a blow at the other’s head.

  The second brother caught the raised fist and kicked at the other’s shin.

  Alarmed by the shouting and tangle of flailing arms and kicking legs, the ducks flew away.

  What's In a Name?

  Younger Brother was given a cat he named “Tiger Cat” because her fur was striped like a tiger’s. He felt hurt and angry when Big Brother called her “Cat.”

  “Cat, here’s some milk,” Big Brother would say, or “Cat, go outside.”

  When Younger Brother protested, Big Brother only laughed.

  One day Younger Brother’s friends came over to see his new cat. “This is Tiger Cat,” Younger Brother said proudly, holding her up for all to admire.

  “That name’s too common,” one boy said. “Call him ‘Dragon Cat’ instead!—dragons are lots stronger than tigers!”

  “No!” another boy broke in. “Dragons need the clouds to hold them up. ‘Cloud Cat’ is a better name.”

  “Then ‘Wind Cat’ is even better!” insisted a third boy. “A strong wind can blow away any cloud!”

  The fourth boy cried out, “A wall can stop the wind! I say ‘Wall Cat’!”

  “‘Mouse Cat’!” the smallest boy piped in. “A mouse can destroy the wall that can stop the wind that can blow away the clouds that can bear up the dragon! So mouse wins!—he’s the strongest!”

  Big Brother had been listening. “A mouse can be killed by a cat, you know,” he broke in. “So are you going to name her ‘Cat Cat’?” He looked over at Younger Brother. “What’s wrong with just calling her ‘Cat’ and being done with it? Does she really need a title?”

  And bending down, he called, “Here, Cat,” and with a loud meow, she came running.

  The Same Difference

  An old man kept a dozen monkeys and took loving care of them. He gave them the run of his cottage. He fed them before he ate his meager meals and gave them whatever tidbits and sweetmeats happened his way. He talked to them endlessly as though they were his children and was sure they understood him as well as he understood their monkey chatter and monkey ways.

  There came a time when a great famine descended on
the land. It followed a long drought that withered the fields, and a heavy flood that washed away what remained. The old man was left with little to eat, but what remained he shared with his monkeys.

  One day, when his store of food was almost gone, and he knew that what remained would have to be severely rationed, he said to his monkeys, “I will give you three taro in the morning and four in the evening.” He signed the numbers with his fingers as he spoke. “Will that do?”

  The monkey faces fell, the mouths pulled down, the chattering stopped. All twelve looked woefully at the old man.

  Cut to the quick, the old man thought for a moment. “All right, then,” he said. “I’ll give you four taro in the morning”—and here he counted out four on his fingers—“and in the evening I’ll give you three.” He folded down a finger. “Now, isn’t that better?”

  The monkey faces brightened, and an excited, happy chattering filled the cottage. Thus the problem was settled to the satisfaction of the old man and his monkey children.

  Scaring the Tigers

  Two monks were returning from their annual fund-raising journey through the mountain villages and towns served by their temple. The money and pledges they had collected was almost enough to pay for the maintenance of the temple and the keep of the priests and acolytes for another year. This year the requests for donations had been greater than usual because the temple bell had cracked and would have to be replaced.

  Their path wound through a bamboo forest. The older monk, a seasoned veteran of fund drives, kept a sharp lookout for tigers, a known hazard in these hills. The younger monk, a hairless stripling, was completely oblivious to danger. He was carrying the heavy subscription lists and totally absorbed in adding up the numbers.

  “Seventy-five!” he cried. “Why, together with the widow’s pledge, plus the bonus and the goat, why...”

  Suddenly he stopped talking, for out of the bamboo thicket emerged a huge tiger followed by a cub. The older monk quickly drew his bow and shot off several arrows. Not one hit his target. The tigers advanced a step.

  The second monk had only the heavy sheaf of temple records from which he had been reading. He threw the bundle with all his might at the tigers. The sheets scattered in a rain of fluttering white and black. To the monks’ surprise, the tigers shied away from the paper and retreated into the thicket.

  Puzzled but thankful, the monks hurried on their way.

  In the bamboo thicket, the tiger cub looked curiously at his mother. “Why did you run, Mama? It was only paper.”

  His mother snarled. “I can fight thieves and robbers any day. And bows and arrows are nothing to me. But I cannot fight a monk who asks me for that many donations!”

  Not surprisingly this story is a favorite with villagers who each year have to dig into their pockets for their temple’s keep.

  The Dragon Slayer

  Chu was ambitious. He dreamed of the great things he would do someday. Everyone in the village expected him to be a success.

  “Why don’t you study with Master Kung?” his parents urged. “He is an excellent teacher!”

  “There’s no future in books,” Chu replied.

  His uncle, a wealthy farmer, advised him to take up the plow. “Farming is honest work. People must eat, so there’s always a need to fill and money to be made.”

  “Too old-fashioned,” Chu said disdainfully. “And too much dirt and sweat.”

  His father’s friends urged him to master a craft, a technique, a skill of some kind_blacksmithing, pottery making, leather working, knife grinding.

  Chu would have none of it. “A skilled man wastes his whole life crafting things for others,” he objected. “He doesn’t advance his own interest. That’s not for me!”

  His parents despaired their only son would have no goal in life. But one day, in the market, Chu heard of a man who roamed the hills for dragons to kill.

  “Dragon slayer!” Chu’s eyes gleamed. “Now that’s my destiny!”

  Chu gave his parents no rest until they agreed to let him enter an apprenticeship with a dragon slayer. Chu went to the city to begin training. His parents were reduced to near beggary to support his education.

  Chu studied many books about the anatomy of dragons: the parts most heavily armored and resistant to attack by sword or spear, the parts most vulnerable. He learned their habits: where they dwelt, what they ate, when they roamed or slept. Most interesting of all, he immersed himself in the legendry and mythology of dragons. The stories filled him with awe and admiration for these fabulous creatures; at the same time they fed his ambition to become the most famous dragon slayer of all time. And all the while he studied from books, he practiced swordsmanship night and day and polished his skill with spear and battle-ax.

  Finally, after three years, Chu returned home, eager to put his skills to use. He walked every mountain and valley of his province and the next, and the next after that, watched every pit and cave, and spent sleepless nights with herds of cows and sheep waiting for a dragon to swoop down for a meal.

  Sadly, Chu found no dragons, and he was left with nothing to do.

  No Takers

  Once a saint gazed upon earth’s creatures and was saddened that all were burdened by at least one ugly feature.

  “Elephant does not need all that nose,” he said to himself. “It must get in his way. Monkey’s mouth is way too wide for her little face. Small wonder she is inclined to senseless chatter and constant nibbling. And that long face of Horse! What could look more doleful?”

  From forest to pasture to barn, the saint surveyed the animals to find one pleasing face, but in the end found none. Always one feature spoiled how they looked. Did Rhinoceros need that ugly horn on his nose? And Lion that frowsy mane like a tangled mop around his head? Look at how the oversized muzzle of Hippopotamus sagged! And Pig’s snout, if not as offensive as Elephant’s, was still a disgusting feature always buried in swill!

  Moved with pity, the saint gathered the animals around him and said, “I will give you each a gift. I will change any face so that it will be pleasing to look upon. You have only to ask me, and it will be done.”

  Elephant curled his nose in the air and looked at Lion, who tossed his mane and eyed Hippopotamus, who grunted and aimed his muzzle at Pig. Monkey yawned, nearly splitting her little face in two.

  There were no takers.

  The Egg

  A poor farmer, trudging home after a long day’s labor in his landlord’s field, found an egg on the road. Delighted, he picked it up, and all the rest of the way, he dreamed of the great change in fortune his lucky find would bring.

  “Wife!” he announced as he stooped to enter their small hut. “We now have property!”

  The farmer’s wife was a woman of practical nature. “What property?” she scolded.

  “Here.” The farmer held out his hand, the egg cradled in his palm.

  She hooted in laughter. “Just the thing to scramble in our soup tonight!” She reached for the egg, but her husband was quicker, and the egg was safe behind him.

  “Listen, Wife,” he said, “this egg is our start. Tomorrow I will borrow a hen from Li to sit on the egg until it hatches. The chicken will lay more eggs, and we’ll have more chicks and more eggs. When we sell the chickens, we can buy a small pig. A full-grown pig butchered for market can bring in enough to buy a calf. And when that calf is full-grown, we will sell it. Wife, what do you think we can do with all that money?”

  “What can we do, Husband?” she asked. The practical wife’s dormant imagination was slowly beginning to waken.

  “We will lend that money and charge high interest!” The farmer’s eyes sparkled. “Just think, Wife, in ten years we’ll have enough to buy a house, a farm, servants—why, even a maid!”

  “You’re going to use our money to buy a maid?” Outraged, the wife darted forward, seized the egg, and threw it against the wall, where it dribbled to the floor.

  The farmer took his wife to court for the malicious destruc
tion of his property. When he told the judge of his ruined plans, the judge laughed heartily. Turning to the farmer’s wife, he asked, “All these plans were in the future and indefinite. Why, were you already jealous?”

  “His intentions are bad!” the practical wife declared. “Buy a maid indeed! I was only preventing such a thing from happening!”

  Welcome Guests

  Master Ai-tse lived for three years in Ch’I as the guest of its ruler, the famous Lord Meng-ch’ang chun. When he returned home, the lord of his small province invited him to talk about his experiences.

  “Tell me of Ch’i,” his Lordship said. “Are all those stories we hear of its wonders true? They are hardly believable!”

  So Ai-tse discoursed at length on the wonders of Ch’i, an enlightened society far in advance of its time.

  His Lordship interrupted with the question he had most wanted to ask: “Is Meng-ch’ang Chün as great a ruler as everyone says? Does he deserve his reputation?”

  Everything people say about him is true,” Ai-tse replied, spreading out his arms. “Above all, he cannot be surpassed for his generosity of spirit.”

  “Oh?” his lordship said. “And how is that?”

  “For one, his decisions are broad, never petty. He listens to all points of view.”

  “As I do,” his Lordship nodded.

  “And for another,” Ai-tse went on, “he supports a thousand guests who come and go and keep his table lively with the most intelligent conversation.”

  “Enough!” his Lordship cut in testily. “No more praise of Meng-ch’an chun! I too am such a man to support many intelligent guests at my table! Drop by anytime and see!”

  Some days later, Master Ai-tse dropped by his Lordship’s, hoping to partake of duck and some exciting conversation. He found the hall empty except for his lordship seated alone, finishing a dish of noodles.