Wang the Ninth

t lay ten li or Chinese miles from the great imperial highway. He was the eighth child; that was why, according to immemorial custom, he was called th

dren of this land are suckled until they can run) he was unceremonio

t adventures,-and was the natural aftermath of a curiousl

he and his father had become the last survivors in a disrupted family. For his mother, too, had tired of privation. She had sat ominously quiet for one whole week and had then slippe

e had come a volcanic outburst of hurt professional pride. He was totally unable to reconcile himself to the idea that he had been abandoned in favour of another such as he-and for no better reason that ther

s few pots and pans and the implements of his trade (including the unwieldy bellows) in the other, and had marched down the rutted vi

seen the broad road leading to the capital, and the carts and the travellers in their handsome clothing, and the long camel-trains with their rich loads of merchan

uld any one mind? As far as the eye could reach there was nothing but brown country-the great Northern plains stretched into infinity and looked upon this evanescent emotion mu

feet, tightened his cord belt, and smearing the tears from his seamed face,

than that a child is a great blessing, a jewel, because it is of one's flesh and a kind of indefinite prolongation of one's endeavours to conquer the devil. Disaster had been for him like a huge river in spate which had rushe

little legs kicked with vigour, and the arms with t

was called the Ninth, now thoroughly

yet kindly, brought back from

tasteful but which was all that he had. It was the work of a few minutes to light the tiny portable whiteclay stove which he had included in

ain, struggling to ge

beginning to pack up again. "To the

ed to his destiny. On and on he tramped, pushing the creaking wheelbarrow through the chasm of space and sometimes exchanging remarks with the passing muleteers and camel-drivers. Traffic was growing heavier as the city was approached and a

and slept under a tree; but ere two hours

comforts, he pressed on tirelessly-determined to reach his objective. The creaking wheel was a veritable lullaby to the child who sl

hen at last in the middle of the night, when full forty miles had be

ruptly and the jer

me the inev

nt ov

n his rude, guttural voice

lding him tightly in his ar

-wall. Beyond there is a great gate through

epended upon strict attention. The father felt its little body taut under the ragged blue clothes.

ired the father at last, feel

old nation can speak. "It is good," it repeated, nodding i

the basket, and the father seizing the han