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.