Chinese Literature

ground listening to the quarrel between their parents. Mention of their sister also brought painful tears to their eyes.

The day was again extremely fine. Li-chiu nudged Shao-pu, and together they walked out carrying their tools. Uncle Yun-pu, looking extremely sorrowful, followed them out of the door. -

“Ah, ah, ah!...” The mother’s voice trailed balefully out of the inner room after them.

The morning breeze swept across the fields and the luscious green rice seedlings rippled like waves. There was a special coolness of morning in the air.

“Where shall we work today?”

“TLet’s go in the direction of Huachia Dyke.”

Vv

‘Ti-chiu, you are not pious enough. You'd better not carry rite

“Unele Yun-pu, you carry the canopy, and you, Hsiao-erh, beat the gong.”

“There is no one to play the flute! Old Wang, where is your instrument ?”

“Damn it! Nobody’s willing to help! We still need three more sedan-bearers.”

“Count me as one!”

“Tl be one.”

“Me too.”

“All right, you three be the sedan-bearers. Everyone must wash his face. Hsiao-erh, be sure you wash yourself clean. Otherwise the god will feel offended.” _

“Now sound the gong and start playing the flute.”

“Sound the gong, Hsiao-erh, don’t you hear? What’s the matter with you, are you deaf?”

“Dong, dong, dong!”

“Wau, li-la, la!’

A group of people carrying the image of Kuan Ti made for the fields.

For over twenty days there had not been a single trace of clouds. The ponds and streams nearby had all gone dry. The fields were yawning with inch-thick cracks here and there. Most of the rice plants were dry and curled up. If this continued for another three or four days everything would be finished.

Kuan Ti’s image had been brought to the village three days before. The villagers had killed an ox and burned a catty and a half of incense for the occasion. But there was still no sign of rain, while more rice plants wilted.

That was why everyone felt there must be a reason for the god’s

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